#and I'm working on things with my writing

[ao3commentoftheday]

I know tag wranglers do a lot of work connecting tags etc. Is there anything authors can do to make their jobs easier for them like trying to mostly use canonical tags or not making tag comments?

Thanks!

This is a great question, and I'll do my best to answer it but I do hope that some wranglers add on in the notes! I'm also just going to preface this with the fact that you should still tag however you like to tag. This list isn't meant to be a checklist or anything. It's just info I've picked up over the years and you can take or leave each piece as you see fit.

Okay, so the first thing that most non-wranglers should know is that wranglers see tags separately from the fic. They get a big bin full of tags to sort through and match up in the system, but they'll only see your fic and the other tags you've added to it if they decide to go look.

That's important to know because sometimes a user will tag something like [character] is so sexy and then also tag by which I mean they're a huge dork. The wranlger won't see that second tag and won't know that they're connected so your sarcastic tag will end up synned (matched up to) sexy!Character or whatever the canonical is, as if that was the meaning you were going for.

Another good thing to know is that tags can only be synned if they only have 1 idea in them. So if you tag, say, [character] is gay and autistic then the wrangler can't actually syn that to either [character] is gay or character is autistic because it only half-fits either tag. To have them synned in the database, you would need to tag those two ideas separately.

You might have already seen the post I made referencing the fact that you don't have to tag multiple versions of the same idea (unless you want to for the aesthetic) because the synning that wranglers do makes sure that tagging one idea allows users to filter for all versions of that idea. But in case you didn't know that, now you do!

Wranglers are often members of the fandoms they wrangle, but they aren't always. Sometimes they'll take on a fandom that doesn't otherwise have a wrangler because they like to do research or because they like small fandoms or for many other reasons. But that means that if you're tagging your OCs by name, you should add (OC) to the end so that they know it's not a canon character that they aren't familiar with. This is double true in huge fandoms like Star Wars where there are millions of canon characters and just as many OCs.

Wranglers don't "seed" tags in fandoms. For a tag to exist, users need to create it. The rule of thumb is at least 3 fics from 3 separate authors, but that's very much the minimum and in fast-moving or huge fandoms the bar is probably higher. Also, for brand new fandoms, it's entirely possible that they won't know you exist until you tell them. Back in January I was the first person to write in a brand new fandom so I knew I had to start the tags, and I waited until there were 25 or so works by 15 or so creators before I emailed Support because I know I have to be patient - but I'm still impatient by nature lol.

Another thing to know is that tags are kind of like proton packs - they can't cross the streams. If you put a tag in the Character field by mistake, wranglers can't move it to the Additionals. This can also work in your favour, though, because if you have a minor character or minor relationship that you want to tag because there's some kind of fandom drama happening and people want to be able to avoid them, you can tag them in the Additional Tags so that people can know they're in there, but the people who like that character or ship can still filter the Character and Relationship tags without seeing a bunch of works that don't really focus on them.

This got super long, so I'll end with your question about tag comments. I know people worry that it makes extra work for tag wranglers if you get all chatty in your fic tags but I've been reassured by more than one wrangler over the course of several years now that it's no extra work. They just shovel those tags into the gaping maw of the Unfilterable Beast - which is the same thing they do with those tags that have multiple concepts in them. If it can't be synned, then that's where they go.

(keep tagging that way, though, if you like to because that's how new concepts get created and eventually canonized)

Alright, I that's all I can think of off the top of my head, and the list was actually longer than I thought! Wranglers: please do add on with other things you wish users knew, and please correct me if anything has changed since the last time I delved into this topic!

Editing to add: a wrangler pointed out in the tags that [character] is autistic and gay can itself become a single tag if enough people use it. That's true of other tags with multiple meanings as well. They just can't be synned with existing tags in the meantime.

[geminiwritten]

worst way ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 22467

Bob Floyd is an incredible husband. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marry me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can call in sick?” he offers. 

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?” 

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

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me.” 

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

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

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

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.” 

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?” 

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

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

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

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

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—” 

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

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

“It wasn’t that hard.” 

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

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

He raises his brows. “Impressive.” 

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

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

“A number,” he replies, too quick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I at least get a name?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Hence, no military. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which is honestly kind of a miracle. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but he was military.” 

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

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

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?” 

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

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

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

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

“A military hookup.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But who you do, too. 

- Bob - 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob Floyd knows that sound. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Bob hears everything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hates himself almost instantly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every damn time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And how does he know that? 

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

That would be insane. Perverted, even. 

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“Wow. Okay.” 

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

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

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God. What is wrong with him? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.” 

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

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

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks. 

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—” 

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

“Didn’t get that either.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight. 

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

Jake scoffs. “Why me?” 

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

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And— 

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now Bob wants to die. 

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cock twitches. 

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

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

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

And God—he sees you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, did you notice? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.” 

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

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

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

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

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

His stomach drops. 

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

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

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

Bob frowns. “What dinner?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you too,” Bob mutters. 

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

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

It doesn’t. 

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

Again, it doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

That’s all. 

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

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

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

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

His cock brushes the pillow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary. 

Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those. 

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?” 

You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door. 

“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.” 

Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV. 

“What happened?” 

You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows. 

“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’” 

Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh. 

“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’” 

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. 

You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.” 

He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re thinking it.” 

“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence. 

You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.” 

He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded. 

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.” 

“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.” 

Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.” 

“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you. 

He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret— 

But you cut in first. 

“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.” 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?” 

You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.” 

There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next. 

But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.” 

Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.” 

“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.” 

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years. 

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come. 

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck. 

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.” 

Bob nearly chokes. 

“I’m heading to bed,” you add. 

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.” 

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away. 

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific. 

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close. 

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum. 

- You - 

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you. 

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning. 

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe. 

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out. 

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk. 

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef. 

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is. 

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come. 

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it. 

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones. 

“No way.” 

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice. 

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.” 

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose. 

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless. 

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was. 

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?” 

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.” 

“Isn’t this whole island a base?” 

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.” 

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?” 

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block. 

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.” 

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?” 

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?” 

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.” 

He grins. “And?” 

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.” 

“But I’m worth it.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.” 

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.” 

He frowns. “What does that even mean?” 

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you. 

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake. 

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.” 

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?” 

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.” 

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.” 

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen. 

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone. 

He looks up. “Wait, just—” 

“See you later, pretty boy.” 

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home. 

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way. 

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker. 

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. 

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good. 

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and— 

Freeze. 

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered. 

What the fuck? 

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island. 

He’s home early. 

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches. 

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot. 

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.” 

Oh God. That’s Bob. 

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release. 

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are. 

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing. 

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door. 

And stop breathing. 

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move. 

And fuck, is it moving. 

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead. 

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there. 

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific. 

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious. 

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move. 

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach. 

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper. 

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who— 

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.” 

—who looks so fucking hot right now. 

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on. 

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles. 

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall. 

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight. 

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps. 

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—” 

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing. 

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears. 

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt. 

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles. 

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked. 

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful. 

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin. 

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing. 

God. You need something. Now. 

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate. 

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head. 

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality. 

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big. 

And God, you want it. 

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids. 

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit— 

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate. 

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore. 

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart. 

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base. 

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you. 

You fuck yourself harder. 

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well. 

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes. 

“F-fuck—” 

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come. 

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse. 

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now. 

Well, shit. That’s new. 

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast. 

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy. 

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room. 

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other. 

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone. 

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did. 

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right? 

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen. 

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed. 

Well. He would, after a release like that. 

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.” 

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.” 

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it. 

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board. 

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward. 

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island. 

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.” 

“Oh, that was nice of him.” 

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible. 

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine. 

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?” 

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.” 

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?” 

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip. 

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name. 

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down. 

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?” 

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.” 

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge. 

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that? 

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance. 

- 

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him. 

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue. 

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying. 

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot. 

When the hell did that happen? 

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it. 

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you. 

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth. 

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth. 

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything. 

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together. 

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up. 

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married. 

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day. 

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning. 

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡ 

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to. 

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect. 

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different. 

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today. 

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird. 

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right? 

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling. 

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs. 

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you. 

At this point, you’ll try anything. 

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building. 

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral. 

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week. 

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?” 

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.” 

Her brows lift, as if to say and? 

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.” 

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?” 

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck. 

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—” 

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.” 

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob. 

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’ 

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about. 

Fuck. 

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.” 

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.” 

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.” 

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee. 

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.” 

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.” 

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues. 

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building. 

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land. 

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.” 

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?” 

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.” 

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance. 

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy. 

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner. 

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—” 

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?” 

Oh. This is Maverick. 

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.” 

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile. 

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—” 

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?” 

“Nope.” 

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?” 

You nod. “Works for me.” 

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet. 

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open. 

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?” 

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?” 

“Yep.” 

“And how long have you been in love?” 

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.” 

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate. 

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?” 

You nod, but it’s not convincing. 

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—” 

“No way.” 

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar. 

“It’s you.” 

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut. 

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes. 

Your stomach lurches. 

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin. 

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up. 

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps. 

Bagman? 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze. 

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?” 

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.” 

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside. 

Oh no... Hangman? 

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman. 

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying. 

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests. 

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad. 

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly? 

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking. 

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through. 

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear. 

And then— 

Bob. 

He steps through the doorway— 

And freezes. 

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright. 

The silence is deafening. 

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out. 

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.” 

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face. 

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.” 

Maverick chokes beside you. 

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.” 

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes. 

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.” 

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs. 

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?” 

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.” 

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.” 

“Everything I say is funny.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—” 

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?” 

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either. 

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet. 

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid. 

He looks furious. Downright murderous. 

At first, you thought it might be at you. 

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.” 

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself. 

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest. 

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked. 

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you. 

Your stomach swoops. 

And suddenly, you can’t breathe. 

Because Bob Floyd is jealous. 

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams. 

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you. 

And for a second, you almost believe it. 

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away. 

He loves you. 

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—” 

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?” 

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond. 

You swallow hard and step forward. 

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.” 

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes. 

There’s a gasp. A chuckle. 

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters. 

But none of it matters. 

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop. 

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists. 

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next. 

But you do. 

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down. 

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim. 

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment. 

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers. 

You’re already gone. 

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t. 

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. 

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild. 

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?” 

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.” 

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion. 

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly. 

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.” 

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more. 

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.” 

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in. 

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin. 

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak. 

“Payback,” the taller one says. 

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.” 

You laugh softly, nodding again. 

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in. 

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…” 

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.” 

“Details,” he sighs wistfully. 

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.” 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?” 

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when— 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.” 

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.” 

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door. 

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.” 

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!” 

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door. 

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?” 

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious. 

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.” 

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other. 

Then— 

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again. 

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd. 

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.” 

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.” 

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath. 

- 

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin. 

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it. 

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely. 

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to. 

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate. 

God, you want him desperate. 

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps. 

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him. 

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear. 

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs. 

You want to be sore tomorrow. 

You want him sweaty and wild and undone. 

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does. 

But first—you want him to ruin you. 

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely. 

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce. 

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts. 

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves. 

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then— 

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped. 

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest. 

He steps inside—and your breath catches. 

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner. 

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them. 

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?” 

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you. 

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor. 

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—” 

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.” 

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving. 

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours. 

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours. 

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow. 

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs. 

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips. 

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. 

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.” 

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?” 

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning. 

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips. 

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.” 

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this. 

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts. 

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you. 

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. 

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head. 

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.” 

That’s all he needs. 

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares. 

Because nothing else matters now. 

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.” 

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning. 

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor. 

You flinch. He doesn’t. 

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. 

Then he drops to his knees. 

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin. 

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.” 

His hands urge your legs wider. 

And then his mouth is on you. 

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core. 

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.  

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?” 

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him. 

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.” 

“Say it again,” he breathes. 

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking. 

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.” 

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive. 

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire. 

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more. 

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough. 

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding. 

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough. 

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking. 

And he doesn’t stop. 

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close. 

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.” 

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks. 

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. 

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse. 

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought. 

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you. 

He stares. 

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—” 

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. 

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.” 

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick. 

Your breath stutters. 

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens. 

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper. 

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. 

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.” 

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness. 

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot. 

Your breath hitches. 

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading. 

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.” 

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in. 

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible. 

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.” 

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him. 

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good. 

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.” 

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper. 

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked. 

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.” 

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again. 

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders. 

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.” 

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours. 

You both freeze. 

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life. 

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control. 

And then it hits you. 

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs. 

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.” 

He goes still—completely still. 

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it. 

But then— 

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world. 

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes. 

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard. 

You both cry out. 

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way. 

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything. 

He is everything. 

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself. 

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” 

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost. 

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.” 

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor. 

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone. 

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.” 

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—” 

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest. 

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.” 

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you. 

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.” 

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.” 

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.” 

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—” 

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.” 

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes. 

The vase topples. 

Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile. 

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—” 

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it. 

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh. 

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares. 

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.” 

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide. 

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.” 

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look. 

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing. 

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.” 

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush? 

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel. 

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?” 

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.” 

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch. 

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach. 

His brows pull together. “What is it?” 

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.” 

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you. 

Then he nods. “I thought so.” 

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?” 

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head. 

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?” 

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.” 

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.” 

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters. 

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again. 

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again. 

[avengxrz]

the fool outranks the golden boy ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [part one]

pairings: jake seresin x reader

word count: 18.2k (i'm sorry, i got carried away)

summary: you had it bad, like really bad for jake seresin. back in college, you did his homework, brought him coffee, smiled through humiliation like it meant something, fooled yourself into thinking he’d glance your way and actually see you. but he never did. not really. now, years later, you're standing in front of him again, not as the girl who worshipped the ground he walked on—but as the woman who outranks him. how the hell did the fool end up outranking the golden boy?

warnings: emotional manipulation, unresolved tension, slow burn, power imbalance (then reversal), humiliation, angst, college flashbacks, mild academic bullying, reader is hopelessly naive at first, jake is an asshole, later guilt, crying, confrontation, slap scene, reader character growth arc, mentions of absent family, found power, military setting, hangar tension, dagger squad chaos, and one (1) dangerously attractive commander with a grudge.

notes: ugh tumblr's word count limit is so unserious for a fic like this, like let me be dramatic in peace?? anyway this will be a three-part story because there's too much tension, pain, and ego to contain in just one post. if i disappear it's because i’m fighting the character limit and tumblr’s formatting demons. pray for me.

part two , part three , part four , part five

masterlist

your callsign is rogue.

You had it bad.

The kind of bad that made your heart pick up speed just from the sound of his voice echoing down the hallway. The kind of bad that made you memorize his coffee order before he ever asked, the way he liked his breakfast tacos, the exact moment in the semester when he’d start asking for your notes in Social Studies—again. He was all sun and swagger, a boy carved from the sky with that easy smile and reckless charm, and you were twenty and stupid and floating somewhere just beneath his orbit, close enough to feel warm. Never close enough to matter.

Jake Seresin wasn’t just a crush. He was a curriculum.

And God, you studied. You showed up. You took mental notes on his laugh patterns and the way he tapped his pen when he was bored in class. You offered to “help” with his required literature essays, even though helping usually turned into you writing the entire thing while he sat back in his chair, arms crossed, watching you with that annoying little half-smirk like he knew. He always knew.

“You’re a lifesaver, sunshine,” he’d say, tossing you a grin like a bone. Sometimes he'd ruffle your hair, which made your stomach flip like it was some grand act of affection instead of thoughtless habit. Sometimes he’d sit a little too close when you were going over the assignment, smelling like cologne and peppermint gum, leaning over your shoulder as if he actually cared about the difference between metaphor and metonymy. He didn’t. But you still pointed it out, even circled it in a red pen for him.

And when he got a B+, he winked at you and said, “Told you I didn’t need that Shakespeare crap to fly jets.” You laughed. You always laughed. Like a fool.

You didn’t mind doing his work. You didn’t mind when he forgot your birthday but showed up to your dorm two weeks later with a Red Bull and a “my bad.” You didn’t even mind when he flirted with other girls right in front of you—because it didn’t mean anything. Not really. Not to him. But maybe, if you were patient, it could mean something someday.

You told yourself he was just bad at feelings. You told yourself he was focused on his career, that you were helping, supporting, part of his story. You told yourself that being near him was enough.

You lied a lot, back then. Especially to yourself.

You remembered the first time he called you kid. You had just pulled an all-nighter to finish his paper—some half-assed assignment about American foreign policy and its effect on colonial literature that he should’ve started a week ago. You handed it to him in the quad, tired but glowing, waiting for a thank you or maybe, just maybe, a hug. He barely looked up from his phone.

“Man, what would I do without you, kid?” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder like you were one of the guys. One of the boys. Not a girl who wore her prettiest sweater that day just in case he noticed. Not a girl who memorized his class schedule and purposely bumped into him outside his seminar. Just kid. You smiled anyway, too dizzy with hope to notice how sharp the word was, how much it stung under the surface.

And he never said your name. Not really. Not the way you said his when you whispered it into your pillow at night, soft like a secret. He called you sunshine when he needed a favor, professor when he didn’t feel like studying, kid when he was feeling lazy. It wasn’t cruel. Not technically. But it always made you feel a little smaller, a little sillier, a little more like a side character in your own goddamn story. And still, you held onto it like it meant something.

You remembered how he’d brag about you in front of his friends—“She’s basically a genius,” he’d say, draping an arm over your chair as you hunched over your laptop, typing his paper. “I swear, I just let her talk and I sound smarter by association.” They’d laugh. He’d laugh. And you? You’d blush so hard you thought your ears would catch fire. You told yourself he was proud of you.

You told yourself he noticed.

Once, at a party, someone asked if you two were dating. He choked on his beer and laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all night. “Nah,” he said, loud enough for everyone around the keg to hear. “She’s way too sweet. Like, book club sweet. I'm not trying to get lectured during pillow talk.”

You laughed too, even though something cracked inside your chest.

Later, when you were alone with him in the kitchen, trying not to let your hands shake while you poured soda over melting ice, you asked, “Do you really think I’m sweet?” And he’d leaned in, lazy and amused, eyes glinting with something sharp.

“You’re the sweetest thing I know,” he said. “That’s your problem.”

You thought that was romantic.

You thought he meant it like a compliment.

You started wearing makeup. Nothing major—just a little mascara, some tinted balm, a hint of blush you hoped made you look older, cooler, prettier. You weren’t the kind of girl Jake usually flirted with, the ones who wore crop tops to lecture and knew how to flip their hair without thinking. You studied in quiet corners, read poetry on your lunch breaks, always carried extra pens. But maybe, if you tried a little harder—if you looked a little more like them—he’d finally see you.

He noticed, too. Sort of.

“You do something different with your face?” he asked once, squinting at you while you handed over his notes. “Looks good. Less tired.”

Then he grabbed the papers and walked off, calling back, “Thanks, sunshine!” like he hadn’t just complimented you and insulted you in the same breath. You beamed. You held onto less tired like it meant beautiful. You told your roommate about it like it was proof—like it was progress.

You were always chasing crumbs. Always stretching moments into meaning. Like the time he offered you a ride home from the library when it started raining—windows down, music up, his hand drumming on the steering wheel.

You sat there soaking wet, trying not to stare at the way his jaw flexed when he laughed, trying not to fall deeper into whatever hole your heart had already dug.

At the stoplight, he glanced over and smirked. “Bet you never skip class, huh?”

You shrugged. “Not really. I like learning.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah, I can tell. You always look like you’re about to marry your textbooks.”

You laughed. Of course you laughed. “Better than marrying beer pong.”

He chuckled, and for a second, you thought—maybe this is flirting. Maybe he likes me back.

But then he said, “You’re cute when you try to be sassy.”

You turned your face toward the window so he wouldn’t see the way you smiled. Like a fool. Like someone who didn’t realize being cute to a boy like Jake Seresin meant safe. Non-threatening. Easy to dismiss.

You were the girl he called at midnight for notes and “quick favors.” The girl he brought to parties but never introduced. The girl who did his work and called it love. And still, you waited for something more. Still, you held your breath every time he looked at you a little too long, hoping he might finally see you the way you saw him.

But he never did. Not really.

It happened in the middle of a group study session—well, his group, not yours. You’d only shown up because he texted you last-minute, some vague “Hey, you around? Could use your genius brain again lol” and you’d said yes before even thinking. You always did.

The library table was cluttered with Red Bulls and half-finished equations. Jake was leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out, baseball cap tilted low.

He was arguing with one of his aviation buddies about flight dynamics or engine weight or some other thing you had no business understanding—but you listened anyway, like you always did. You’d learned the lingo just to keep up, tucked terms into your memory like you were training to speak his language.

At some point, his friend nodded toward you and asked, “Hey, who’s this again?”

Jake turned, eyes flicking lazily in your direction. His brows furrowed. Just for a second. Then—he laughed. “Uh—wait. Crap. Don’t tell me.”

Your heart dropped before you could stop it. Just a beat. Just long enough to hurt.

“You don’t know my name?” you asked, light and teasing. You even laughed a little, because that was the role you’d learned to play. Unbothered. Chill. The cool girl who didn’t take anything seriously. Not even her own heartbreak.

Jake scratched the back of his neck, sheepish but grinning. “I mean, you’re like my PoliSci girl, right? You’re always around with, like… books and that political stuff.”

You blinked. “Political science,” you corrected softly, still smiling, though it felt like something fragile was cracking beneath your ribs. “I’m majoring in political science. Pre-law track.”

He snapped his fingers, pointing. “Knew it. Knew you were smart.”

You already knew his major, of course—Aeronautical Engineering with a minor in Applied Physics. You knew his dream was to fly fighter jets for the Navy. You knew he hated public speaking but loved Top Gun. You knew he bit the inside of his cheek when he was stressed and that his middle name was Andrew. You even knew his sister’s birthday.

But he didn’t know your name.

Not really.

Still, when he leaned in and said, “You’re kind of my lifesaver, y’know?”—you smiled. You swallowed down the sting and tucked the compliment somewhere deep, let it sit heavy and warm in your chest like it meant more than it did.

You told yourself he was just bad with names. That he was tired. Distracted.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

And when he tossed you a Red Bull at the end of the night and said, “Thanks again, sunshine,” like a pat on the head, you caught it and held it like a gift.

Because it came from him.

You were always the nerdiest person in the room—and you didn’t mind. Not really. You liked it, actually. You liked being the one with too many pens, with color-coded tabs stuck out of every book, with highlighters in four different shades for four different types of arguments.

Your notebooks were immaculate. Your laptop desktop was a perfectly organized grid of folders labeled by subject, date, and citation style. You even had a separate folder for Jake’s assignments—though you’d never admit that out loud.

You quoted obscure political theorists in casual conversation, carried pocket-sized constitutions in your backpack like other people carried gum. You read op-eds for fun. You had a crush on Ruth Bader Ginsburg for three years. You were the kind of girl who got excited about office supplies. The kind of girl who said “actually” a lot and meant it.

Jake didn’t get it. Not really.

But he smiled when you went on tangents about legislation and voting trends and historical revolutions. That day in the library, you tried to explain your thesis about the ethics of surveillance in modern democracies, and he just blinked at you, lips pulled into that signature grin—handsome, golden, practiced. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s… intense,” he said, dragging the word out like it was both a compliment and a warning. “You actually like that stuff?”

You nodded, beaming. “I love it. I think it’s important—how we understand power and systems and history. You can’t just—separate law from people.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

Your smile faltered for half a second. Just a flicker. You covered it quickly with a laugh, pretending it didn’t sting, pretending he meant it in that teasing, affectionate way. He was smiling, after all. He called you his nerd once. That had to mean something, right?

“You’re lucky I’m a nerd,” you said lightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Otherwise you’d be failing social theory and citing Buzzfeed as a source.”

That made him laugh, real and sharp. For a moment, he looked at you like he almost saw something. Then it faded.

“Buzzfeed’s valid,” he said, winking. “They’ve got quizzes and everything.”

You laughed again. You always laughed. Even when it wasn’t funny. Even when the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, either.

Because maybe—just maybe—if you kept being useful, being sweet, being there, he’d learn to look closer. Maybe someday, he’d want to know your name before needing your notes. Maybe someday, that smile wouldn’t be so forced.

You didn’t usually celebrate your birthday. It felt silly, most years—too much attention, too many questions you didn’t want to answer. But this time felt different. You were turning twenty-one, and for once, you wanted to do something that made you happy. Not trendy. Not loud. Just… you.

So you invited Jake.

You kept it casual, like it was no big deal. You mentioned it after class one day while handing over another perfectly formatted draft of his group project—the one he was supposed to help with but hadn’t touched since the outline phase. “I’m doing something lowkey tonight,” you said, trying not to sound too hopeful. “If you’re not busy, you should come.”

He looked up from his phone, eyes still half-scanning whatever was on the screen. “Lowkey like what? Drinks? House party?”

You hesitated. “Kind of. You’ll see.”

He agreed. Mostly because you were finishing his semester-long presentation. Thirty percent of his grade. Not because he actually cared about the celebration part.

But that didn’t stop you from spending the entire afternoon setting everything up—balloons, cupcakes, a paper crown you wore mostly as a joke. You even put on a new sweater, the soft blue one that brought out your eyes. You checked your phone every few minutes until finally, finally, he texted: Here.

You met him outside, bouncing on your heels from nerves. He was wearing jeans and a fitted Henley, looking like he’d just walked off a recruitment poster. His eyes scanned the building behind you—a wide, beige facility with a ramp leading up to automatic glass doors.

“What is this?” he asked, already frowning.

You smiled, a little too wide. “The community center. It doubles as a retirement home. I volunteer here every weekend. We’re doing trivia and cupcakes with the residents tonight. I thought it’d be fun.”

He blinked. “Wait—you invited me to your birthday at an old folks’ home?”

You laughed, nervously. “They’re sweet. And they love meeting new people. Plus, trivia night gets competitive. It’s fun, I promise.”

Jake’s smile didn’t quite land. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking around like he was trying to find a way to back out. “Damn. I thought this was gonna be, like… a party.”

“It is a party,” you said, voice softer than before. “Just not that kind.”

He hesitated. For one awful second, you were sure he’d leave. But then he sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Lead the way, sunshine.”

You lit up, relief washing through you. You missed the way his shoulders slouched, the way his expression shifted once your back was turned. You didn’t see how bored he looked walking through the doors, how forced his laugh sounded when you introduced him to the residents. You were too busy beaming, too busy bringing out the cupcakes you made from scratch, too busy believing—just for one night—that he was here because he wanted to be.

You never realized he was only smiling because the project wasn’t finished yet.

He offered to walk you home.

Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because it was late and the air had turned crisp, and he still had a project with his name on it sitting in your backpack. Or maybe he was trying to be a gentleman, like he’d been raised right and remembered it sometimes. Either way, you didn’t argue. You just smiled, told him thanks, and fell into step beside him under the glow of sleepy streetlights.

The walk wasn’t long, but it felt longer than usual. You talked in small, tired bursts—about the trivia questions, about Ms. Evelyn’s obsession with Cary Grant, about how hard the cupcakes were to ice without making them look sad. Jake chuckled once or twice, but mostly he was quiet, thumbs tapping absentmindedly against his phone until he slid it back into his pocket.

When you reached your front porch, he paused.

The house was dark. Not lifeless, just… dim. Still. The kind of quiet that felt deeper than it should have. Like it had settled over the walls and stayed there.

“You sure someone’s home?” he asked, eyeing the unlit windows.

You nodded quickly, unlocking the door with shaking hands. “Yeah. They’re probably just in the back. Or asleep. My mom works nights sometimes—she’s a nurse. And my dad’s a lawyer, so he’s always in the study. I—I’m sure they’re inside.”

Jake didn’t say anything, but he looked at you a little too long.

“You can come in for a second,” you offered, trying to sound casual. “If you want.”

You barely had time to nudge the door open before it swung all the way with a burst of warm light—and your mom stood there in her scrubs, hair pulled back, eyes wide with worry.

“There you are!” she breathed, relief pouring out of her like a tide. “We’ve been waiting, sweetheart. You didn’t answer your phone.”

Behind her, your dad appeared, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses pushed into his hairline. “You’re late, bug,” he said gently, his voice firm but warm. “You said you'd be back before ten.”

“I—” You faltered. “I’m sorry, I just… I lost track of time.”

Your mom’s eyes shifted past you, landing on Jake. She blinked, smiled. “Oh! And who’s this?”

“This is… Jake,” you said, stepping aside awkwardly. “He’s a friend from school.”

Jake straightened. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Sir.”

Your parents exchanged one of those quiet, married glances. The kind that said more than words ever could.

“Well, come in, Jake,” your mom said brightly. “We’ve still got cake. And Oreo ice cream in the freezer.”

“And Bingo’s been howling for you,” your dad added, stepping back to let you both in.

Right on cue, tiny paws scrambled across the hardwood, and a golden-furred puppy bounded into view, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive. He skidded to a stop at your feet, yipping excitedly.

Jake blinked. “You have a dog?”

You scooped Bingo into your arms, pressing your cheek to his fur. “Yeah. He’s loud and a little bit dramatic, but… he’s mine.”

The house was warm. Bright. Alive. And for a second, Jake stood there like he didn’t know where to put his hands. Like he didn’t expect this from you—this quiet, glowing little life. No red Solo cups, no loud music, no drama. Just parents who cared. A puppy that missed you. And a birthday party that waited all night.

Jake stepped inside. Just barely. Like the warmth might spook him.

And you—still holding Bingo, still wearing your little paper crown—pretended not to notice that he looked like he didn’t belong.

Jake stepped further inside, hands tucked into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. Your mom disappeared into the kitchen with a cheerful hum—“Sit down, make yourselves at home, I’ll get the plates!”—and your dad wandered back toward the hallway, calling something about candles and the lighter drawer. It left you and Jake standing alone in the entryway, where the soft light spilled over hardwood floors and Bingo settled at your feet with a huff.

He glanced around, eyes catching on the walls.

It was impossible not to notice, really. The house wasn’t big, but it was full—every inch lined with framed moments of your life. Photos of you as a toddler with cake on your cheeks. You in a ballet costume, crooked tiara and scraped knees. School portraits from every year, perfectly lined up in a growing timeline of messy hair, braces, and bright smiles. A bulletin board near the staircase held your ribbons, certificates, a newspaper clipping from the high school debate team championship. Everything worn in but cared for—like none of it was ever forgotten.

“You’ve got… a lot of photos,” Jake murmured, blinking at one where you were holding a spelling bee trophy almost as big as your head.

You smiled sheepishly. “My mom’s kind of sentimental. She never takes anything down. Says the walls should feel like home.”

Jake nodded slowly. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

He moved further in, scanning the frames more closely. That’s when he noticed. Nestled between all the snapshots of you were other faces. Boys, mostly—some in college caps, others in football jerseys, one in what looked like a Marine uniform.

“Wait,” Jake said, frowning slightly. “You have siblings?”

You looked up from where you were peeling the plastic off a stack of paper plates. “Yeah. Three older brothers.”

Jake blinked again, like that didn’t quite compute. “Seriously? I figured you were an only child.”

You laughed. “Everyone does.”

His eyes lingered on a photo of you all together—probably one of the last ones before the goodbyes started. You were sandwiched between them, grinning up at the camera like you’d won the lottery. Your brothers were tall, broad-shouldered, each with the same warm brown eyes as your dad.

“That’s Ezra,” you said, pointing to the one in the navy blue hoodie. “He’s studying abroad right now. Germany, for architecture.”

Jake nodded, still staring.

“And that’s Micah and Levi. They both got scholarships out of state. One's in Oregon, the other's in New York. Music and robotics.”

Jake let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s some family.”

You shrugged, setting the plates down on the coffee table as Bingo pawed at your ankle. “Yeah. We’re all kind of doing our own thing now. But they always call. My mom makes sure of it.”

He looked around again, slower this time. And something in his expression softened—not quite guilt, not quite wonder, but something close. Like he was realizing just how much he didn’t know. Like he was starting to see that you weren’t just the quiet girl with good notes and a crush. You were a whole world. You always have been.

He’d just never asked to see it.

Dinner wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. Your mom set out spaghetti and meatballs, still warm in their glass dish, with garlic bread that made the kitchen smell like heaven. Your dad poured iced tea into mismatched mugs. The lights were cozy. The puppy circled under the table like he was part of the conversation, brushing up against Jake’s boots with little happy hops.

At first, Jake tried to excuse himself.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, already inching toward the door. “You’ve got family stuff, and I—”

But your dad clapped him on the shoulder before he could finish. “You’re already here, son. Might as well eat.”

Your mom chimed in without missing a beat. “Besides, it’s her birthday. You’re staying for cake.”

So he sat. And you sat beside him, still wearing your paper crown, cheeks flushed and puppy in your lap. You fed Bingo tiny bites of meatball under the table while your parents asked Jake polite questions—what he was studying, where he was from, if he liked flying. He answered all of them with that easy smile, but you could tell he was just a little stiff. A little too polite. Like he was waiting for the part where it got hard. Or loud. Or ugly.

It never came.

After dinner, your dad disappeared for a minute and came back with a cake—chocolate, thick with icing, “Happy Birthday Bug” scrawled in lopsided pink letters. A single candle stood in the center, already flickering.

“Make a wish,” your mom said, camera in hand.

You closed your eyes. Blew it out.

The room erupted in soft cheers and clapping, and Bingo barked once like he was part of the moment. You laughed, cheeks glowing. And then—click. Your mom snapped the photo.

“Wait, wait, let’s do one together,” she said. “C’mon, squeeze in.”

Jake shook his head, holding up his hands. “Oh, I’m good. Really.”

But your dad was already standing behind him, gently steering him back toward you. “You’re not getting out of this that easy. You're part of tonight, kid. Sit down.”

And before Jake could argue again, he was seated on the couch, sandwiched between you and your dad. Your mom was hovering over the phone camera, grinning wide. You were still holding Bingo, his paws tucked against your arm. The paper party hat tilted slightly on your head.

“Smile!” your mom called.

Jake did.

Sort of.

The camera clicked. Flash.

In that moment, something tightened in his chest—not panic, exactly. Just… something strange. Foreign. Like he’d been dropped into someone else’s memory. And now his face would live on your living room wall forever, next to spelling bees and ballet slippers and newspaper clippings.

He looked at you—arms full of puppy, crown still perched on your head, face soft with joy—and for the first time all night, he didn’t know what to say.

You told yourself it was fine.

That he was just… being a guy. Boys were like that with their friends—loud, teasing, a little reckless. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. He was just trying to keep face in front of them. It wasn’t about you. Not really.

You told yourself that the nickname still meant something. Sunshine. He didn’t call anyone else that. He could’ve called you nerd, or PoliSci girl, or just you. But he didn’t. He smiled—kind of—and said Sunshine, like it was a secret. Like it was something only the two of you shared.

That had to count for something.

You told yourself that if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t talk about you at all. That the fact he mentioned you meant you were on his mind. Even if it was just a joke, even if they laughed—he’d still said your name. Your story. Your cupcakes.

You told yourself that maybe he didn’t realize how it came off. Maybe he’d say something later. Apologize, or explain, or laugh it off and say, "You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?" Maybe he was just awkward. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he was afraid to like you out loud.

You repeated those maybes like they were prayers.

Because if you stopped for even one second—if you let yourself admit how small you’d felt standing in that circle, how cold your hands had gone, how fake your laugh sounded in your own ears—you’d have to face it.

You’d have to admit that he never really saw you. That you’d written a whole love story in your head and cast him as the lead without checking if he even wanted the part.

But you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.

So you walked back across campus with your charger clutched to your chest and your phone buzzing in your pocket and your face still stretched in that practiced smile.

He likes me, you thought.

He just doesn’t know how to show it.

That night, you stared at your phone longer than you should have.

No text. No message. Not even a meme.

You weren’t expecting a love letter or anything. Just… something. A thank you. A hey, good to see you. Even a dumb joke about cupcakes or trivia or your little paper crown. Anything that said he remembered yesterday—that you weren’t just a background blur in his perfect little highlight reel.

But it stayed quiet. And that quiet felt louder than anything.

Still, you didn’t let it get to you. Not completely.

You told yourself he was busy. Labs and simulations and early flight rotations. He was tired. He probably passed out the moment he got home. You even convinced yourself he might be dreaming about you. That deep down, maybe, some part of him felt it too.

Because how could he not?

He’d let you into his orbit. He didn’t have to say yes to your birthday. Didn’t have to show up, or eat your mom’s spaghetti, or sit through trivia with Ms. Evelyn correcting his answers. He could’ve laughed it off. Ghosted. But he didn’t.

That had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

And sure—he’d made jokes. In front of his friends. Stupid, careless, sharp-edged jokes that made your chest twist and your smile freeze.

But that was just… fear. Right?

Boys were dumb when they liked someone. He didn’t want to look soft. That had to be it. He was protecting himself. You’d read about it, seen it in movies. The guy always jokes too much until he realizes he’s in too deep. Until he finally looks at the girl and sees her.

So maybe he just hadn’t looked hard enough yet.

You could wait a little longer.

You’d already waited this long.

And if it hurts a little more each day… well. That was just part of falling, wasn’t it?

The days passed slower after that.

You still saw him, of course. He was hard to miss—loud laugh echoing in the hallway, flight jacket slung over one shoulder, girls looking at him like he was some walking dream. And maybe he was. Just not yours.

But you told yourself that was okay.

Because when he passed you in the quad and tossed you a half-smile, your heart still jumped. And when he sat two rows behind you in general ed and tapped his pen against the desk like he had no idea you were listening to the rhythm, you still wrote poems about it in the margins of your notebook.

You’d learned how to survive on crumbs.

When he nodded at you in passing, it became a paragraph in your head. When he said your name—even just once—you replayed it like a song. You filled in the silences with dreams. Decorated the nothing with meaning. Let him live inside your chest without paying rent.

And it wasn’t like he was cruel. Not really. He still laughed when you said something funny. Still accepted your notes when he forgot his. Still leaned just close enough for you to imagine what it would be like if he did it on purpose.

You didn’t mind that he never texted first. You didn’t mind that you always reached out. You didn’t mind that he still didn’t know your favorite color, or your middle name, or what you wanted to be after graduation.

You told yourself he’d ask. Eventually.

He just needed time.

And in the meantime, you’d keep being there. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Because the version of him that lived in your mind was warm. Sweet. Quietly in love with you in ways he just didn’t know how to show.

You weren’t delusional.

You were just patient.

It started as a normal afternoon.

You were leaving the library, arms full of books for your midterm paper, when you saw them. Jake and a few of his friends, lounging by the steps near the student center, all wearing matching flight jackets and cocky grins. They looked like they belonged in a movie—golden, loud, untouchable.

You hesitated, heart kicking up. Part of you wanted to turn around, walk the long way back. But then Jake saw you.

He waved. Waved.

So you smiled—of course you did—and made your way over, hugging your books tighter to your chest.

“Hey,” you said softly.

One of the guys leaned in, smirking. “Hey, it’s sunshine. Jake’s academic lifeline.”

You laughed, unsure if it was a compliment. “Just trying to keep him from failing.”

Another one chimed in. “Man, if I had someone do my essays and bake me cookies, I’d put a ring on it.”

You flushed. “I—I don’t bake that often. Just that one time.”

“Oh right,” the first one said, snickering. “That birthday thing. With the old people.”

Jake laughed.

You looked at him—expecting maybe a smirk, maybe a hey, knock it off. But he just shook his head and chuckled like it was all harmless fun.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “She even made me wear a party hat. Took a picture and everything.”

“She’s like a golden retriever,” someone muttered. “Loyal as hell. Always shows up.”

Another voice added, “Bet she’d help you move apartments and knit you a thank-you sweater.”

They all laughed.

You laughed, too.

But it caught in your throat.

You tried to tell yourself it was just teasing. That this was what friends did. Banter. Jokes. He wasn’t mocking you. Not really. He wasn’t trying to hurt you.

But then Jake said, “She’s a sweetheart. Can’t get rid of her, even if I tried.”

And that—that—was the line.

It felt like someone poured ice water down your spine.

You smiled. You always smiled. But your grip tightened on your books, knuckles white. And you stepped back, just slightly. Enough that none of them noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

You weren’t the joke.

You couldn’t be.

You were the girl who helped. Who stayed. Who waited for the moment he’d finally wake up and see you.

You had to be.

Because if you weren’t…then what were you?

You left before they could say anything else.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. You just laughed, said something about needing to get back to your paper, and walked away while their laughter still echoed behind you. Your smile stayed on your face until you turned the corner, until they couldn’t see you anymore.

Then it dropped.

You sat on the bench outside the language building, books stacked beside you, and stared down at your hands like they didn’t belong to you. Like if you just sat still enough, long enough, none of it would be real.

He didn’t mean it. He was just being funny. You were sweet. That wasn’t a bad thing. Right?

You tried to remember the look on his face. Had it been cruel? Mocking? Or just… blank? Neutral?

No. No, he smiled. He laughed. That meant something. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He wouldn’t.

You remembered the party hat. The picture. The way his shoulder had touched yours when your dad pulled him into that family photo. The way your puppy had licked his wrist and made him laugh, really laugh, for the first time that night.

That version of him—the one who said thank you, who ate your mom’s cooking, who let himself exist in your quiet little world—he was real, too.

Wasn’t he?

You pulled your phone out of your bag and stared at your messages.

Still nothing.

No sorry about earlier. No they were just messing around. No I didn’t mean it like that.

Just silence.

You wondered how long you’d be willing to wait for the version of Jake in your head to speak up.

And more than that…you wondered if he ever would.

You didn’t cry.

Not right away.

Instead, you took the long way home. Past the engineering wing, past the old bookstore with the chipped awning, past the bench you used to sit at when you waited for Jake to finish class. You walked until the streetlamps turned on and the sky burned soft orange at the edges, and still—you didn’t cry.

Because crying meant something was real. And if you didn’t cry, maybe none of it was.

When you got home, your mom was in the kitchen, humming off-key and stirring something in a pot that smelled like tomato and thyme. She glanced over her shoulder when you walked in, eyes bright. “Hey, birthday girl.”

You smiled. Automatically. Like muscle memory. “Hey.”

She didn’t ask where you’d been. She never did. She trusted you too much to question things like that. Or maybe she just knew when not to press. There was something about mothers—they could feel sadness like a shift in the air, but they knew when to let you keep it close.

You dropped your bag by the door and went straight to your room. Bingo padded after you, tail wagging gently, like even he could sense that something inside you had gone quiet.

You sat on the edge of your bed, stared at the framed photo on your desk—the one from your party. You in your paper crown, Jake beside you, both of your parents smiling like the sun was trapped inside that little living room.

He looked stiff in the picture. Just slightly. Like he hadn’t quite figured out how to belong in the moment. But he was there. That had to count for something.

Didn’t it?

You whispered the same excuses into the silence you’d been chanting all week. He’s just scared. He’s not used to people like me. It’s easier to laugh than to feel.

But the words felt heavier now. Like stones on your tongue.

You looked at your phone again. Still nothing.

No missed calls. No messages. Not even a heart on the post your mom made with the picture.

You curled up beneath your blanket, arms around Bingo, his soft breath steady against your ribs.

And still—you didn’t cry.

But you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

Because something inside you was beginning to whisper the thing you didn’t want to hear. The thing you’d been fighting from the very start.

Maybe he never saw you at all.

You woke up before your alarm the next morning.

Not because of anything urgent. Just because your chest felt too full to sleep, like your body was quietly trying to tell you something your heart didn’t want to hear.

The sun was barely up, casting pale streaks across your ceiling. You stared at them for a while, tracing patterns with your eyes like they might spell out something worth holding onto.

Bingo was curled against your legs, warm and snoring gently. You didn’t move.

You thought about yesterday. About Jake’s voice, sharp with laughter. About the way his friends had looked at you like you were something between a novelty and a punchline. About the smile he wore when he called you loyal.

Like that was funny.

Like that was a flaw.

You told yourself again that he didn’t mean it. That he wasn’t cruel.

But the words weren’t sitting right anymore. They didn’t settle like they used to. They turned in your stomach, prickled at the corners of your thoughts.

Because deep down, you were starting to wonder if it wasn’t about him not knowing how to show it—if it was simply that he didn’t feel it in the first place.

He liked your help. He liked your notes. He liked the way you showed up, quietly, every time he needed something and never asked for anything in return.

But you? The you who stood outside that circle and laughed too late? The you who baked and wrote and stayed up fixing his grammar and believed—so foolishly believed—that one day he might just turn around and see you?

Maybe he didn’t like her at all.

And maybe he never would.

You pressed your face into the pillow and closed your eyes, breathing slow.

No tears. Not yet.

But you felt something shift—just the smallest crack in the glass.

The first fracture of goodbye.

It was a Thursday.

You’d spent the entire night helping Jake prep for his presentation. You’d practically rewritten half his slides, fixed his transitions, even printed out a stack of flashcards he never touched. You told yourself you didn’t mind. That this was what people did for each other. That he’d do the same for you, if things were reversed.

The event was packed. The auditorium buzzing with bodies—students, instructors, even a few recruiters from the nearby base. Everyone was dressed up, polished and bright. You found a seat near the back, clutching your notebook in your lap, stomach fluttering with nerves that weren’t even yours.

Jake looked good up there—confident, composed, all charm. He owned the stage with that easy smile of his, that flyboy arrogance that always made people lean in. He ran through his slides like he’d been born to do it. Sleek, effortless, golden.

Then someone asked a question.

A tricky one—about the ethical implications of drone use in modern airspace. Jake froze for just a beat. You knew the answer. You’d written a whole section on it for him. He just had to remember the notes. The phrasing.

Instead, he laughed.

“Well,” he said into the mic, smirking toward the crowd, “I’d have a real answer for you if my PoliSci tutor hadn’t been too busy planning bake sales this week.”

Laughter erupted.

Laughter.

You blinked.

It didn’t register at first. The way his voice curled around the word tutor. The way he didn’t look at you, but the whole room knew. Someone even turned around. Looked right at you. You could feel the eyes.

You sat there frozen. Still. Not breathing.

Because he could’ve said anything else. Could’ve deflected. Could’ve joked about the weather, or made something up. But instead, he chose you. To make the crowd laugh. To win back control.

He humiliated you. Publicly. On purpose.

You felt the heat rise in your chest—not warmth, not embarrassment. Something sharper. Something almost like anger, but drowned under the weight of disbelief.

Jake just kept going. Smooth. Unbothered. He didn’t even flinch.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because you had stayed up until two in the morning making sure he didn’t fall on his face.

Because you had believed—still believed—that somewhere underneath all of that confidence was someone worth waiting for.

And now, sitting there in the back row, cheeks burning, heart sinking fast, you realized something you couldn’t un-feel.

He was never yours.

Not even close.

And you had never been his sunshine. Just his shadow.

You didn’t stay for the rest of the presentation.

You waited just long enough for the polite applause—just long enough to watch him smile and wave and bask in praise like he hadn’t just carved you open in front of fifty people.

Then you left.

You walked fast, out of the auditorium, down the hallway, out into the air that suddenly felt too sharp, too loud, too real. You didn’t know where you were going. You just had to go.

The sky was starting to turn gold, dipping into orange at the edges. Your feet carried you toward the quad without thinking, past people laughing, past someone skateboarding down the path with music blasting from a phone speaker. You moved like a ghost. Like someone only half-real.

Your stomach was hollow. Your hands were shaking.

You wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw something. Or maybe all of it at once.

Instead, you sat on a bench. Stared down at your lap. And tried to understand.

Because it wasn’t like this was new. He’d teased you before. Let his friends say things. Laughed when they made jokes that left you blinking too hard, your throat closing around the truth.

But this? This was different.

This was cruel.

And the worst part was—you knew he knew it. He’d looked right at you when he said it, even if his eyes didn’t meet yours. He knew you were there. He chose you. You’d handed him everything—your time, your effort, your loyalty—and he used it as a punchline.

You pulled out your phone.

No messages.

No apologies.

Just silence.

And maybe—for the first time—you let yourself believe it.

He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t trying to protect himself.

He just didn’t care.

He never did.

And you? You were the fool who mistook scraps for affection. Who mistook his silence for softness. Who thought that loving someone hard enough would make them see you.

You sat there until the sun dipped behind the buildings, the light fading into shadow. Bingo wasn’t with you. Your parents weren’t calling. No one was coming to find you.

And Jake?

Jake was probably still smiling.

You didn’t go to class the next day.

You told yourself you were just tired. Just needed a break. But when you passed your mirror on the way to the bathroom, you couldn’t quite meet your own eyes.

You looked small. Not in size—just in spirit. Dimmed somehow. Like someone had taken a sponge to your outline and blurred the edges.

The texts from your group chats went unanswered. A message from your professor popped up—Hope you’re okay. Let me know if you need an extension. You almost replied. You almost told the truth.

But then what would you say?

The boy I loved made me into a joke. And I let him. And now I don’t know what to do with myself.

No one prepares you for this part. Not the movies, not the books, not the Pinterest quotes about unrequited love. They don’t tell you how it feels to watch someone you cherished turn you into something disposable. Something laughable.

They don’t tell you that the worst heartbreak is the one you talked yourself into.

Because you’d defended him. Again and again. You’d brushed off every red flag, excused every offhand comment, convinced yourself that he was just scared or immature or confused. That eventually, he’d realize what you were worth.

But now?

Now you couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not after the way he laughed. Not after the way they all laughed with him. Not after he took your loyalty—your love—and used it like a stage prop, like the punchline in a joke he didn’t even bother to make clever.

It wasn’t just the humiliation.

It was the choice.

He chose to hurt you. For a laugh. For a second of charm. For nothing.

And maybe that hurt more than anything.

You sat on the edge of your bed, wrapped in a sweater you hadn’t realized was his—something he'd left in your bag weeks ago, after a group project. You stared at it for a long time, fingers curling around the fabric like it could still carry meaning.

Then, slowly, quietly, you folded it. Set it on your desk. You walked away.

You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But something inside you—a belief, a dream, a soft little spark—finally went out.

You didn’t tell anyone what happened.

Not your roommates. Not your parents. Not even your favorite professor, the one who always stayed after lectures to ask how you were holding up. You just kept moving. One foot in front of the other. Like muscle memory. Like sleepwalking.

But your world had shifted.

Suddenly, everything reminded you of him.

The vending machine near the library—the one where you used to catch him between classes, grinning with two granola bars and zero clue what day of the week it was. The quad bench, where you once sat side by side, your notebook in his lap and your heart in your throat. Even the smell of cologne on someone else’s jacket made your stomach twist before your brain caught up.

It was everywhere.

And nowhere.

Because for all the space he took up in your head, in your life, in your heart—he had left you with nothing. Not even a “hey, sorry.” Not even a text to explain. Like what he did didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

You wanted to hate him.

God, you wanted to.

But hate would’ve meant he still had power over you. That he still got to sit in the center of your emotions. And that felt too generous.

So instead… you began the slow work of forgetting.

You stopped opening his messages—when they came at all. You stopped checking to see if he’d be in class before you showed up. You stopped rehearsing conversations in your head where he apologized and you forgave him, tears and all, like some shitty campus romance novel.

You stopped wearing yellow. You deleted the photo from your birthday. You unfollowed his roommate. Then his sister. Then him.

It was like shedding a skin.

Painful. Awkward. Slow.

But necessary.

Because you couldn’t keep carrying him around. Not after he turned you into a caricature. Not after he fed you to a room full of strangers and laughed while you choked on your own silence.

You weren’t his sunshine.

You were a mirror. And when he looked at you, he didn’t see beauty or love or worth—he just saw his own reflection. And when it didn’t flatter him, he shattered it.

So you picked up what pieces you could.

And this time, you didn’t hand them back.

It happened on a rainy Sunday.

The kind of rain that didn’t pour—just fell soft and steady, like the sky was grieving with you. You sat in the kitchen with your mom and dad, their mugs steaming, your hands shaking as you clutched your own like a lifeline.

You didn’t know how to start. Not really.

So you just said, “I want to transfer.”

They both blinked. Looked at each other. Then back at you.

Your mom’s brows furrowed gently. “Sweetheart… is everything okay?”

You nodded. Then shook your head. Then tried again. “I just—I need to leave. This school. This place. I can’t stay here anymore.”

Your voice cracked on the last word.

Your dad leaned forward, his expression steady but kind. “Did something happen?”

You swallowed. “Not… not exactly. I just—it doesn’t feel right anymore. The program, the people, everything. I thought I was happy. I thought I knew what I wanted, but—”

You stopped, breathed, kept going.

“Can we look into transferring? Maybe… out of state?”

Your mom reached across the table, her fingers brushing yours. “Of course. If this isn’t working, we’ll figure something else out.”

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just squeezed her hand and nodded, grateful and guilty all at once. You knew it was sudden. Knew you were asking a lot. But you also knew you couldn’t stay—not in a campus where everything reminded you of him. Of who you used to be.

You wanted space. A reset. A chance to become someone else.

Or maybe not someone else—just someone more.

Your dad cleared his throat gently. “Have you thought about what you’d switch into? Or are you just looking for a new campus?”

You hesitated.

Your fingers tapped against the side of your mug, absently. A rhythm you didn’t recognize until much later.

“I’ve been thinking about something else,” you said, voice softer now. “A different path. Something more… structured. More focused.”

They didn’t press. Didn’t question. Your parents weren’t perfect, but they knew when to hold things gently. They didn’t need you to explain why you were asking. They just understood that you were.

And maybe that was enough.

Later that night, you sat by your bedroom window, listening to the rain and watching Bingo chase shadows in his sleep.

You didn’t know what came next.

But for the first time in weeks, your heart felt just a little quieter.

And beneath all the hurt, all the anger, all the shame—something else had begun to flicker.

Not hope. Not yet.

But maybe…purpose.

- Jake -

She wasn’t at the library.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Not that he’d been looking for her—he wasn’t. He was just cutting through the stacks, half a granola bar in his mouth, phone lighting up with a string of dumb texts from Coop about the weekend party. But she wasn’t there.

She was always there.

Tucked between the second and third aisles, back hunched over some worn-out political theory book, highlighter cap stuck between her teeth. Sometimes she'd wave. Sometimes she’d pretend not to see him. But she was there.

Today, the spot was empty.

He shrugged it off.

Maybe she had class. Maybe she’d finally decided to study somewhere else, like the normal students who didn’t have a desk reserved in the library by sheer force of will.

But then he didn’t see her in the quad either.

Or outside the café.

Or by the vending machine near the engineering wing where she always ended up somehow—wrong building, wrong class, always just there, arms full of papers and talking too fast about midterm deadlines like anyone else cared.

Weird.

And it got weirder when he sat down in class and the seat in the third row, second from the right, stayed empty.

That seat was never empty. Not even on days with surprise rain or fire alarms or whatever other dumb excuse half the class used to skip. She was always early. Always had a pen in her hand. Always offered him gum if he looked like he hadn’t slept.

He tapped his pencil against the desk. Checked the time.

Still nothing.

No backpack. No flash of yellow. No tired smile like she’d been up all night fixing someone else’s citations again.

He didn’t get it.

Sure, she was a little clingy. A little too available. Always orbiting a little too close. But she meant well. She always showed up. She always—

The professor started talking.

Jake blinked. Swore under his breath. His notes—he didn’t have them. She usually gave him a cheat sheet the day before. Color-coded, too. Where the hell was she?

After class, he stood outside for a beat longer than he needed to, scanning the crowd like maybe she’d just been running late. But she wasn’t there. Not in the hallway. Not by the stairs. Not on the bench where she sometimes sat reading those giant political memoirs like they were bedtime stories.

Nowhere.

It was weird.

And yeah, okay—he might be screwed if she didn’t show up by next week. He hadn’t started that ethics paper, and he sure as hell didn’t remember the case study they were supposed to cite. She usually reminded him.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

It was the quiet.

The lack of her.

He didn’t miss her. Not exactly. But the campus felt off without her in it. Like something small had shifted and he didn’t know what yet.

She’d always been around. Like background music you didn’t really notice until it stopped.

And now?

Now it was silent.

Jake didn’t know why he went.

It was almost midnight. The campus was dead quiet, the air humid and thick, streetlights glowing in broken halos as he drove without thinking—just letting muscle memory steer the wheel. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. He figured she’d be there. She always was.

Her house sat at the edge of that quiet little neighborhood near the hospital—white fence, trimmed lawn, porch light glowing like always. He parked sloppily at the curb, engine still ticking as he climbed out, jaw clenched, heart beating a little too loud.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

He just knew he was tired of the weirdness. Tired of walking into class and seeing her seat empty. Tired of not getting his damn notes. Tired of whatever this was.

He rang the bell once.

No answer.

Then he knocked—harder this time, sharper, the way he did when Coop was ignoring him on purpose.

The door opened after a moment.

And there she was.

Hair tied up messily, hoodie way too big, eyes red like maybe she’d been crying. Or maybe she hadn’t slept. The living room behind her was dark except for one dim lamp. A half-empty cup of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table.

The puppy—Bingo, or whatever stupid name it had—perked up on the couch, then settled again.

She blinked at him like she couldn’t quite believe he was real. Like he was something she thought she’d finally let go of.

Jake shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, shifted his weight. “You weren’t in class.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Or the library. Or anywhere, actually,” he added, voice sharp. “Kinda hard to finish my paper when my PoliSci encyclopedia disappears off the map.”

That made her flinch—just barely—but he caught it.

Good.

She opened the door a little wider but didn’t move aside. “Why are you here, Jake?”

The way she said his name—flat, quiet, tired—itched under his skin.

“I just told you. You ghosted. No heads-up, no nothing. You think I don’t notice?”

She let out a breath. “You don’t notice anything.”

And something about that—something in her tone, in the way she looked at him like he was a stranger—lit a fuse in his chest.

“Excuse me?”

She stepped back finally, letting him in. But her body language was rigid, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.

Jake walked in, took one look around—the neatness, the warmth, the family photos—and felt like he was choking on something invisible. Something sweet. Something that didn’t belong to him.

“You’re seriously gonna act like I did something wrong?” he snapped, turning to her. “I didn’t ask you to worship the ground I walked on. I didn’t beg you to fix my papers or follow me around like a goddamn puppy.”

Her eyes widened. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t stand there and pretend you weren’t obsessed. You made yourself useful, and now you’re mad I didn’t bow down in return?”

She stared at him, mouth parted, trembling. “I cared about you.”

“Yeah?” he said, and the laugh that escaped his throat was ugly. Bitter. “Well, newsflash—I don’t owe you anything for that.”

Silence.

Thick. Ugly. Shattering.

Then—crack.

The slap hit harder than he expected.

His head jerked slightly to the side, the sting blooming hot across his cheek. He blinked, stunned—not because of the pain, but because she did it.

Her hand dropped, shaking. Her breath came out in broken gasps. Her eyes flooded instantly, fat tears slipping down her cheeks, and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know you don’t owe me anything. But I gave it anyway. Because I thought—God, I thought if I loved you quietly enough, maybe one day you’d look at me like I was real.”

Jake opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She took a shaky step back. “You don’t even know me. Not really. You don’t know what I study, what I like, what I want. You don’t know anything except how to take. And I let you.”

She wiped her face now, not to hide the tears but just to breathe.

“I let you turn me into a background character in my own life.”

He stared at her.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know why his chest was tight or why the sight of her crying in the middle of her perfectly lived-in home made his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You should go,” she said, voice flat now. Steady.

Jake took a breath, but it felt jagged.

He nodded once.

No apology.

No goodbye.

Just the echo of the door closing behind him and the knowledge that for the first time since she’d walked into his orbit—

she was done.

Jake didn’t sleep.

Not really.

He kept replaying the slap. Her voice, cracked and shaking. The way she looked at him—like he’d gutted something soft and sacred inside her, like she didn’t even recognize him anymore. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe he didn’t either.

He told himself he hadn’t meant it. Not like that. Not so sharp. Not so cruel.

But what the hell else was there to mean?

He didn’t know what he wanted when he got in his truck. He just… needed to see her. Say something. Fix it, maybe. Or at least explain.

The street was quiet when he pulled up. Morning sun creeping through the trees. Her porch looked the same—flowerpots, wind chimes, the little ceramic puppy bowl still tucked by the door. Familiar. Safe.

He stepped up and rang the bell, palms sweating.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

Her mom stood there, still in her robe, her hair pulled back, a mug of coffee in hand. She blinked, surprised. “Jake?”

He straightened. “Hi, Mrs. [Last Name]. Uh—I was wondering if… if she’s home.”

Something flickered across her face. A pause. A softness. And maybe—just maybe—a hint of regret.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she said gently, like she was about to tell him someone died. “I thought she told you.”

His heart slowed. “Told me what?”

“She transferred,” her mom said with a small, sad smile. “Packed everything and left last night. Got accepted into a program out of state. It was sudden, but… she seemed sure.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

Gone?

Just like that?

“No warning?” he asked, the question barely making it out.

She frowned faintly, looking confused. “I assumed you knew. I thought you two were close. She didn’t say much. Just that it was time. She seemed… tired. But she’s happy. I guess that’s the word.”

Jake couldn’t breathe. Not properly. He looked past her, into the house. Same furniture. Same hallway. But empty.

No yellow hoodie draped on the back of the chair. 

No stack of textbooks on the coffee table. 

No Bingo barking like a maniac at the door.

Gone.

She was really gone.

Her mom sighed and stepped aside a little, like she wasn’t sure what else to do. “I’m sorry, Jake. I wish I could tell you more. I don’t know what happened between you two, but… I hope you’re okay.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

A lie. So flat it felt like it burned.

She nodded. “Well. If you ever need anything, we’re still here. Take care, alright?”

The door closed gently. Not slamming. Not shutting him out.

But final.

Jake stood there for a full minute, staring at the place where she used to be.

She’d loved him—quietly, stupidly, endlessly.

And when he finally turned around to look?

She was already gone.

“Earth to Hangman!”

Rooster’s voice sliced through the noise, his fingers snapping twice in front of Jake’s face.

Jake blinked.

The bar snapped back into focus—glasses clinking, pool cues cracking, Penny’s voice somewhere near the jukebox calling out an order. The low thrum of a Fleetwood Mac song spun lazily through the air, mixing with the laughter of pilots who’d made it through another mission, another day.

He shifted in his seat, realizing he’d been staring at his beer for who-knew-how-long.

“Jesus, man,” Payback muttered, leaning on the bar beside him. “You looked like you were having an out-of-body experience.”

“Did you forget where you parked your ego?” Fanboy added, grinning into his drink.

Jake exhaled slowly through his nose and smirked, letting the default arrogance snap back into place like muscle memory. “Nah. Just tuning out your voice. Didn’t realize I’d need earplugs on my night off.”

“Real original,” Rooster muttered, but he was still grinning.

Phoenix rolled her eyes from across the table. “What’s the matter, Hangman? Someone finally beat you at darts? Or are you just sulking ‘cause the bartender gave your usual to someone hotter?”

“Maybe he’s thinking about someone special,” Bob said softly, then immediately flushed when everyone turned to him.

“Aww,” Fanboy teased. “You’re blushing, Bobby. You projecting or something?”

Jake laughed along with them—sharp, smooth, a little too loud.

But inside? He was still standing on that front porch, staring at a house that no longer held her.

He didn’t even remember what someone had said that triggered it. Maybe Phoenix had mentioned something about transfer paperwork. Maybe Rooster had told a story about an old friend who disappeared after college. Maybe it was nothing at all—just the sound of a voice, a chord in a song, a flash of yellow from someone’s hoodie at the bar.

Whatever it was, it hit like a sucker punch.

He hadn’t thought about her in a while. Not seriously. Not like that. He’d shoved it down—buried her between flight briefings and adrenaline highs and the praise of being the best in the sky.

But some ghosts didn’t stay buried.

Jake shook his head and raised his glass, voice smooth again. “Y’all are acting like I’ve got some dark secret. Hate to break it to you, but I’m just tired of carrying this whole squad on my back.”

The group groaned in collective protest, tossing fries at him, flipping him off, throwing more jabs his way.

He leaned back, grin practiced. Easy. Untouchable.

But he didn’t laugh this time.

Not really.

Because the truth sat there, right beneath his ribs, quiet and unshakable.

She’d been gone for years.

And he still hadn’t forgiven himself for noticing too late.

“You guys hear what Mav said earlier?” Coyote asked, nudging his beer bottle in a slow spin across the table. “About someone joining us tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix said, sitting forward. “Apparently it’s someone high up. Real decorated.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Higher rank than us, huh? What’d he say? Lieutenant Commander? Captain?”

“Didn’t say,” Payback replied. “Just said they’re experienced, important, and we better have our shit together.”

“Sounds like someone’s trying to scare us,” Fanboy joked. “What’s next? We get a briefing from a Rear Admiral with a death glare and a coffee addiction?”

Phoenix snorted. “Wouldn’t be the worst we’ve had.”

“Could be Navy Intel,” Bob added quietly. “Or maybe a specialist. Someone brought in for mission design.”

Rooster leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Or maybe it’s a Top Gun legend. Someone who makes Maverick look like a rookie.”

“Unlikely,” Hangman muttered.

But his voice was distant. Hollow.

The banter buzzed around him—jokes flying, theories stacking—but Jake had barely moved. He was still nursing the same beer, head tilted slightly, gaze locked on nothing in particular.

Because something about the way Maverick said it earlier that morning had itched at the back of Jake’s mind.

“This person’s not just smart. They’re sharp. Respected. You’ll recognize the name.”

He hadn’t thought much of it then—just another big-shot to brief them, maybe fly one or two training rounds and disappear.

But now?

Now his gut twisted.

There was something wrong about this kind of silence. The way Mav didn’t give them a name. Didn’t give them a face. And usually, when Maverick kept details under wraps like that—it meant the surprise was personal.

Very personal.

“What do you think, Hangman?” Rooster asked, kicking his boot lightly under the table. “Think we’re about to be out-ranked by some crusty war hero with a cane and a vendetta?”

Jake forced a grin. “Nah. Probably just someone with twice your IQ and a cleaner flight record.”

They all groaned and swatted at him again, but Jake barely felt the energy.

His skin prickled. A chill slithered across the back of his neck, even as the sun dipped lower outside, streaking the windows gold.

Someone important.

Someone they’d recognize.

Jake swallowed hard.

He had a bad feeling he already did.

The door creaked open with that familiar Hard Deck jingle, followed by the low rumble of boots hitting wood.

“Speak of the devil,” Rooster muttered, turning his head as four familiar faces walked in.

Harvard. Yale. Halo. Fritz.

More Top Gun grads. Tight-knit. Dangerous in the air. Trouble on the ground.

“Great,” Phoenix deadpanned. “Just when I was having fun.”

“They let you guys back in here?” Fanboy called out.

“Relax,” Halo said, lifting two fingers in mock peace as they made their way over. “We’re off-duty. For now.”

Fritz was already heading for their table, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he tossed his flight jacket over the back of a chair.

“You guys hear the rumor?” he asked, voice low, grin way too smug for comfort.

Jake raised a brow. “What rumor?”

Fritz leaned in like he was about to tell them state secrets. “About who’s coming tomorrow.”

The Dagger Squad went quiet. Not frozen—but that slow shift into alertness. Rooster set his drink down. Bob sat up straighter. Even Phoenix stopped twirling the straw in her soda.

“You know who it is?” Coyote asked.

“No name yet,” Harvard jumped in. “But they’re saying it’s someone big. Like, Navy-shifting big.”

“They said we’ll recognize the name,” Yale added, clearly enjoying the tension building in the room. “And that this person’s been operating under special orders. Off-grid. For years.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. That itch in his spine was back. Crawling now.

Fritz dropped the bomb like it was casual gossip.

“Word is—Mav might be getting replaced.”

Dead silence.

Not even the jukebox seemed to be playing anymore.

Jake blinked. “What?”

Fritz shrugged, sipping his beer. “I’m just telling you what I heard. Apparently this new arrival’s got the credentials, the combat record, and the connections. Might be coming in to evaluate Mav’s leadership. Maybe even take command.”

“No one replaces Mav,” Phoenix said flatly, but there was a beat of hesitation. “Right?”

“Unless command thinks he’s getting too soft,” Halo offered, clearly enjoying the drama.

“He’s not soft,” Rooster snapped.

“No, but,” Harvard said slowly, “he’s Maverick. Which means he pisses off every third admiral just by breathing.”

The weight of it sank in.

Someone important. Someone respected. Someone they’d recognize.

And now… maybe someone powerful enough to take Mav’s spot?

Jake’s stomach coiled.

Because suddenly this wasn’t just a name or a face.

It was someone coming to shake the cage.

Someone who’d left a scar deep enough to still ache under his skin.

Someone who disappeared before he could ever make it right.

Jake didn’t say a word.

He just stared at the melting ice in his glass.

And for the first time in a long time, Hangman didn’t feel like the guy with all the answers.

“You’re all acting like we’re getting replaced by God,” Jake said, tipping back in his chair, boots hooked on the table leg. “Relax. Whoever it is probably files paperwork better than they fly.”

“Ohh, big words from the golden boy,” Rooster muttered, raising his brows. “What if they’re better than you?”

Jake grinned, sharp and smug. “No such thing.”

“Right,” Phoenix drawled. “Because your ego wouldn’t allow it.”

“Exactly,” he said, without missing a beat.

Coyote snorted. “Okay, but think about it. What if it’s someone insane? Like ex-NSA, flew in Black Ops, has a call sign that got classified?”

Fanboy leaned forward, all dramatic. “What if it’s someone with like… seventeen confirmed kills and a face that makes grown men cry?”

“Sounds like a Disney villain,” Bob said quietly.

“I’m just saying,” Fritz added, slapping his beer down. “If they’re coming in hot enough to maybe replace Maverick, they’re not gonna be your average Top Gun grad. That’s like—nuclear level.”

“Maybe it’s Cyclone’s secret kid,” Halo said, eyes wide. “Raised on steel and shame. Sent to destroy Maverick for breaking too many rules.”

“Jesus,” Phoenix laughed. “Are we writing a soap opera now?”

Jake just smirked, but he was leaning in now—interested, if not worried.

“Whoever they are, I give it two days before they choke trying to keep up,” he said, spinning his beer bottle between two fingers. “No one flies like we do. Mav picked us for a reason.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Cocky much?”

Jake pointed. “Confident. There’s a difference.”

Harvard looked around the table. “Seriously though, y’all aren’t even a little nervous?”

There was a beat of silence.

Rooster shrugged. “I mean, it’s weird. They didn’t give us any info.”

“Exactly,” Yale said. “And Maverick’s been acting cagey.”

Jake stretched, draping his arm over the back of his chair like he didn’t have a single worry in the world. “Maybe they just want to keep us on our toes. Keep the best sharp.”

“You think they’re doing this for you, don’t you?” Phoenix asked, deadpan.

Jake shrugged. “Can’t blame ‘em. I’d want to rattle me too.”

“Man thinks he’s the main character,” Fanboy muttered.

Bob smiled into his drink. “Hangman probably hopes it’s someone he can beat in a dogfight.”

Jake leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Hope? No, Bob. I’m counting on it.”

“Imagine,” Coyote said with a laugh, “it’s some tiny person who just walks in and makes you look like a rookie.”

Jake chuckled. “The day someone walks into that hangar and out-flies me is the day I kiss Rooster’s mustache and call it destiny.”

Everyone groaned at once.

“No one asked for that mental image,” Phoenix said, covering her face.

Rooster made a gagging sound. “Try it and I’ll throw you into the ocean, Hangman.”

Jake was halfway into another cocky retort when Payback—who’d been silent for most of the conversation, nursing his drink with the patience of a man watching children self-destruct—finally spoke up.

“Y’all are doing a lot of barking for people who don’t even know who’s walking through that door tomorrow.”

The table paused.

Payback didn’t look up, just swirled the ice in his glass, like he wasn’t dropping a quiet nuke.

Phoenix blinked. “Damn, man. That was ominous as hell.”

He raised a brow. “I’m just saying. You can laugh all you want, but whoever’s coming in? Mav respects them. Enough to not tell us anything. That doesn’t sound like just a transfer to me.”

Coyote leaned back slowly. “What if they’re here to evaluate us, not just Mav?”

Bob looked mildly alarmed. “Like… as a unit?”

Fritz whistled. “What if they’re our new squad lead?”

Jake scoffed. “Mav wouldn’t do that. He’d say something.”

“Would he though?” Halo asked, sipping her beer. “If he thought it would make you fly sharper?”

“You all sound scared,” Jake said, pushing his chair back on two legs again. “Like someone’s gonna come in and kick you out of the sky.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “And you’re not?”

Jake just smirked. “Whoever it is, they’ll either learn or crash trying to keep up. I’ll give ‘em a soft landing.”

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Rooster muttered, shaking his head with a grin.

“Always,” Jake fired back, flashing that signature grin.

But Payback wasn’t done.

He finally looked up. Met Jake’s eyes—steady, unreadable.

“Sometimes the ones you don’t see coming hit the hardest.”

And just like that, the noise at the table dulled.

Jake held his gaze for a second too long before he scoffed and looked away.

“Whatever. Let ‘em come.”

But the chill down his spine didn’t leave.

Because he was Hangman. Untouchable. Unbothered. Right?

…Right?

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

The morning sun hadn’t even cleared the hangar roof when the squad assembled—flight suits zipped, dog tags tucked, postures stiff with expectation.

The detachment hangar echoed with the click of boots and murmured voices. Rooster cracked his neck. Phoenix sipped burnt coffee. Bob kept checking his clipboard even though nothing had changed. Hangman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t already calculating who was gonna blink first when the so-called legends arrived.

And then—Warlock stepped in.

The room straightened like one body.

He moved like a man who didn’t waste steps. Every inch of his uniform was razor-cut perfection, ribbons gleaming in the gray light. His eyes swept over the group, sharp and unreadable.

“Good morning, aviators,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “At ease.”

A collective breath released.

Warlock stood at the front like he owned the silence. His hands clasped behind his back. His tone steady—but heavy.

“You’ve all been called back for one reason,” he began. “Because you’re the best. Because you were trained by the best. And because the Navy needs you—again.”

He paused just long enough to let the weight of it settle. No one moved. No one spoke.

Jake resisted the urge to yawn, but even he couldn’t fake indifference. Not with the way Warlock’s voice carried now—like something big was shifting.

“Today, we’re joined by a unit the Navy considers indispensable. Specialists. Graduates of Top Gun, yes—but far more than that.”

Heads tilted. Eyes flicked sideways.

Warlock didn’t budge.

“They’ve served internationally. Led black ops we’ll never read about. Advised on global defense protocols. Trained squadrons on three continents. And most recently—hand-selected by Pentagon leadership to support strategic restructure initiatives across branches.”

Jake blinked. That wasn’t just credentials. That was… another league.

“They’re not here to replace you,” Warlock continued. “But they are here with purpose. Consider them embedded observers. Tactical partners. And yes—commanding officers.”

A visible shift rippled through the squad.

Bob stiffened.

Coyote muttered something under his breath.

Phoenix’s jaw tightened.

Jake? He furrowed his brow just slightly, arms still crossed. Higher rank. Embedded. Top Gun grads. Tactical partners?

Before he could piece it together, Warlock turned slightly—and in stepped three figures.

They walked in with the kind of silence that screamed power. Perfect posture. Eyes forward. No smiles. No introductions.

Two men. One woman.

Flight suits. Command patches. No unnecessary flair—but something about their presence made even Rooster straighten taller.

They took their seats without a word.

Warlock nodded once, then turned back to the squad.

“You’ll work with them. You’ll learn from them. And you’ll fly like your life depends on it—because soon, it just might.”

He stepped aside.

Silence.

Chairs scraped as the Dagger Squad slowly sat down, still side-eyeing the new arrivals like they were bombs waiting to detonate.

Jake leaned back in his seat, jaw tight.

Who the hell were they?

And why did something in his chest feel like it was getting ready to collapse?

He didn’t know yet.

But he was about to.

The steel doors groaned open again.

And then he appeared—Cyclone, in full dress blues, cap under one arm, face carved from stone.

The air changed the second he entered. Warlock shifted subtly to the side. Hondo straightened where he stood near the back, arms folded. And Maverick—late as always—stepped in behind them, as if he'd known exactly when to arrive without being told.

Jake saw Rooster tense beside him. Phoenix didn’t even blink. Everyone knew what it meant when Cyclone entered with that face.

The storm was already rolling.

Cyclone stepped forward, taking his place beside Warlock and in full view of the squad. His gaze swept over them once, sharp and slow.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he said, voice like gravel and steel. “The individuals you see seated beside you hold higher rank, more hours logged, and more confirmed kills than most of you combined.”

He paused. No one breathed.

“They have led squadrons into classified airspace. They have written protocols you use. And they have the authority to overrule damn near every one of you—including your training officer.”

His eyes flicked sideways, right at Maverick.

Jake swore he saw Mav smirk. The man had no sense of self-preservation.

Cyclone turned back to the room. “So, if any of you feel the need to crack jokes, roll your eyes, or question why these officers are here, I suggest you stow it. You will address them with respect. You will fly when they say fly. And if you embarrass this detachment—God help you.”

His words landed like blades.

Jake leaned back slightly, finally pulling his arms off his chest. There was no charm slick enough to wriggle past that tone. Not from Cyclone.

Still, he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

Maverick stepped forward, casual as ever, his hands clasped behind his back. He was in his flight suit already—dog tags glinting, expression calm.

“Appreciate the warning, sir,” Mav said with that cool, confident lilt. “But I think you’ll find this group learns faster when they’re not being barked at.”

Cyclone sighed. “Maverick.”

“Hondo,” Mav said, ignoring him, nodding toward the man standing nearby.

“Captain,” Hondo greeted, trying not to smile.

Maverick turned to face the squad now, taking center stage like it was second nature.

Jake watched him closely—because if there was anyone who could casually deliver a speech while standing in a pressure cooker, it was Maverick.

“I know you’ve all been wondering who’s joining us,” he started, voice steady. “I won’t lie—when I heard the Navy was embedding them, I had questions too.”

He glanced toward the three seated officers, not in challenge—but in something closer to... respect. Maybe even wariness.

“These aren’t rookies. They’re not here to play nice or hand out gold stars. They're here because the Navy wants results.”

Another pause.

“They’re also not here to replace me,” he added lightly, though the smile that tugged at his mouth was short-lived. “But don’t let that stop you from trying to outfly them.”

A few of the pilots chuckled under their breath.

Maverick took another step forward. “You’ll be flying tighter. Harder. And faster than you’ve flown in months. You’ll be critiqued. Corrected. Maybe outmatched.”

He looked straight at Hangman now.

Jake’s spine locked, jaw tightening instinctively.

“And if that bruises your ego,” Mav finished, “then I suggest you start building some calluses.”

He nodded once, then stepped back in line beside Warlock and Hondo.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was coiled.

Every pilot in that hangar knew something had just shifted.

Three strangers. Higher rank. Total silence.

And tomorrow? The games began.

Jake didn’t know who they were. Didn’t know why they were here. Didn’t know what they were capable of.

But damn if he wasn’t ready to prove he was still the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Whoever they were—he’d make them blink first.

Cyclone took a step forward, squaring his shoulders like the weight of the Navy rested neatly across his spine—and maybe it did.

“You’ve all been through Top Gun,” he said, voice precise, unwavering. “You’ve flown against the best. You’ve survived the impossible. And most of you carry that like it’s enough.”

The room held still. Not a fidget. Not a breath out of place.

Jake’s smirk had vanished. His hands now rested on his knees, back ramrod straight, eyes forward. He knew this tone. This was the serious Cyclone. No theatrics. No margin for error.

“But surviving once doesn’t make you infallible,” the admiral continued, eyes sweeping across the squad. “Flying one mission doesn’t make you elite forever. The world doesn’t stop because you made it home.”

His voice dropped slightly, the edge hardening.

“Which is why the Navy doesn’t just want warriors in the air. We want tacticians. Innovators. People who don’t wait for orders—they anticipate them.”

Cyclone’s gaze locked briefly with Phoenix, then Fanboy, then Jake. A slow assessment. A subtle challenge.

“These individuals—our guests—represent a standard that goes beyond what you’ve known. Their mission history is sealed. Their ranks earned in blood and black ink. They’ve served in joint task forces across the globe. And above all—”

The heavy hangar doors creaked open behind them.

Loud. Slow. A deliberate sound that echoed off the walls like a warning bell.

Jake heard it.

They all did.

But no one turned around.

Not even Rooster—who turned at everything.

Because Cyclone was still talking. And when an admiral is speaking, you don’t break rank to look behind you. Not unless you’re ready to kiss your wings goodbye.

Jake’s heart picked up speed anyway. That itch again, low in his ribs. The kind that said something wasn’t normal.

Cyclone barely paused at the interruption. Not a glance back. Not even a tick in his tone.

He just kept going—like he knew who was behind them.

“They hold the trust of Joint Command. They’ve written policy most of you don’t even realize you’re following. And tomorrow—they’ll fly with you.”

Another pause.

Jake felt it. That burn at the back of his neck. That presence behind him. Footsteps soft, intentional. Three shadows crossing the threshold like ghosts.

Still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t breathe.

Cyclone’s voice, still steady, cut through the moment like a scalpel.

“Until they introduce themselves—they don’t owe you anything. Not a name. Not a smile. Not even a nod.”

The squad sat frozen.

And somewhere behind them, three chairs were pulled out.

Three seats filled.

Jake’s jaw twitched.

He still didn’t know what was coming.

But whatever it was?

It just walked into the room.

Cyclone’s gaze swept the hangar once more, the kind of gaze that made even seasoned pilots sit straighter. His voice carried clean across the open space, no microphone needed.

“You’ve all heard rumors,” he said, every syllable sharpened like a blade. “Today, those rumors meet reality.”

No one moved. Even the restless ones—Harvard, Fritz, Coyote—were locked in, eyes forward, spines tight. Maverick stood at the side now, arms folded, silent but watchful. Jake could feel the tension spiderwebbing through the room, subtle but unmistakable, pulling at his nerves like a thread.

“These three officers are not here to be your mentors, nor your friends,” Cyclone continued. “They’ve been assigned joint operational authority, and they’ve seen more combat, managed more pilots, and rewritten more doctrine than most of you will in your entire careers.”

Jake didn’t blink. He wanted to scoff—wanted to—but something about the admiral’s tone made even his usual sarcasm stick like stone in his throat.

Cyclone took a breath. “First—Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer. Call sign: Jinx.”

One of the seated officers stood, his movements smooth and economical. Jinx had the air of a man who didn’t need to try hard to be the smartest in the room—he just was. His dark hair was trimmed regulation-short, his jaw shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble, and his stare—sharp, cool, unreadable—swept across the squad like a surgical light.

“Mercer’s logged thousands of hours in foreign airspace. Tactical infiltration, stealth coordination, and psychological pattern disruption. He’s the pilot we send in when the map doesn’t work anymore,” Cyclone said. “He’s also ranked top-five in split-second tactical reversals—don’t bother trying to beat him in a turn.”

Jinx gave a single, small nod, then stepped aside and stood off to the left. The air around him felt colder somehow, like he carried a different pressure system with him.

Cyclone didn’t wait for the tension to ease.

“Second,” he said, with a slight nod toward the remaining seated officer, “Commander Theo Hale. Call sign: Ruin.”

Ruin stood slowly. Where Jinx was precision, Hale was presence. Broader, older, his eyes were shadowed but watchful, like someone who had lived through too many things and survived them all. His steps were deliberate as he moved to stand beside Jinx, shoulders squared and arms loosely folded.

“Ruin has led recovery and retaliation ops across three continents. He has extracted downed pilots under live fire, and when protocol fails, he writes new ones in the field,” Cyclone said, his tone unwavering. “If the mission falls apart, this is the man they call to put the pieces back together—or destroy what’s left.”

No response. No smirk. Just a subtle nod of acknowledgment from Ruin, his gaze sweeping the squad like he was already calculating who wouldn’t make it through.

Jake exhaled through his nose, slowly. These weren’t just good pilots. These were ghosts. Legends in uniform. Men the Navy brought in when everything else had already gone to hell.

And then—Cyclone’s posture shifted just slightly.

“And finally,” he said, a new edge entering his tone, “Commander (Your Name) (Last Name). Call sign: Rogue.”

She stood.

Jake’s stomach dropped before he understood why.

The sound of her boots hitting the floor was sharp and clean, cutting through the quiet like a blade. She didn’t move like someone trying to impress a room. She moved like someone who already owned it. Her chin was high, her flight suit immaculate, and her eyes—god, her eyes—didn’t flicker once as she stepped into the center light.

It was her.

The girl he used to forget. The one he barely noticed.

The one who used to bring him coffee and flashcards and nervous laughter—and now looked like she could order a missile strike with one raised eyebrow.

Jake’s lungs stalled. She didn’t even glance at him.

Cyclone kept going. “Rogue is the Navy’s youngest strategic operations commander. Her combat and advisory records are protected under restricted access codes. She’s been stationed on black-zone carriers, coordinated global strike exercises, and earned her Distinguished Service Medal at twenty-eight.”

No one in the room moved. Jake didn’t even realize his jaw was tight until his teeth ached.

“She will be your senior embedded officer,” Cyclone finished. “Any decisions she makes regarding your performance, readiness, or flight status are final. You will address her as Commander or Rogue—and you will not underestimate her.”

She stood between Ruin and Jinx like she belonged there. Like she’d never been anyone else.

And Jake?

Jake sat still, watching her like a ghost had just climbed out of his past and took command of his entire world.

She didn’t even blink.

Jake didn’t hear the rest of Cyclone’s words. Didn’t register the murmurs rolling through the squad, didn’t flinch at the subtle creak of Maverick crossing his arms beside Warlock. The buzz of conversation had faded to a low hum in the back of his skull.

He was staring at her.

Eyes locked like a target he didn’t mean to track. Muscles tight. Breath slow. Something in his chest had gone still, caught between memory and disbelief.

She stood there—Commander Rogue—like she belonged in the middle of war stories and classified briefings. Like she’d never once blushed under library lighting or stumbled through a birthday invite with homemade cookies wrapped in tissue paper. The girl he remembered had notebooks stained with highlighter and coffee rings, a shy smile, and the kind of laugh that didn’t know how to hide its hope.

This woman? She had fire in her spine and stars on her collar. And not once—not for a single second—did she look at him.

Jake’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t move.

She hadn’t even blinked in his direction. Hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t done a double take. And that, somehow, was the worst part.

Because Jake Seresin—cocky, charming, always two steps ahead—was suddenly just a face in the crowd.

He tried to tell himself it was shock. That it didn’t mean anything. That he didn’t care.

But the truth settled low in his gut like a weight he hadn’t noticed until now. She didn’t look nervous. Or awkward. Or out of place. She didn’t look like the girl who used to wait for him outside lecture halls with hopeful eyes.

She looked like she’d forgotten him.

And maybe that was the part that stung the most. Not that she was different, not that she outranked him now. But that she didn’t even need to look twice.

Commander Rogue.

The girl who once waited for him.

Now the woman who walked right past.

She hadn’t changed. And yet—she had.

Jake couldn’t stop staring, his gaze tracing over every sharp line, every familiar curve turned foreign under the weight of time. Her jaw was more defined now, no longer soft with youth but set with quiet strength. Her shoulders, squared with practiced discipline, didn’t carry the same hesitant curve they once had when she’d shrink beneath his sideways glances. No oversized hoodie. No spiral-bound notebook pressed to her chest. Just a flight suit, clean and creased, and a calmness that didn’t bend.

Her hair was pinned back, neat and strict beneath her regulation cap, but he could still remember the way it used to fall in front of her face when she leaned over his laptop to edit his papers for him. She had that same tilt to her head, that same posture of control—but now it wasn’t shy, it was sharp. Deliberate.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked unshakable.

Jake’s eyes narrowed just slightly, disbelief curling in his gut like a slow burn. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t her. Maybe it was just the name. People shared names all the time—right? He’d probably met three Ashleys last week alone. Could be coincidence. Could be nothing.

But then—

Then there was the way she stood.

That little pause in her step before Cyclone said her name, the same way she used to freeze when her name was called in class, like her brain had to double-check that someone was actually saying it. That subtle bite of her bottom lip—she still did that. A nervous tell. The same one she had when she handed him a flash drive with his project already formatted because “you always forget the citations, Jake.”

God.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, slowly, like it might smother the memory.

It had to be her.

But how? How the hell had she gone from PoliSci major with trembling hands and wide eyes to Commander Rogue?

And why did his chest feel so damn tight?

Jake sat there, stunned, every excuse he reached for slipping like oil through his fingers. Maybe she wasn’t the same girl. Maybe she was just someone who looked like her. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. His mind was good at rewriting stories when they made him look bad. But this?

This wasn’t a story.

She was real.

She was right in front of him.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

Jake was still staring.

Still trying to force logic into something that had none. His brain looped through possibilities like they were checklists: Same name, maybe. Long-lost cousin, maybe. Government clone, hell, maybe. Anything to explain the impossible without confronting what was staring him in the face.

Then—right beside him—Rooster leaned slightly in his seat and muttered under his breath with a low, impressed whistle.

“God,” he said, barely above a whisper, “she’s hot.”

Jake snapped his head toward him so fast his neck popped.

“What did you just say?”

The words came out sharper than he meant. Or maybe he did mean them that sharp.

Rooster blinked, caught off guard, eyes narrowing like Jake had just challenged him over the last wing at the Hard Deck. “What, man? I said she’s hot. It’s not a crime.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a moment, he almost replied with something stupid. Something defensive. Something that would've given everything away.

But before he could speak, a voice cut through the hangar like a whipcrack.

“Lieutenants.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Commander Ruin’s voice had that same weight a teacher used when they’d caught a student mid-eye roll during a lecture. Cold. Controlled. Designed to humiliate you just enough.

Jake turned his head slowly, along with Rooster and half the squad, all trying to act like they hadn’t just been called out in front of literal legends.

Ruin hadn’t moved from his place at the front, arms folded neatly across his chest, expression unreadable.

“If the conversation is more engaging than the briefing,” Ruin said, cool and clipped, “you’re welcome to step outside and discuss your thoughts where you’re not wasting our time.”

Jake felt the flush crawl up his neck immediately.

Phoenix gave a low whistle under her breath beside them, not even trying to hide her grin. Payback muttered something that sounded like “oof,” and Coyote leaned away like he didn’t want to be associated with any of them.

Jake didn’t say a word.

Neither did Rooster.

But the heat in Jake’s ears had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

And when his eyes flicked back to Rogue—Commander Rogue—she still wasn’t looking at him.

Didn’t even smirk.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she heard any of it.

That, somehow, burned the worst of all.

Then, Commander Hale stepped forward with the unhurried, unshakable calm of someone who’d walked through real fire and didn’t flinch at smoke anymore. His boots echoed across the hangar floor—solid, heavy—until he came to a stop dead center in front of the squad. Arms still folded. Back impossibly straight. Eyes locked forward.

The kind of posture that said I don’t need your respect. I already earned it years ago.

Jake studied him carefully now, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t not. There was something about the man—something still, like a mountain before an avalanche. He wasn’t big in a showy way. He didn’t posture. Didn’t sneer. But you felt him in the room, in the same way you felt an approaching storm behind glass.

“My name is Commander Theo Hale,” he said, voice low but clear. “Call sign Ruin.”

He let that settle.

Not a flicker of emotion in his face. Not a blink.

“You’ve already been told what I’ve done, where I’ve flown, and what it means to work with me,” he continued. “None of that matters here unless you give me a reason to believe you belong in the air with us.”

A few seats shifted. No one dared speak.

Jake didn’t move. He felt the words sink beneath his skin like hooks. Belong in the air with us. As if they were a tier above—and maybe they were.

Ruin paced forward a step, slow and methodical, eyes scanning the rows like he was weighing each soul inside them.

“I’m not here to babysit. I’m not here to lecture. I don’t care about your reputations, your bar fights, or your daddy issues. I care about results. I care about the people who will come home because of how tight your formation flies.”

He stopped. His gaze caught Jake’s for half a second—and it didn’t falter.

“If that doesn’t interest you?” Ruin said, voice suddenly sharper, “Let us know now. We’ll make room for someone who still gives a damn.”

Silence.

He nodded once, curt and clean, then stepped back beside Rogue and Jinx, hands behind his back.

Jake let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

One down.

Two to go.

Commander Mercer stepped forward with a slower ease than Ruin, but no less authority. Where Ruin moved like a warpath waiting to happen, Jinx moved like he was already three steps ahead of the rest of the room and didn’t feel the need to brag about it.

He stood tall, hands clasped loosely behind his back, jaw relaxed, eyes half-lidded in that quiet, analytical way that made Jake immediately wary. There was no bark to him—just that deadly stillness some pilots had when they didn’t need noise to command a storm.

“Lieutenant Commander Kade Mercer,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate, and unshaken. “Call sign Jinx.”

He didn’t follow it up with credentials. Didn’t rattle off medals or deployments. He let his name and tone carry the weight—and it did.

“I’ve flown combat missions in seven countries and trained with five different air forces. If you’re in the air with me, you won’t need to guess what I’m thinking.”

His gaze slid over the squad like he was scanning data points instead of people. Not judgmental. Not cruel. Just thorough.

“If I give you a command, it’s not a suggestion. If I give you silence, it’s on purpose. I expect you to listen. I expect you to think.”

There was no heat behind it, no raised volume. Just certainty. Control so quiet it left no room to argue.

“I’m not here to be your enemy,” he said. “But I won’t waste time convincing you of something you should already know.”

He paused. Let that hang in the air like static.

“I trust skill. I trust clarity. I trust decisions made in less than three seconds. If you can’t handle that, step back before you waste my time—or worse, get someone else killed.”

Jake’s throat tightened slightly. He wasn’t scared of this guy. But he respected him, instantly and absolutely.

Jinx gave one final, silent nod, then stepped back into place beside Ruin.

Two down.

Jake felt it coming.

The last voice.

The one he wasn’t ready to hear.

She stepped forward.

Not a twitch of hesitation in her spine, not a flicker of uncertainty across her face. Commander (Last Name)—no, Rogue—moved like someone who’d learned long ago that power wasn’t about volume. It was about presence. And she carried it in spades.

Jake’s eyes followed her like they were wired to. Like he couldn’t look away even if he tried. His hands flexed against his thighs. Her boots clicked once against the concrete and then silence fell again, heavy as a stormfront.

She stood at the center, posture perfect, chin level, her hands at ease behind her back. There was a stillness about her that made the air feel heavier. And when she spoke, her voice didn’t crack or rise—it settled, clean and even, like a scalpel being drawn.

“I’m Commander (Your Name) (Last Name), call sign Rogue.”

She let it breathe. Let the name hang in the air for a moment. The confidence in her tone wasn’t rehearsed. It was worn-in. Lived-in. Like it had been forged in pressure and held together with purpose.

“I don’t care where you came from or how many hours you’ve logged. That’s not what earns you a place here.”

She glanced across the squad as she spoke. Not pausing. Not blinking. Not lingering long enough to give anyone more weight than the next. Not even him.

“You’ll earn your spot in the air. In the comms. In the debrief. You’ll earn it when you show me that you’re not just flying to prove something, but flying to protect something. If your pride’s more important than your team, don’t get in my formation.”

Her eyes flicked for a second—brief, surgical—toward the row where Jake sat.

Then away again.

And he was hit with that same damn ache, sharp and hot in his ribs, the kind that didn’t leave bruises but ought to.

“Some of you might remember my name,” she said, with the faintest curve of something that could’ve been a smirk—but wasn’t. “Some of you won’t. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you hear it now, and you understand one thing.”

Her shoulders drew back, her gaze hardening just slightly.

“I’m not here to be your friend. I’m here to make sure you survive.”

And that was it.

She stepped back beside Jinx and Ruin without fanfare, without waiting for a reaction. Like she hadn’t just split open the sky and walked out of the thunder.

Jake stared at her like he’d been punched.

Because for the first time in a long damn time, he had no idea what to say.

Warlock stepped forward, the calm after the thunder. His voice didn’t boom—it didn’t need to. It rolled across the hangar like it belonged there, measured and precise, carrying the weight of authority without ever sounding forced. “That concludes introductions,” he said, his tone level, eyes sweeping over the squad like he was checking for cracked composure.

“These officers will be part of your detachment for the foreseeable future. You will respect their rank, follow their lead when instructed, and if you’re smart, you’ll learn something from them while you can.” No one nodded. No one dared breathe too loudly. Jake barely blinked. He kept his jaw tight, hands resting on his thighs, eyes locked forward—mostly. Not quite on her, not anymore. But close.

Warlock gave a final nod to Maverick, then turned. Cyclone followed a beat after, posture as stiff and unreadable as ever. And then they were leaving—Warlock, Cyclone, Ruin, Jinx... and Rogue. She didn’t look back. Not once. She didn’t glance at Jake, didn’t even skim the row of stunned pilots like she needed their approval. She walked out the same way she entered: like the room had already been warned.

Jake watched her until the doors eased shut behind them. The second they did, he let out a slow breath through his nose—but even that felt like weakness. He was still trying to find his footing when Maverick stepped forward.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Maverick said, hands on his hips, aviators glinting in the overhead light. “You’re not dismissed yet.”

Groans rippled lightly across the group. Fritz let his head roll back. Coyote muttered something about needing a damn minute. And Rooster—Rooster leaned sideways with that half-stupid, half-lovesick grin curling on his face.

“Rogue,” he said under his breath, low enough that he thought no one heard him. “She’s something else.”

Jake’s head turned, just enough to catch it. Just enough for his stomach to twist, tight and fast.

“Dial it back,” he muttered, voice flat but sharp enough to slice. “You’re drooling.”

Rooster blinked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “What? I said she’s impressive. Don’t have to act like I proposed.”

But Jake didn’t respond. He just looked forward again, jaw tight. Something bitter sat under his tongue, and for once, he didn’t have a clever line to spit it out. Rogue was gone. Out the door, out of reach, and yet somehow—still everywhere.

And she hadn’t even looked at him.

The silence that lingered after the doors shut behind the three commanders was thick enough to choke on. It wasn’t the stunned, respectful kind. It was the kind of silence where no one wanted to be the first idiot to speak and break whatever spell had just been cast.

Of course, Rooster broke it anyway.

“Rogue,” he said again, like the name had settled in his mouth too sweet to spit out. “That’s a damn call sign. She’s got presence. You see the way she walked? I didn’t even know I liked getting yelled at by women until—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Phoenix muttered, rubbing her hands down her face.

“I’m just saying,” Rooster went on, undeterred, “she commands a room. Not just anyone gets that kind of intro. And did you see the way she looked at—”

Jake cut in, sharper than intended. “She didn’t look at anyone.”

That earned him a glance from half the squad. Rooster raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised at the edge in Jake’s voice, but he didn’t push it.

Before anyone else could jump in, Maverick stepped up to the front, arms crossed, clearly amused by the nervous buzz hanging in the air. “Alright,” he said, drawing everyone’s attention back, “while you all recover from your collective ego bruising, we’re still on schedule. Sim runs this afternoon. Live maneuvers tomorrow. That hasn’t changed.”

Coyote groaned. “You’re telling us we’ve gotta fly after that?”

Maverick shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think command cares if your pride’s hurt?”

“Mine’s not hurt,” Jake blurted, voice rising slightly. “I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling hotter than he wanted. “I mean, what the hell, Mav. Who are they? Especially her—you don’t just drop someone like that in here without warning.”

Maverick looked at him, unreadable behind those damn aviators. “You’ll find out in time, Lieutenant.”

Jake’s jaw ticked. “That’s not a real answer.”

Hondo, who’d been standing silently at Maverick’s side, finally spoke, his tone light but knowing. “Neither’s that attitude, son.”

The rest of the squad chuckled, the tension breaking just slightly, but Jake didn’t join them. He crossed his arms, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the spot Rogue had been standing just minutes ago. She hadn’t looked at him once. Not when she walked in. Not when she spoke. Not even when Rooster practically drooled on the floor beside him.

And now she is gone again.

But this time, she’d left a crater.

Jake wasn’t listening to a damn thing anymore.

Maverick had started outlining the rest of the day's schedule—some nonsense about sim rotations, recalibration drills, airspace protocols. Jake heard the words, sure, but none of them stuck. Not when Rooster, two seats down, was still mumbling like a man freshly baptized.

“She was just—” Rooster exhaled hard, running a hand down his face like he was trying to cool himself off. “That voice? That stare? I think I blacked out a little. I didn’t know it was possible to feel both terrified and turned on at the same time.”

Jake rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Rooster didn’t even flinch. “Worth it.”

Phoenix groaned. “You’re gonna get court-martialed for simping.”

“Gladly,” Rooster shot back. “I’ll hand over my wings if she tells me to kneel.”

“That’s enough,” Jake snapped, louder than intended.

The squad quieted for a beat, all heads turning toward him. Maverick arched an eyebrow, clearly clocking the sudden shift, and Hondo gave him a slow side-eye like damn, someone struck a nerve.

Jake forced a smirk onto his face, even though it felt brittle. “I mean, come on. You’re all acting like this is the first time you’ve seen someone with rank and a decent jawline.”

Payback snorted. “That wasn’t just rank, bro. That was presence.”

“She didn’t even blink,” Yale added. “Straight-up cold steel.”

Jake clenched his jaw.

Because they were right.

She hadn’t blinked. She hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t spared him a glance.

And Jake Seresin, Lieutenant and golden boy of the skies, was sitting there feeling like a ghost in his own story.

Rooster let out another dreamy sigh, tipping his head back. “God, I hope she yells at me.”

Jake didn’t say a word. He just stared straight ahead, arms crossed, pulse ticking in his throat like a warning. Because he knew what was coming.

Tomorrow, they'll be flying with her.

And tomorrow, for the first time in a long damn time, he might be the one falling behind.

[tsuy4n]

The Artist Who Lives for the Plot

Warning/s: Fem!Reader, Mild language/swearing, still chaotic, teasing but that's just another word for verbal bullying, petty drama, reader still very much suffering (comically)

[A/n]: Okay, so apparently my calculations were off (nothing new to me) with how things are going and how much fun I'm writing the boys + [Y/n], this will become a short series!

Part 1, >Part 2<

Day 3: Five Failures, Zero Progress

You're on your way to work, absolutely dreading what lies ahead. Not the chores, not the endless hours of running errands, but them: The five walking demonic migraines with unholy cheekbones.

They were chaotic yesterday. All sharp grins and cryptic words, eyes gleaming like they knew something you didn’t.

What changed? You didn’t do anything. That, you're sure of. So why the hell are they suddenly breathing down your neck like you owe them your soul? (Which, considering who they are, might actually be on the table.)

Are they acting like this because you saw something you shouldn't have?

Like that concept. Was it supposed to be a secret? They didn’t react like you expected. No panic. No anger. Then again, you didn’t exactly study their expressions too hard. Priorities.

Still, the sight’s fresh in your mind. The holograms. The glowing golden eyes. That haunting yet stunning transformation. Whoever came up with that deserves a raise. You want those contacts. Seriously.

Focus. So what exactly did you do to earn their torment?

...Maybe their whole demon concept isn’t even a concept. Maybe it’s just them being themselves. It wouldn’t surprise you if they casually peeled off their skin one day and revealed horns underneath.

You’d arm yourself with holy water and crosses. Even if it doesn't work, at least you tried.

You sigh. The regular chaos of your job is already exhausting. You didn’t sign up to be personally targeted by five beautiful men with bad attitudes and possible hellspawn origins.

Still, you can’t deny the silver lining. Your last three chapters? A hit with your readers/audience.

With the extra income, rent is looking less like a nightmare and more like a minor inconvenience. You might even treat yourself to a pastry.

So, the plan for today is simple: Avoid them at all costs. Have another staff member deliver their water and lunch. Easy. Professional. Peaceful.

Elsewhere…

"She could be with Huntrix." Jinu mutters, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

"Or maybe she’s just weird." Baby says with a raised brow before flopping lazily into a chair. He's so convinced that you are.

Abby crosses his arms. "Or she’s spying for someone else. A lone agent." (He’s been watching too many shows)

Romance taps his chin thoughtfully. "Or a real artist, like she says. She does draw well for a spy."

Mystery, from where he’s crouched on the couch upside down, simply says, "What if she just takes her job seriously?"

The silence that follows is long. Suspiciously long.

Jinu sighs. "I'm sure you've all memorized the choreography enough. Let's take turns watching her and while you're at it, try to get that book. That'll help us clear this whole situation up."

At first, the boys think he’s giving them a free day. A chance to sleep. Eat. Breathe without glitter(?)

But he just kept speaking.

"So who wants to go first?" Jinu smiles, his teeth showing.

They groan in unison.

Instead of practicing, they spent the entire morning arguing over who goes first, then next, and all the way to the last. They eye each other like enemies before throwing down their hands in a dramatic round of rock, paper, scissors.

Mystery wins by default because he doesn’t even participate and somehow still gets the slot he wanted. Classic.

By lunch, they’ve just finalized the schedule when the rehearsal room door swings open.

"Hello! Here’s your lunch." A voice calls cheerfully causing for heads to whip toward the unfamiliar staff member.

"Where’s the other noona? The one who’s been bringing our food these last two days?" Baby asks politely all while flashing a disarming smile.

The staff member nearly swoons. "She asked me to take over today. Said she had errands."

Suspicious. They all thought.

Suspicious enough that the unlucky member with the first shift, Romance, rises like a man sentenced.

It doesn’t take Romance long to find you. A few smooth questions to the right people and a tilt of his smile does the trick.

He spots you sweeping the floor backstage, earbuds in, completely immersed in your own world, just vibing and enjoying your well-deserved peace not knowing it'll be disturbed within a minute.

Romance watches for a beat. Then two. There’s something about your concentration that makes him pause but it was only for a moment.

He approaches, hands in his pockets, leaning slightly with a soft, teasing smile. "Need help with that, darling? Or should I stand here and give you moral support while you sweep?"

You don't notice him at first, too focused or immersed and he noticed that because he took one of your earbuds off.

You thought at first it was a fellow staff member or maybe the manager but what you saw immediately made you scowl.

Really? It hasn't even been an hour!

Romance laughed at the expression you gave him, though he was clearly confused as to why you weren’t already swooning at his smile.

You snatched your earbud from his hand, brows furrowed. "You can help by not shedding glitter everywhere. That’d save me a lot of time."

He chuckled under his breath, undeterred. "Feisty. I like that."

You glanced at him, eyes narrowing like you were debating whether to smack that annoyingly symmetrical face with a broom.

Okay, maybe not the face. It was too reference-coded. But still. You’d aim for the shoulder.

"If you’re not gonna help, move. I’m on a schedule." You glared at him. Stupid pretty boys.

"So serious." He mused, but stepped aside anyway... only to linger. Watching. Following. Breathing near you like some sparkly parasite.

At one point, you dropped the broom to pick up a fallen costume prop: a foam trident.

You didn’t even look at him, too wrapped in your own world as you twirled it absentmindedly like some battle-hardened warrior preparing to train.

Romance watches, both amused and... vaguely alarmed. That twirl was a little too natural that he forgot about getting something.

When he felt like he's been following her for hours, he returned to the others and he doesn’t even flinch when Abby asks, "So? How'd it go?"

"I couldn't get it." Romance's answer made them sigh. They did honestly think it’ll only take him to get that book (sketchbook).

He didn't tell them about forgetting the original agenda, only that, "She was practicing how she’ll strike us. With a trident."

"What?!" Jinu chokes on his drink as he immediately thought, What kind of a human owns a trident? What the hell are you.

"What kind of trident?" Mystery asks calmly with a little tilt of his head.

"Foam." Romance replied so seriously. "She spun it like she meant business. And also called me a walking arts-and-crafts hazard."

They exchanged glances. Why didn't he choose to say the 'foam' part first? And what was that him being a walking arts thing...?

Failure #1

Baby’s turn begins with him stuffing his pockets with snacks. If he was going to tail someone, he might as well do it on a full stomach.

He finds you in one of the dressing rooms, sorting wigs and costume pieces into bins. It's boring work, but you're doing it with focus, just enough for Baby to slip into the room quietly.

Too quietly.

He slinks around, crouched low like some stealth agent, until he accidentally knocks over a mannequin arm. It hits the floor with a loud clack.

You jump. So does he.

Your eyes narrow instantly when you see him. "Why are you crouching like that?"

Baby straightens up and shrugs, trying to play it cool. "Stretching. Back pain. Old injury."

You look him up and down, unconvinced because you should be the one saying that. He's acting like it wasn't just yesterday that he was messing with you by littering all the things you just cleaned up, like some fucking cat.

"Huh, this box? Woops! I’m so sorry, noona." That’s exactly what he’d say, eyes wide and fake-innocent, like some baby deer with unresolved mischief issues.

And every time he said it, it made your skin crawl.

Not because of the word itself. No, you could handle "noona." You weren’t even that much older.

Actually, you were pretty sure you were the same age as him, maybe even younger than some of the others. But Baby said it with that tone.

That smug, cheeky little lilt that made it feel less like respect and more like a personal attack.

You did find him cute. Objectively.

But his whole existence had the chaotic energy of someone who knew he was cute and used it for evil.

And unfortunately for him, charm loses its effectiveness when paired with the urge to throw him out a window.

And here he is, grinning mischievously. "You know, your work ethic is really inspiring. Sorting wigs with that kind of passion? Sexy."

You squint at him like you're debating whether to hit him with the mannequin arm or the whole stand. That sounds so good, so self-healing after what you went through.

You felt like an old woman trying to crack her back when walking.

You let out a sigh through your nose before continuing on with doing your task while Baby walks closer.

You glance at him. "You remind me of my friend’s cat. Always knocking things over and demanding attention." 

Before he can respond, you pat his head, scratch gently under his chin, and walk past him like he’s just another prop to fix the mannequin's arm back in.

He’s frozen. Processing.

A full minute later, he’s still standing there, blinking and you're already done with the tasks here in the room.

"I’m not wasting precious brain cells on a live-action reminder that pretty doesn’t mean functional." You raise a brow at him while picking up a box. "Unlike you all, who have so much free time to pester me, I'm busy doing my actual job."

Baby finally snapped out of it when he saw you step out though before taking your leave completely, he heard you speak again in a demanding tone like you were a parent warning its 7 year old naughty kid.

"Go back to your little posse, alley cat." You said, eyes half-lidded as you smirked. "Don’t you have hair to flip and raccoons to fight behind a 7-Eleven?"

Back at the room, Baby slumps onto the couch with a huff. What happened repeated in his head like a player.

"She called me a cat. Not in a hot, aloof way, but a stray." He then adds, "Like the kind that gets into turf wars with raccoons behind a 7-Eleven.”

That was what all he reported to the others earning funny stares, plus a disappointed but intrigued Jinu.

Like Romance, he didn’t even get to ask about the damn book. He didn't actually had any chance to use half of his charms because one moment you're being playful then next you're roasting him like a bunch of coffee beans.

He may have forgot his original goal, at least he now has something new and that is swearing to make you swoon just like those other simple humans.

And that he agreed with his pink haired friend, who was the 1st victim.

Failure #2

You felt being watched. No, actually you 'are' being watched but by who?

You looked around, scanning the storage room. Empty. Still. Dusty. Dim. So either someone was lurking, or this place was haunted and your will to live had just expired on the spot.

You took one cautious step toward the door.

And then, Mystery appeared from behind a shelf like a summoned spirit. Just standing there. Silent.

"Shibal—!"

You jumped so hard you slipped, tripped over a box, and crashed to the floor in a glorious symphony of clatter and cardboard.

Mystery blinked then tilted his head slightly. "You startle easily."

You coughed once, sneezed from the dust, then squinted through a half-hearted glare. "You appeared like a ghost."

No apology. Not even a hand to help you up. Just that unreadable face and deadpan tone, like he wasn’t the reason you were now covered in packing peanuts and shame.

Though, his gaze didn’t seem malicious...just mildly unsettling. You were 85% sure he was judging you from under all that hair.

You pushed yourself up with a sigh, brushing off your pants like your pride hadn’t just taken a fatal blow.

But of course he didn’t. You’d already finished cleaning up. Again. You cleaned things up a lot these days, thanks to a certain someone and his espresso-fueled vendettas.

You turned your head to glare at Mister Human Equivalent of Dead Air, who blinked slowly. Unbothered. Possibly proud.

"You’re worse than the cockroach I found in the kitchen yesterday."

He hummed, completely unfazed. "Cockroaches don’t scream."

Unbelievable.

"Do you guys have a group chat where you plan this? Like, ‘let’s go bother the new hardworking staff girl’?" Your arms were crossed, your expression demanding answers.

"Book." Was all he said in return.

You blinked. Your brain lagged like bad Wi-Fi. What book?

And is that really all he had to say after standing there for a solid thirty minutes in monk-level silence?

"The one you always have your nose in." He added after a beat, still blank-faced. At least that's what you feel.

"...Is this whole bothering-me thing about that?"

He nodded once. You call bullshit—but also, maybe there’s hope?

"You mean my sketchbook?"

Another nod. You stared at him. Did this guy have a word quota? Was he conserving syllables for his vocal lines?

"If I gave you that, would all of you stop pestering me?"

He didn’t answer. At least not immediately. Just stood there, matching your stare, the silence stretching between you like a rope ready to snap.

You sighed, then gave him a smile. And for one brief, shimmering second, Mystery thought he’d won. Maybe you liked him best.

Maybe you had a thing for the quiet ones—the cryptic, brooding types who linger like ghost drafts in haunted castles.

Jinu did say people had different tastes in idols. Like food—

"No."

...Or not.

Silence dropped again, thick as concrete, before you squinted and spoke.

"What makes you think I’d entrust something of mine to you, or any of you?" you asked. "If you’re all worried I’m drawing you in ‘suspicious’ ways, don’t flatter yourselves. You’re just references."

You stomped past him with all the grace of a woman wronged, then spun back on your heel.

"Actually, scratch that. You should be worried." You jabbed a finger in his direction. "I will draw all of you in suspicious ways. And when you debut? I’ll post it."

You narrowed your eyes. As always, it was impossible to tell what Mystery was thinking, but that didn’t matter. You were confident.

You were an artist. You had the power to draw this stupid boyband making out with each other in watercolor and full shading without feeling an ounce of shame.

They, however, would never recover.

"You better think twice about bothering me now! Tell them that." Then you ran, like a child who knew they’d just poked a beehive and needed to disappear before the stingers caught up.

Back with the group, Mystery returned and stood in front of the others.

"So?" Jinu asked, arms crossed. Behind him, Romance and Baby leaned in, already bracing themselves. Whatever you’d said must’ve rewired something.

Maybe broke a few brain cells on the way out.

"She organizes her materials very efficiently." Mystery said, nodding like he was delivering critical intel to a war council.

Romance blinked. "That’s what you got?"

Baby, now sprawled across the couch with a juice box, snorted. "Told you."

Jinu pinched the bridge of his nose. "Did you at least get the sketchbook?"

Mystery shook his head.

Of course not.

Jinu sighed. At this point, he wasn’t sure if they were failing—or if you were simply immune to all known forms of charm, charisma, and supernatural bullshit.

Romance muttered something about foam weapons. Baby muttered something about alley cats.

And somewhere in the room, a collective ego quietly combusted.

Failure #3.

You volunteered to run an errand. A simple supply run. A chance to breathe.

Sure, you had your suspicions that the boys were taking turns tailing you. Mystery had confirmed it earlier with a thirty-minute silent staring contest that ended in zero answers.

Romance tried to flirt like he’d read one too many bad webtoons. Baby? You mistook him for a stray cat and nearly offered him tuna.

So today? You were ready. You had an escape. Or so you thought...

You regretted everything the second you stepped outside. Why? Because the universe sent you Abby.

Of course, it had to be him. The walking thirst trap of the group.

The one with annoyingly perfect hair, annoying abs, and the kind of face that probably got sculpted by the devil himself on a good day. Because of course.

He was walking beside you like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t single-handedly making people turn their heads from left to right.

And don’t even get started on his stupid shirt. Why the hell is it riding up every few minutes?

Is the universe trying to humble you?

Is nature in on this too? That one breeze that made his shirt lift just enough to show off those abs? It wasn’t a coincidence. That was a divine betrayal.

And of course, he saw you staring. He smirked.

"I saw that." He says, voice low and smug. "Like what you see, sweetheart?"

You groan. "I was looking at the crime against fashion you’re wearing."

He places a hand dramatically on his chest. "You wound me."

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly gives you vertigo. Still, this… wasn’t the worst. At least they weren’t swarming you like yesterday. With them taking turns now, it was more manageable.

"You know," Abby starts, hands behind his head as you walk down the street together, "I think I should be the one to keep you company more often. You seem calmer with me. Maybe even a little... interested."

You stop walking and give him the most deadpan look you can muster. "I was calm because I thought I was alone."

Ouch

But Abby, as always, doesn’t take the loss. He leans closer, lowering his sunglasses with a grin. "Come on, just give me the sketchbook. You like me the most, right?"

You tilt your head and pretend to consider it. "Let’s see..."

Then you dramatically slap a hand over your heart.

"Oh no." You gasp sarcastically. "My deepest secret! How did you know I fall for guys who flex their abs at me like it’s still 2012 Tumblr?"

That gets a crack in his confident grin. Inside, he's genuinely confused. What does that mean??

You pat his arm like you're speaking to someone tragically misguided. "Listen, I’ve drawn more abs than I’ve touched in real life. Yours aren’t special. They’re just... reference material."

Abby chokes on nothing. "Reference material?!"

You give him a cheeky smile. "Yeah. The kind I toss into the 'basic male idol' folder."

You start walking again, casually leaving him in the dust. He stands there, looking scandalized.

Back at the dorm, he slumps into the chair dramatically, hand over his heart.

"She called me basic, and made me carry everything." He mutters, defeated and tired just like the last 2 (Baby & Romance) who returned earlier.

"So she didn’t give you the sketchbook?" Jinu asks, already knowing the answer.

Abby sighs, deeply. "I think she drew a whole new character in her mind just to insult me."

Failure #4

That leaves Jinu, their last hope of getting that sketchbook before the day ends.

"We're counting on you, lead~!" Baby teased with a grin too smug for his own good. His voice dipped into mock aegyo as he winked.

The beef he had with Jinu wasn’t subtle; something about being 'the cute one' when he’d rather be anything else.

It didn’t help that Jinu never really fought back, just smiled like he had better things to do than argue with someone who collected Hello Kitty bandaids.

You, meanwhile, were clocking out. Finally.

Work was done. The sun was down. The universe had tested your patience in every possible way. A hot bath and unconsciousness were the only plans on your mind until he showed up.

"Happy that work’s over, huh?"

You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

"Obviously." You huffed then rolled of your eyes. "Wouldn’t you be if a bunch of demon-spawn kept finding new ways to test your will to live?"

"…Is that a general insult or something more specific?"

His question made you gave him a look like you were hinting at the obvious.

"Fair." He said with a chuckle.

He walked beside you without asking. Just far enough not to be annoying. Just close enough to be impossible to ignore.

“Wanna grab dinner?”

You blinked then gave him a side-eye. "What makes you think I’d say yes? Is this another one of your weird group rituals where someone jumps out of a trash can to scare me?"

"I said dinner, not a prank war. It’s my treat." He said, hands up in mock surrender. "No one else will be there. Consider it… an apology. For the chaos they’ve put you through."

You raised a brow. "And you’re suddenly the nice one?"

"I never said that," He replied smoothly. "But I do know when to offer compensation."

You thought about it. He hadn’t stepped in earlier, sure, but maybe he wasn’t completely awful. And free food was free food.

You were broke, your fridge was empty, and a meal you didn’t have to cook yourself was a rare form of heaven.

So you said yes.

The place he brought you to wasn’t flashy. A quiet diner tucked away from the noise. Warm lights. Old booths. You ordered too much and pretended not to care.

"You know," Jinu said mid-meal. "I kind of expected you to throw your drink in my face."

"You still might deserve it," You said between bites. "Depends how this conversation goes."

He smiled, his chin resting on his hand as he watched you. You noticed, of course. But instead of reacting, you stayed calm, indifferent, even.

As if you weren’t being quietly studied by a man who looked like he'd walked off a runway.

"You always like this?" You asked with a raised brow. "Weirdly smooth one second, annoying the next?"

He smirked at you. "It’s a learned skill. Keeps people guessing."

"You’re not that hard to figure out." You deadpanned with a slight tilt of your head. "You’re probably the most normal one out of your group. Still a menace, though."

Jinu laughed. Just the short type. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

You stared at him then replied in a monotonous voice, "It wasn’t."

He chuckled, and the conversation settled into something surprisingly... normal.

Eventually, you talked about things you didn’t usually mention to strangers—about the pressure of pretending, of being exhausted all the time and not knowing how to admit it.

About how expectations from others wear you down until all you want to do is disappear.

At some point, maybe out of tired habit or plain honesty, you even muttered something about 'your demons whispering to you late at night.' You meant it figuratively, of course.

But the way Jinu blinked once, slow and calculating made you wonder if he thought otherwise. Like you’d just triggered something serious.

He didn’t ask. Just nodded and let it go. But you caught it: the subtle shift in his gaze, that flicker of recognition. Whatever he was thinking, it didn’t feel like nothing.

Still, he listened. Not with empty nods, but like he got it. Not everything, but enough.

And... that felt nice. It's been a while since you had someone to talk to about things you can relate. Your friends were busy and when they try to invite you to hangout, you're the one who has a pack sched instead.

When you got home later that night, sketchbook still tucked away where no one would ever find it, you let yourself sink into bed and stared at the ceiling.

Maybe Jinu wasn’t so bad. Not like the rest of his chaos crew. He's become 'just alright guy' to you.

Meanwhile, Jinu returned to the place they all stayed while living in the human world—a sleek apartment tucked above the city skyline, equal parts expensive and lived-in.

The others were scattered across the living room, feigning disinterest while clearly listening.

Abby was the first to ask. "So? How’d yours go?"

Jinu kicked off his shoes and shrugged, hands in his pockets. "No sketchbook. But I think she let her guard down."

That got their attention.

"She’s easier to talk to when you’re not pushing her buttons. Maybe try not teasing her to death next time." He added, giving Romance a pointed glance though his eyes definitely slid to Abby and Baby too.

Not that any of those three looked the least bit guilty.

Baby made a dramatic noise of betrayal when he realized something, his eyes squinting. "So you’re the favorite now?"

Jinu didn’t rise to it. Just smiled, smug even.

"If we earn even a little of her trust, that book’s as good as ours."

And judging by the way he looked quietly satisfied, it was clear their leader had a plan—and maybe, just maybe, it was already working.

Failure #5 (losers)

Day 4: Pretty Privilege Denied

At the rehearsal room...

"This is such a pain." Baby groaned as he dramatically flopped backwards onto the couch like he’d just carried the entire K-pop industry on his back. "Why can’t we just take the stupid sketchbook already?"

He tossed a bag of chips across the room. It missed the trash can by a full foot. No one corrected him.

"Right?" Abby stretched his arms behind his head, flashing abs like it was part of the punctuation. "We’re wasting time doing solo missions. What if we all just... I dunno, ask at once? Overwhelm her with our combined perfection."

Romance was already nodding, a smirk playing at his lips. "Like an idol intervention."

Mystery, curled on the floor beside the couch, mumbled faintly, "She’ll resist. She always resists."

"Because you just stood there and stared at her for thirty minutes." Baby snapped with a roll of his eyes. "That’s not a plan, that’s a horror movie."

"I was being... silent but effective." Mystery defended weakly, hugging a pillow with the dead-eyed conviction of a man who hadn’t blinked in an hour.

Baby didn’t bother looking at him. He just sighed and reached for his lip tint, applying it with a kind of weary elegance that suggested everyone else in the room was the problem.

"I don’t get why you all can’t just manipulate her like normal people." Baby muttered, popping a strawberry flavored lollipop in his mouth.

Like a fucking Bond villain in silk pajamas.

He next adds, "Look adorable, be sweet, and wait. She’ll fold eventually. Humans are weak to affection and eye contact."

Romance blinked. "You think this is adorable?"

"I think this is inefficient." Baby said flatly, glancing at his nails like he was bored of everyone's incompetence. "She clearly likes attention. She breathes like someone who wants to be perceived."

Abby froze mid-sip of his fruit shake. "You said that out loud."

"Good." Baby replied, unbothered, swiping through his front camera to check his angles. "I hope the wind carries it to her. Maybe it’ll reach her ego first."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"…You scare me sometimes." Abby muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like he was rethinking his life choices.

Jinu, to no one’s surprise, wasn’t in the room for this beautifully misguided planning session. He was allegedly "doing leader things," which in practice meant "ignoring all of them for his own sanity."

Which meant the rest of them were unsupervised.

Because in the next five minutes, fueled by ego, caffeine, and deep, mutual frustration, they came up with the worst idea possible:

"We’ll confront her together." Romance declared, sparkles practically glinting in his eyes. Mischief, too.

"Like a sketchbook heist?" Abby grinned. They high-fived, because of course they did.

"No," Baby corrected, sitting upright like a cat that’d just heard a can opener. "Like a coordinated idol strike."

Mystery nodded solemnly. "A synchronized emotional ambush."

"…That’s literally just stalking in unison." Someone muttered upon realization but no one listened. Not that it even mattered to beings like them.

And with that, four immortals in idol skin decided to do what no sane being should ever attempt: gang up on one overworked staff girl who already hated their collective existence.

Because why not? What could possibly go wrong?

-

Somewhere...

Jinu had always known patience was the real game. You don’t survive four centuries being impulsive. So when his members started treating [Y/n] like a raid boss with a lootable sketchbook, he didn’t intervene.

He watched. Waited. Calculated. And then last night happened.

Dinner wasn’t supposed to go that well. He figured she’d make it halfway through the meal, throw a napkin in his face, and storm out. But she didn’t. She talked.

And somewhere between the second plate and her muttering about "demons whispering at night," something in him stilled. That wasn’t normal small talk. And it sure as hell wasn’t nothing.

She either didn’t realize what she said, or she did, and didn’t care. Either way, Jinu recognized the weight of it. The strange, dangerous truth humming just beneath her words.

So yeah. He was interested now. Not just in the sketchbook. In her.

Which is why, this morning, he changed tactics.

She’d let her guard down. That meant it was time to keep her guessing. Balance the scale. Tip it, just enough to rattle her.

Cue: pettiness mode.

She thought last night was a truce? Fine. Let her believe that. Then let her walk face-first into his brand of passive-aggressive hell. Just enough to make her question herself. Her instincts. Him.

If they were going to win this sketchbook war, she needed to be off-balance. And Jinu was going to enjoy every second of it.

So when he saw her coming down the sidewalk with coffee in hand, face still half-asleep and blessedly peaceful, he held the door open.

Then let it close. Right as she reached it. Perfect.

...

You were already tired.

Not physically—not yet. Just spiritually. Which was impressive, given the day had barely started.

But then again, surviving a full shift surrounded by glitter-dusted demon boys could rattle anyone’s soul.

Still. Today would be different. It had to be.

You saw the studio door ahead, sweet salvation in view, and picked up your pace.

And then, of course. It was him.

Jinu. Holding the door like he was doing you a favor. Like he hadn’t spent last night pretending to be a decent person.

He let it shut before you even touched the handle.

It was official. The man had a switch, and you were done trying to figure out which position it was stuck on. You stopped. Stared, then narrowed your eyes as the door clicked shut with smug finality.

Why the hell was he acting like this now?

Maybe he’d decided to be just as unbearable as his idiot members. Or maybe he realized being nice wasn’t getting him your sketchbook.

Or maybe, just maybe, he woke up and chose violence. With iced coffee.

What happened last night? Too good to be true. You were stupid to think otherwise.

Jinu turned his head, smiling like a summer villain in a drama. "Oh? I thought you weren’t coming. My bad."

Your eye twitched as you smiled politely. Violence is a choice. "You saw me walking straight here."

"I see a lot of things." He said vaguely, stepping inside and letting the door stay closed behind him.

You yanked it open with more force than necessary after tapping your id and followed him in, already regretting clocking in today. If HR asked why the break room window was shattered later, this was why.

You tried to brush it off. Keep walking. You had your sketchbook in hand, a long list of things to prep, and exactly zero energy to spare on whatever weird game he was playing now.

And then—

"Good morning, hardworking staff member," Jinu said with the fakest earnestness you’d ever heard, falling into step beside you. "Did you sleep well on your commoner bed?"

You stopped in your tracks, your mouth agape while your brain buffered.

"…What," You said slowly, letting the words drag like a system error. "What did you just say to me?"

Was flabbergasted the right word? Because honestly, that didn’t even scratch the surface. You were spiritually winded. Like you’d just been slapped with a Gucci slipper made of pure ego.

Jinu, the absolute menace, took a delicate sip of his artisanal coffee and smiled. That same saintly, beatific smile that made you want to throw a chair.

"I heard those floor mattresses are terrible for your posture."

You blinked at him. Hard. "You think I sleep on the floor?"

He raised a brow, so effortlessly smug. "Don’t you?"

Oh, okay. So this was the level of unhinged we were on today.

You stared at him, soul leaving your body one judgmental breath at a time. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with all of them? Did they audition to be idols or audition to test your will to live?

Because right now, you were genuinely convinced the universe had assigned you to a group of sleep-paralysis demons with backup dancer skills.

He stared back, calm and composed, like the human embodiment of a rice paper screen: pretty, delicate, and annoyingly hard to punch without consequences.

The silence stretched long enough for you to seriously consider hitting him with your sketchbook.

You turned and walked faster. He followed. He wasn’t done.

"You know," He said, all airy and unbothered, "I heard stress causes wrinkles. You might want to be careful."

"Great." You deadpanned. "Can I borrow your skincare then? I assume it’s made from crushed angel wings and virgin moonlight."

He laughed softly. Like you were joking. You were not.

You reached your desk, set your things down with a sigh, and frowned. Your pencil bag wasn’t where you left it.

You squinted and searched. There it was, off to the right by a few inches. You didn’t leave it like that. You were sure.

"…Did someone move my stuff?"

Behind you, Jinu shrugged with the grace of a lying cat. "Maybe the ghosts like you."

You turned slowly, narrowed your eyes. He was already walking away, sipping his cursed latte like he hadn’t just kicked your entire sense of peace in the kneecaps.

And the worst part? You knew this wasn’t even the peak of his pettiness. This was the prelude. The overture. The trailer before the disaster film.

You swore if he did this one more time, you were going to draw him as a worm in a luxury bathrobe. And that was being generous.

-

Dear god.

You tried to hide.

Not from your work, that would be irresponsible, but from the boyband plague that had decided to infest every corner of your daily life like glitter-coated cockroaches with jawlines.

Storage room? Mystery was already inside when you flicked the light on, calmly leaning against a shelf like he was part of the cleaning supplies.

You screamed and that earned a few pair of eyes from fellow staff members to see what's happened while Mystery just blinked.

Just fucking that. Like he wouldn't be the reason for you having a heart attack at such a young age.

"I was just watching the broom." He said solemnly.

You felt Deja vu and also, "????"

Toilet break? You exited the staff restroom to find Romance waiting by the door with a smile so charming it should’ve been a crime.

"Did you miss me?" He asked with a little tilt of his head. How cute. Like that was supposed to work on you.

You stared back, deadpan. "Did you follow me to the bathroom?"

"No." He said too fast. Then added, "I was just… in the area."

You folded your arms, unimpressed. "Of the women’s restroom?"

"…Geographically."

You shook your head then walked past him. He followed. Damn it.

Lunch break? You were five feet from the vending machine when Abby materialized from nowhere, leaned casually against it, and held out a protein bar.

"Hungry?" He asked with a wink.

You stared, the same dead-eyed stare you gave Romance. At this point, you were immune. Beyond exhausted. Somewhere between "please stop" and "God, just smite me."

"Are you seriously trying to flirt with trail mix?"

He grinned. Handsome bastard #3. "It’s high in fiber."

You almost growled at him like a fucking wolf. "I hate you."

Coffee break? You escaped the building. You escaped the chaos. You made it to your favorite shop. You ordered your drink, basked in a moment of peace.

You shouldn't have turned around.

"Hi." Jinu said, already holding out a matching iced Americano.

You didn’t blink. Yeah, at this point you wouldn't even be surprised if you suddenly moved countries and their striking asses are 'suddenly' there, too.

Which leads you to a thought: Are they even after your sketchbook or other things? Did they fall for you and became obsessed with you like in those webtoons?

Pfft. Yeah, right. You must've lost it there for a second.

You blankly stared at Mister royalty-wannabe. What he said about your bed being a commoner's really got to you. It looks like you weren't the only one who can burn people like toast.

Jinu watches you space out. Poor you, not that he actually cares and that smile on his stupidly handsome face was enough to tell a tale.

"I’ll trade you this premium Americano for a peek at your sketchbook." He offered smoothly, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You stared him down then reached out, took the coffee from his hand, and said in a monotone voice: "Thanks."

He didn't see the smirk on your face as you walked away, simply enjoying your drink. Ah, it feels good to taste victory. An expensive one at that.

Meanwhile Jinu just stood there, betrayed.

"That was a limited roast." He muttered to which you heard as you raised the drink like a trophy.

No peace. No privacy. And definitely no sanity.

But if they thought this was going to make you fold, they were sorely mistaken.

You had pens, paper, and spite.

Let them try.

Later that day, the practice room was supposed to be empty.

Keyword: supposed.

You walked in with your sketchbook tucked under your arm and your emotional shields fully charged, only to freeze when you saw them. All of them.

Oh, god. The dread. The disgust. The divine urge to U-turn right back out the door. As much as you liked the sights of their faces, you could go one fucking day without seeing them.

There were other inspirations in the world, like sewer rats. Or tax documents.

You looked at them, judging, and they could tell. Your judgment wasn’t subtle. It had volume. Weight. A spiritual glare.

Romance on the window sill like a tragically bored novel character. Baby draped over the couch like a spoiled cat who owned the lease.

Abby standing behind the couch, peering over Baby’s shoulder and silently judging whatever cursed content he was watching.

Mystery sitting upside down in a chair like a sentient cryptid. And Jinu by the mirror, sipping coffee and watching like a smug, beautiful stage mom directing chaos.

You stared. They stared back.

"…What." You said flatly.

Baby was first to speak, tossing you his best faux-innocent smile. "We just wanted to hang out.”

You squinted. "All five of you. In one room. Together. With no cameras. No choreo. No staff instructions. Just… existing?"

They didn’t reply.

"Unscheduled." You repeated with narrowed eyes. "Yeah, see, that’s what’s throwing me off. You people only move in packs when someone tells you to."

"Team-building." Abby states with a charming grin. "Very healthy. Builds trust."

Romance stretched like he was auditioning for the villain role in a romance anime. "Or maybe we were hoping for a little sketchbook time."

"Denied." You answered immediately. Yeah, you saw that coming, even smelled it.

Mystery didn’t move from his bat-like perch. "I brought snacks."

You looked at him. "They’re pocket mints."

"They’re shareable."

Yep you turned toward the exit. You aren't gonna waste another energy, but Jinu stepped forward and casually leaned on the doorframe. Blocking it.

"Leaving so soon?" He said, calm and smug and, unfortunately, gorgeous. You don't know how many times you called them all those words inside your head. "We haven’t even started the icebreaker."

But of course no matter how good looking they are, they still continue to test your sanity. With that said, your eye twitched for the nth time.

"What is this, a hostage situation?" You looked him up and down, and he felt you judge him.

"That depends." Romance hummed with a grin. "Are you willing to negotiate?"

Baby pouted, still trying that method of acting cute. "We just want a peek."

"You’ve been studying us." Abby chimed in. "Seriously. We can feel it."

"We’d like to see your... interpretations." Romance added, clearly trying to sound seductive. You gave him a withering look. He faltered for half a second. "Strictly for performance critique purposes."

You let the silence stretch, then slowly opened your sketchbook... just an inch. It was cute but mostly funny on how their eyes lit up.

Then you snapped it shut.

"No." You said with a condescending smile like some typical villainess.

"Cruel." Jinu muttered with a huff.

Baby groaned dramatically, flopping back. "Why won’t you just let us see it?"

"Because it’s mine." You said, backing toward the wall. "And because I know you’ll cry."

Romance scoffed. "I don’t cry."

"You cried when your contact lens flipped inside out." Abby pointed out with a little laugh.

"Emotional trauma." Romance said with dignity. He was quick with his reply. Being on those little screens paid off.

Jinu tilted his head, still blocking the door. "This all could’ve been avoided, you know. Back when we were being nice."

You narrowed your eyes. "You smiled at me one time and then threw a door in my face."

"I smiled twice." He corrected. "That’s effort."

You sighed, dramatically and soulfully. "This is what I get for not calling in sick."

They inched closer, slowly closing in like a very attractive zombie horde.

Then you raised your sketchbook like a weapon and said, "Another step and I swear to God I’ll post the ‘Abby Cries at Pixar’ spread online."

Everyone froze.

"…You wouldn’t." Abby whispered.

"Try me." That wasn't a challenge. That was the truth. You'd do anything for this war.

Behind him, Mystery was already reaching for his phone. "I’d retweet it."

Abby narrowed his eyes at him. "You traitor."

Eventually, Jinu sighed and stepped aside. "You win this round."

You smiled and gave his shoulder a pat. "You mean all rounds."

And with that, you walked out like the final boss of their lives—sketchbook clutched tight, peace restored (for now), and your petty revenge arc stronger than ever.

Sketchbook Status: Untouched.

Artist Mood: Petty

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (11) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael brings you home and takes care of you. You talk things through, and by the end, you’re both on the same page and closer than before.

Word Count: 3990

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Non-sexual nudity

Authors Notes: Just one more part. Part 12 will be the last (until futher notice, Maybe a sequel depending on season 2??? I'm sad ngl LOL. I’ll save the sappy talk in the next authors note.) If any of you watch Animal Kingdom I’m writing an Andrew Cody fic. So keep a look out for that. I have it typed, but Idk what the call it. Idk my writing process is wack. I don’t think, I just do. I don’t plan at all and I just make shit up as I go… but whatever works right? All of this is just for fun hence my user lol okay I’ll go now. Enjoy - Ryn (sorry for errors if you’ve been following along for this long y’all know I don’t proof read whoops)

After the end of Michael’s swift, he walked through the ER, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack, the other intertwined with yours.

He felt the stares immediately—wide eyes from the staff, surprised expressions barely masked. They weren’t entirely sure what they were seeing. Or maybe they were. Maybe they just couldn’t believe it.

Michael caught it too. He met the glances of a few nurses, offered a small, tight-lipped smile, then looked away.

Michael wasn’t embarrassed—he could never be embarrassed of you. That wasn’t it. He just didn’t want everyone in his business. But that line had already been crossed.

Rumor and gossip swirled, but his main focus, his main priority was you. Nothing else matter

Michael, he took you home—his place. He wanted you to stay there; it was easier that way. He had emergency supplies if anything went wrong, and it let him keep a close eye on you.

As the two of you made your way down the hall toward his apartment, neither of you said anything about the arrangement. You didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He expected you to protest—maybe argue, insist on going to your side of the hall—but you didn’t.

You wanted to. You thought about saying you didn’t want to intrude, that you’d be fine on your own. But the words never made it out. You were in too much pain, too wrung out and exhausted to care. And you already knew what he’d say—something about keeping an eye on you, monitoring for symptoms, making sure you didn’t take a turn.

So you stayed quiet. And followed him in.

“You probably want a shower,” he said softly

You nodded, but your body swayed a little too far to the left.

He caught your arm. “Careful.”

Together, you made your way toward the bathroom. Every movement felt floaty and too heavy at the same time—like your body wasn’t entirely yours. The edges of the room tilted, just slightly, and you blinked hard to stay grounded.

When you enter the bathroom you. “Can you stay?”

Your voice was quiet.

Michael didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You reach for the hem of your shirt, but your hands fumbled, clumsy. Lifting your arms made your vision blur, and you winced, one hand going instinctively to your lump

He stepped forward. “Hey—stop. Let me.”

You didn’t argue.

His hands were gentle as he helped you out of your clothes, moving slowly, methodically. When he eased the shirt over your head, you closed your eyes against the spinning, and he steadied you with one hand at your waist.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, the shirt now crumpled in his hand.

You nodded again, though you weren’t sure. “Just dizzy.”

You kicked off your shoes, the cool floor sending a small shiver up your spine. Your fingers trembled slightly as you fumbled with the button of your jeans, struggling to pull them down past your hips. The fabric caught at your thighs, and you paused, leaning on the sink to keep from swaying too much. 

When you finally slid your jeans down and stepped out of them, you stood there, vulnerable in just your bra and underwear. 

Michael didn’t move closer or look away. His eyes softened, not with desire, but with something quieter: care and respect. He gave you space, knowing you needed it, but stayed close enough that you could reach out if you lost your balance.

“Sit for a moment,” Michael said softly.

You lowered yourself slowly onto the closed toilet seat.

Michael moved toward the tub, turning the cold and hot taps, adjusting until the water flowed warm. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and stepped out briefly. When he returned, he held a thick, fluffy towel and a neatly folded set of clothes. 

“I don’t think I should stand,” you admitted, voice low, your body still heavy with exhaustion.

“Okay,” Michael nodded understandingly. “You don’t have to stand. You can sit.”

Carefully, you got off the toilet and moved to the edge of the tub, the smooth porcelain cool beneath your hands. You dipped your feet into the water, feeling the warmth as it flows around your feet.

Michael goes to sit on the closed toilet seat. 

“I’m gonna…” you said softly, pulling at the strap of your bra to let him know you were about to take it off.

He shifted slightly, turning his body toward the door, giving you the privacy you needed to strip without feeling exposed.

You hesitated for a moment, then began to remove your bra, the fabric slipping softly from your shoulders. Then your underwear followed. You lowered yourself slowly into the tub, 

Curling your knees up toward your chest, you hugged them gently, covering your body feeling safe and cocooned.

“Okay,” you said softly, signaling that he could turn back.

“You sure?” Michael asked quietly, his voice gentle and concerned, wanting to make sure you were comfortable being this vulnerable in front of him.

“Yes,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but steady. “I trust you.”

“Okay I’m turning around” 

Michael turned and stood up. He reached for the shower head, pulling the pin on the faucet to redirect the water. The steady stream shifted from the tub spout to the handheld shower, and he adjusted the flow gently, ready to help you wash.

Michael held the shower head steady, the warm spray falling in a gentle rhythm. He aimed the water over your shoulders and back in careful movements.

“Let me know if the water’s too hot or cold,” he said softly.

You nodded, eyes closing as the warmth soaked into your skin. The sound of water filled the quiet room, calming your breath.

“I’m going to wash your hair first,” he said.

You gave a small nod.

He adjusted the shower head and used his hand to shield your eyes, carefully wetting your hair. His fingers moved gently through it, avoiding the tender lump where your skull was fractured. He worked the shampoo in with care, soft and slow, then rinsed it clean.

When he was done, he reached for a washcloth, soaked it under the water, and handed it to you.

“Here,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “I’ll let you do the rest.”

You took it from him with a quiet “Thanks,” and began washing your arms and chest, slow and steady. 

As you washed yourself, Michael respectfully turned his head, gaze fixed on the tiled wall. He kept holding the shower head steady, adjusting the angle when needed, but never looked your way.

Once you’d finished rinsing, you gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Michael turned off the water. He set the shower head down carefully and reached for the towel he’d left nearby.

“Here,” he said softly, draping the towel over your shoulders. His hands were steady, mindful. “Take your time.”

You nodded, then slowly pushed yourself up to stand. Your legs felt shaky beneath you. Michael offered his arm, and you took it, leaning into his steady presence as you stepped carefully out of the tub. Water dripped from your legs onto the mat below.

As he helped you find your balance, you adjusted the towel at your chest, making sure it stayed in place, then tucked the edge securely.

He reached for the clean white shirt he’d brought and gently held it open for you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded.

You held the towel closed as he slipped the shirt over your head, guiding it gently down your arms. The fabric brushed your skin, soft and clean. Once it was in place, you let the towel fall. The shirt settled over your body—short, but long enough to cover you where it mattered.

Michael turned away without a word, facing the bathroom door again to give you privacy.

You reached for the shorts and stepped into them slowly, pulling them up and adjusting the waistband. 

Reaching for the towel you’d just let fall, you brought it up to your head and began to dry your hair gently. The motion was slow, cautious. Each pat was careful, mindful not to press too hard.

“All set,” you said quietly.

He turned around and asked, “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

You looked up, a little unsure. “You don’t mind?”

“Course not,” he said with a smile.

“Please.”

The two of you walked into the kitchen. Michael grabbed a pot and started making chicken noodle soup. The soft sound of the spoon stirring and the warm smell of the soup soon filled the room, making everything feel calm and cozy.

He set the pot to simmer on the stove, then turned to gather a few bowls and spoons. The soft clinking of dishes echoed through the quiet kitchen.

You settled onto a stool at his island table.

Michael glanced over and gave you a small, reassuring smile. “It won’t be long.”

You nodded, feeling the calm settle around you, grateful for this simple care.

Michael carried the bowls over to you, setting one down in front of you. You wrapped your hands around the warm bowl, feeling a small comfort in its heat.

He sat down beside you, and for a moment, you both simply savored the quiet. 

The two of you ate quietly at the island, the soft clink of spoons the only sound between you. The soup was exactly what you needed. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until your bowl was nearly empty.

When you finished, you murmured a soft thank you, and Michael just nodded, already rinsing the dishes in the sink.

Afterward, you both headed back toward the bathroom. Michael knelt down and opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out a fresh toothbrush still in its packaging. He handed it to you with a small smile.

“Figured you might want this.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice low with weariness.

While you brushed your teeth, Michael disappeared down the hall. He moved quietly, setting up his bedroom—thinking ahead to anything you might need.

When he returned, he leaned gently against the doorframe and asked, “You ready to sleep?”

You nodded.

You stepped into his room and paused. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the space. On the nightstand, he’d placed a bottle of water, a few folded towels, and a small plastic basin—just in case. The sheets were pulled back neatly.

You climbed into his bed, sinking. It smelled like him, familiar in a way that made you feel safe.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

You heard him moving in the other room, picking up after dinner or maybe putting things away. But by the time he came back to check on you, you were already asleep—curled up beneath the blankets, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only sound in the room.

—

You woke in the middle of the night, disoriented for a moment. The sheets smelled of him. 

Michael

You were in Michael’s bed.

Yet, the space next to you was empty. 

Soft snoring came from somewhere nearby. You rolled over, careful with your head. Your eyes adjusted slowly, picking up the outline of a shape on the floor—a silhouette in the dark room. Quiet and still, except for the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing. Michael, curled up on the floor with a pillow and a blanket.

“Michael…” you whispered.

Nothing.

“Michael.” You say a little louder. 

He stirred with a quiet groan from the floor. “Hmm? Hey—what’s wrong? You okay?” His voice was heavy with sleep, words slurring together in the dark. 

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“​​I didn’t want to jostle you,” he murmured. “You'd sleep better without someone next to you.” he said, still half-asleep, words slurred with drowsiness. 

You listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing. Then your voice came softly, tentative but firm. “Lay with me…”

He exhaled hard, a sound of reluctant surrender, shifting to find a more comfortable position on the floor. “Not a chance.”

Trying not to sound irritated, you pressed on. “Whatever worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that doctor’s brain of yours, it’s not gonna happen.”

“Just go to sleep. You need the rest.” His tone was gentle but firm, and he didn’t move.

Silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy like the dark itself.

“Your back’s going to be sore,” you said quietly, your words a soft concern in the stillness.

“A sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep, his voice fading like a whisper.

“You’re gonna regret it. You’ll never beat those old-man allegations.”

“I’m middle-aged, not old,” he protested weakly.

“Exactly, you’re practically headed to the old folks’ home.”

“Hey.” He scoffed, a dry laugh slipping through despite the quiet.

You giggled softly. 

The room fell silent again.

“Come on, Lay with me…”

“Sweetheart, please just go back to sleep.”

“Michael, Please?” 

He let out a long breath. You heard the blanket rustle as he sat up, then the creak of the mattress as he eased himself into the space beside you—slow, careful, like he was afraid of accidentally hurting you. 

He stayed on top of the covers, his body turned slightly toward you but keeping his distance.

“Happy now?” he murmured. “Now, go back to sleep…”

And somehow, despite everything—your aching head, the nausea,—you did.

A few times throughout the night, the nausea came back, unexpected and relentless. Each time, you stirred, feeling the sickness twist in your stomach. And each time, Michael was there—plastic basin in hand, ready before you even had to ask.

He got up with you, never once complaining or pulling away. He rubbed your back gently, his hand warm against your skin as he whispered softly, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“My chicken noodle soup was that bad, huh?” he joked, knowing you were only throwing up because of your injury.

“Michael…” you groan out a laugh. Your laugh told him everything — that you thought it was funny, but not funny because you were throwing up.

He laughs softly, “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He brushed your hair back from your forehead, his fingers light and soothing. Even in the darkness, his voice was a comfort, steady and reassuring. He leaned in and kissed the spot where your shoulder and neck met, a quiet promise that he’d be there, no matter what.

At some point in the night, Michael had ended up under the covers. Now, the two of you lay curled on your sides, facing the same direction, careful not to jostle your injury. Your head rested on a second, softer pillow he’d propped just right to keep pressure off the side with the fracture. His chest was pressed gently against your back, his body warm and steady behind you.

Michael's arm rested low across your waist, heavy in sleep but comforting. He’d left enough space between your heads to avoid brushing against the sensitive side, but his presence was still close. It wasn’t quite a spoon, more like a careful hover

When you woke, the space beside you was empty. The sheets were still warm, faintly holding the shape of where Michael had been. You blinked against the soft morning light filtering in through the curtains and slowly sat up in bed, careful with your head.

A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open. Michael stepped in, balancing a tray with both hands — toast, scrambled eggs, some cut-up fruit, and a cup of tea that still steamed.

“Breakfast in bed?” you chuckled, memories stirring of quieter mornings months ago when you’d surprised him the same way.

“Like I said, you set the bar pretty high,” he said, quoting himself from that morning with a crooked smile.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your smile gentle and touched with sleep.

He made his way over and climbed into bed beside you with the tray. You shifted slightly to make room, sitting up a little straighter against the pillows he’d fluffed and stacked behind you the night before. He settled in next to you like it was second nature, his thigh pressed warmly against yours, careful not to jostle the arrangement supporting your head.

The tray rested comfortably across your lap, 

“How are you feeling?”

You took a moment before answering, eyes flicking down to the plate in your lap. “Okay,” you said slowly. “Still a little off, but… I don’t feel dizzy. And my stomach isn’t doing somersaults, so that’s a win.”

“Good. That’s good.” He nodded, though the crease between his brows lingered. Then, more gently, “How’s the head?”

“I’ll give you some meds after breakfast,” he said, his voice low, edged with concern. “Something mild, won’t knock you out.”

You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch just a little.

“Okay.”

He let his hand rest there a moment longer, thumb brushing lightly against your temple. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

“I know...and thank you for yesterday at the ER, and last night...for taking care of me"

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said, his voice low.

He just gave you a soft smiled and leaned in and kissed your forehead—slow, steady, like he needed reassurance as much as you did. When he pulled back, there was a softness in his eyes that lingered just a beat longer before he shifted the mood.

Michael exhaled quietly and gave a half-smile, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own. 

“Though I kept it light,” he said, nodding toward the plate. “Hoping it’s not bad enough that you threw it up like the chicken noodle soup a few times last night.”

You groaned through a laugh, nudging his arm. “Stooopp,” you said, drawing the word out as your smile spread. You knew he was joking gently, lovingly and it made you feel lighter somehow.

He grinned and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple in a soft kiss. “Just saying… if you do throw it up, I’ve got the basin nearby. We’re a well-oiled machine at this point.”

You laughed again, more freely this time, “You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” he said, handing you the fork. “Just your personal chef, doctor, and comedian all rolled into one.”

You smiled as you picked at the fruit, choosing a slice of melon first. Michael reached for a piece of toast, took a bite, and chewed beside you in comfortable silence.

Then, you glanced over at him, something soft but serious settling in your expression.

“Can we talk?” you asked quietly.

His chewing slowed. He looked at you—really looked at you—and nodded like he already knew what you meant.

“You sure you wanna do that now?” he asked gently. “We don’t have to… we can wait.”

You shook your head. “No. I think we should.” Your fingers toyed with the edge of the tray. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, setting the toast back down. “Of course. Whatever you wanna do.”

Together, without saying much else, you both reached for the tray. He helped steady it while you shifted slightly, and you slid it carefully onto the nightstand beside you. The plates clinked lightly as they settled.

He turned back to face you, one leg bent slightly on the bed, elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you with quiet patience.

“I thought about what you said—the night of my ceremony, sitting on that park bench, and then the morning after, when you told me I needed to figure out what I really want, what I truly need. You said if I kept pushing people away, I’d only end up hurting people who care. And I realized even myself and… after everything went down in the elevator, I broke up with Aiden that night. I told him I was done. That I needed to be on my own. I’ve been working on myself since then. I still am.”

Your voice faltered slightly, but you held his gaze, feeling the weight of every word between you. It wasn’t easy to say, but it was true. You were trying, really trying, to heal.

“You told me a man won’t make me question whether I’m loved… He won’t make me beg for affection, or make me feel like I’m asking for too much just by wanting to be seen.”

You swallowed hard, vulnerability threading through your voice. “That man… that man is you, Michael. And I want you. I want us.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining gently, searching for reassurance. “But I still have so much work to do on myself. I want to be whole before I can really be with someone. I hope you understand.”

Michael’s eyes softened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Hey,” he said quietly, “we don’t have to rush into anything. We’ll take all the time you need.”

A warm relief washed over you, and you exhaled slowly, your heart beating steadier.

“We’ll go slow,” he continued, voice steady and certain. “At whatever pace feels right for you. Because you matter. And this—us—it’s worth waiting for.”

“You’re not worried?” you asked.

“About what?”

You hesitated. “That I’m… 25. Naive. Stupid… I don’t know…

You looked down at your guys hands. 

Michael didn’t speak right away. His, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but steady.

“The age gap crossed my mind,” he admitted. “You’ve still got so much ahead of you. And I’ve lived through a lot. I worried I might hold you back. That one day you’ll see all of this differently, me differently and regret it.”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just full.

After a moment, Michael’s grip tightened just slightly, as if to anchor both of you.

“But the truth is,” he said softly, “being with you… it’s never felt like a mistake. Not once. I’m here because I want to be—with you—not because I’m trying to relive anything, or because I’m afraid of being alone.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes, searching for the certainty you needed.

“I know you’re young,” he continued, “and that life still has so much to show you. But I don’t want to hold you back. I want to walk beside you, whatever comes next.”

Your heart fluttered, caught between hope and fear.

“Do you really mean that?” you whispered.

Michael smiled gently. “More than anything.”

“Like k said we’ll take it slow. You set the pace—always. No rushing, no pressure. It’s about us, moving at whatever speed feels right for you.”

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

“I just want to be here—with you—however that looks.”

You felt the tension ease, like a weight lifting from your chest.

“Whatever you need, we’ll figure it out together….okay” 

“Okay” you smile. 

Your lips find Michael’s—soft, lingering kisses that make your heart flutter, but you can’t help the giggles that escape between each one.

He pulls back slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his lips as he searches your face, his eyes warm and curious.

“What? What’s so funny sweetheart?” he asks, chuckling softly, his brows lifting in genuine curiosity.

You press your fingers to your mouth, still grinning. “Your beard… It’s tickling my face.”

Michael chuckles, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek. “Oh really?” he teases, leaning in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“It didn’t bother you before,” he says, raising an eyebrow playfully.

You smirk, teasing back, “Because when you first kissed me, tensions were high. I was too distracted by everything else to notice the tickles.”

He laughs quietly, the sound low and easy. “So you’re saying my rugged charm is… too much for you to handle now?”

You laugh again, softer this time, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him a little closer. “I’m saying your rugged charm needs a trim”

His grin widens, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he murmurs, pressing another gentle kiss to your nose. “But no promises.”

No more questions, no more worries—just a shared understanding. Whatever the future holds, you know you’re not alone. You and Michael are on the same page now, ready to take the next step, however slow or steady it may be.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13@qardasngan@silas-aeiou@k3ndallroy@ohmystrawberrycheesecake@ay0nha@404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin@capj-1437@airgoddess@nah2991@interestellarprincess@laurensfilm@peachjellyy@aj3684@sorryimstupidrn@escapingjune@robbyslittlelamb@nicisthename92@littlezee80@lucidanne@spooky-librarian-ghost@the-salty-asian@lonelyheartsm@lovelyjulieee @memoriesat30 @glamorizethechaos @guiltypleassure243 @princessjayll @teapartydreams

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11)

[ao3commentoftheday]

I am having issues being nice to people in my ao3 comments. Most of the time people are perfectly lovely and I love having interactions with them. It's really important to me that when I'm on my writer tumblr instead of my main and on my ao3, I foster a kind and gentle community. I feel like that starts with me and that is the sort of environment I want to create.

Now, the problem is this fic I wrote. It's for a pretry big fandom and it got a lot of traction (like first page when sorting by hits while there are tens of thousands of fics) and it's been wild. Mostly great... except this one arc I wrote where character A, who is mentally ill and gets triggered into a spiral acts mentally ill, which negatively impacts people around him, including character B (it's a ship fic), who while not responsible is making it worse and making the active choice to stay, because he also has his own issues. The fic explores the aftermath of that as well, but for a few chapters it's just the downward spiral. And while it isn't all condoned, I give character A understanding due to the situation as well as a healing journey, wherein he apologizes and does better and makes up for it.

Sadly for me, character B is the fandom's favorite white boy, who is always the hurt victim in every situation and has no responsibility ever. So me also stating how character B is in part responsible forthe situation ending up getting as bad is a no go and people are very angry at me. On top of that, I based a lot of character A's struggles on my own, which makes it even less pleasant to get detailed comments about how he deserves to be beaten up for his actions and left by all his friends and family to stew in the guilt for the rest of forever all alone, less than fun.

I don't want to have to tell people about my own personal struggles and I am tired of explaining that it is a character arc and a nuanced and complex situation wherein multiple parties are at fault. And I have chronic have to reply even when I know ignoring it is better syndrome. At what point does it become acceptable to just be a fucking bitch to people?

First of all, lemme give you a hug 💗 It's never fun when people misunderstand your message and it's even worse when there's a personal element to it as well.

The way I see it, your comments section belongs to you. It's an extension of your fic and it's a place where every message left gets dropped into your inbox. If there's something you don't want to see in your comments section? Delete it. If there's someone who won't stop misinterpreting you/your characterization or someone who is being an asshat? Block them. Then delete their comment.

I know people get hung up on whether or not they should do that, but I'm here to tell you that if I didn't delete hate and block haters, this blog would have shut down in 2020, if not earlier. You need to take care of yourself, and if that means removing that part of your comments then so be it.

I also prefer to lead with empathy and understanding. I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt. I work very hard at taking the best interpretation possible of scenarios that people write me about. But that doesn't mean I need to put up with hate or with willful ignorance or with snarky "ironic" dystopian takes on my attempts to be sincere and helpful. Those things all make it harder for me to continue this hobby I love, and therefore I delete and I block and I move on in the direction I'm going.

I definitely understand the desire to be a heinous bitch in response. I've even given into it a few times. But I also remember those times because I'm not proud of myself for losing my temper. I look back on them and wish that I hadn't chosen a good burn over my principles.

Don't share anything that you don't actually want to share with strangers on the internet. Don't keep comments around that make you feel bad. Put an author's note at the bottom of the chapter explaining what you're going for and letting readers know that you don't want comments like the ones you describe here - and delete them if they come in despite that.

Sometimes you just have to clean house, anon, and get rid of some of the cruft.

[butyoudidthis4what]

I hear you.

Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader

Based on this ask for the 1k celebration! The prompt was "show me that bruise please."

6.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: Discussion of reader being very briefly assaulted in the form of her arm being grabbed hard; diverges from canon; a fairy bad bruise but no heavy graphic description; canon typical violence in the form of the guy who assaulted you being taken care of by the Cody boys™️; reference to use of a bat as a weapon; mention of a shotgun; super vague reference to drugs if you've watched the show and/or know Craig; mention of a bar; Pope struggles; heavy allusion to sex; emotional-ish but I think still quite fluffy; no use of y/n or related.

Summary: You come home to Pope with a bruise.

AN: My first time writing for Pope. He is a tough one to nail down in all aspects, voice, characterization, movement. So I'm very nervous and concerned about whether this reads and feels like him in those ways. I'm also only about half way through season 4 so I haven't seen all of him quite yet. I didn't get into too much into either Reader or Pope's internal thinking and feelings how I sometimes do. I was trying to keep it lighter and shorter. 😂 Anyway, I hope it reads and feels like him and is nevertheless enjoyable if it doesn't. I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments and thank you so much for reading!

You’re still thinking about how you’re going to tell Pope as you turn down the street of your house. 

You suppose it doesn’t really matter in the end. His reaction will be the same no matter how gently you tell him or how much you play it down. Because it’s you. And so it’s visceral for him. Instinctual. 

Especially when it’s you being injured by someone else.

The two of you met shortly after Deran bought and opened the bar. He hired you as a bartender. To the surprise of everyone, Pope included, the two of you hit it off. He’d come in and sit at the bar before opening while you prepped. You’d talk, he’d listen, would talk some. He talked more over time as he became comfortable with you. You started going to parties at the house which gave you more time together, got him more comfortable around you. Particularly because you generally spent about five minutes in the backyard before slipping with Pope to whatever free room was available and shutting the door. 

You only ever talked. You’d lay on the bed side by side and stare at the ceiling while you talked and during the periods of comfortable silences. You never made him talk. Never made him try to be something he wasn’t. Never tried to push for more while in a bedroom with him. 

He let you help with Lena. It was you he turned to when he had to let her go. He spent considerably more time at your place after, both because he wanted to be there and because you saw what Smurf was doing to him. 

Your relationship was a slow progression. But he finally asked you out like you hadn’t been dating in a way already and things grew from there. You probably moved in together a little too quickly but you had to get him out of that fucking house and away from Smurf. The progression wasn’t linear. Nothing ever truly is. Both of you had things to work through, pasts that made relationships difficult. You stuck together though. And here you are a few years later. You just bought a house together and are both thinking about more in your own heads.

Pope’s on the couch waiting up for you and watching another nature documentary when his phone rings. His brows furrow a little when he sees it’s Deran. “Yeah?”

“Hey, so listen… little physical altercation at the bar tonight-”

“Involving her?” He’s already up and grabbing his keys.

“Yeah but she’s fine, man,” Deran sighs in that vaguely impatient and resigned way he does. “She already left and is on her way home. It really wasn’t much. Some guy grabbed her arm and that was really all he was able to do before it was handled. I just didn’t want to get yelled at for not telling you, so I called.”

Pope’s voice is even lower than usual, seething. “You better hope she’s really okay.” 

He hangs up, turns all the living room lights on, sits back down, and turns the TV off. He’d love to know why the fuck you didn’t call him. 

He hears the garage door opening, your car pulling in and it closing again. He’d taught you that when you guys moved in. To keep the car in reverse and close the garage door before parking, unlocking your car doors and getting out. Safer. Thirty seconds or so later the door leading from the garage into the house opens and you walk in, set your stuff down with its usual clatter. “Hey! I’m home.” 

You toe your shoes off and kick them onto the bottom shelf of the shoe rack how Pope likes. The second you step into the living room and find the TV off, all the living room lights on, and Pope sitting straight up in the armchair you already know. His eyes find yours immediately and stay on you. 

“Deran?” you confirm as you walk further into the living room. You stand near the armchair, close enough that he could stand and reach you or grab your hand as he sits but far enough away to give him space and not be looming over him. 

“Called.” Pope’s face would be unreadable to anyone but you. Everyone would just see anger and his scowl. And yes, he is angry. But you see the slight softness to his eyes, the way his eyebrows furrow just a little differently than when he’s angry, and the way his head isn’t bowed in anger but rather lifted just a little with the slightest tilt. Worried. Pope is worried about you. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

It’s acerbic. It’s Pope being worried and struggling with the vulnerability that worry brings. He’s not sure what he would be without you. Not sure he would continue to be for very long without you.

You tilt your head at him a little, keep your tone soft and volume normal. “Of course I was.” You nod as you say it. “I just thought doing it in person would be better so that I’d be here and you could see I’m okay.”

After a few seconds of consideration your answer earns you an almost imperceptible nod. He likes that thought process, the way you were trying to make this even a little easier on him. “Are you hurt?” You shake your head at him and he accepts it for now. “What happened?”

You shrug. “I was walking back from a table and some guy stopped me and started talking. When I tried to excuse myself to get back behind the bar he grabbed my arm. I got away quickly enough. Left a bruise but it’s really not bad.”

“What?” It’s low, eerily calm and all gravel. And there’s anger, you think. Real anger. Not anger that’s in part masking worry. You can see it and you can hear it. 

“Pope, I’m okay-”

“He left a mark on you. That’s not okay.” His breathing has gotten heavier as his anger grows. It’s not at you and you know that. He’s just livid at the thought of someone leaving a mark on you. He’s glad he can’t see it, that you’re wearing one of his shirts and the sleeve is long enough on you to just about hit your elbow. Glad he has time to try to prepare himself to see it.

“It’s not that bad, it’s just a bruise.” You offer him a small smile to see if it’ll help show him you’re okay. It does. Just slightly. Your smile helps him. Always helps him regulate and come back to center even if just the slightest bit.  “I give myself them all the time.”

He shakes his head a little. “Doesn’t matter how bad it is or isn’t. And if it’s already visible it’s bad enough.”

“Pope, I’m okay. Look at me.” You offer him your hand and after a few seconds he takes it and stands up. You take one of his hands in yours and press his index and middle finger into your wrist, his fingers automatically adjusting until they find your pulse. You cup his face, keeping looking into his eyes. “I’m here,” you murmur. “I’m here with you and I’m okay.”

His jaw grinds a little but he nods and lets out a breath. It’s helped him come down a little. “Show me that bruise please.” His tone has evened back out. He’s not demanding. It’s a statement, but there’s just enough of a slight upward intonation at the end of the sentence that you know you could refuse. 

You don’t want to refuse though. And there’s no point in refusing. He’s going to see it at some point tonight unless you change in the bathroom with the door closed and wear one of his shirts or something long sleeved. 

“Okay.” You nod at him. Pope lets go of your wrist and your hands move from his face, one hanging at your side as the other grabs your sleeve and pulls it up, bunches it at your shoulder before coming down so he can see. You hold that arm out a little for him.

Pope’s breathing picks back up as looks at your arm, uses his finger to ask you to hold it out more and turn it for him. He’s a little lightheaded and a lot nauseous at the sight, red and purple blotches are already settling into your skin. But it’s not so much the red and purple that makes him lightheaded and nauseous. 

“That is not just a bruise,” he grits out, his breathing picking back up again. “That’s his fucking handprint on your skin! That is his fucking handprint bruised onto your arm!” He doesn’t raise his voice or yell though he says the words with force behind them. The words are strained too. A man trying to keep himself collected. At least for now. At least for this conversation with you. 

Pope thought he was livid before, thought he was full of rage. At whoever did this to you. At himself for not being there to protect you. But one look at the handprint shaped bruise on your upper arm has him thinking he’s never truly been livid before. Hasn’t come close to hitting true rage before.  

“I’m okay. It doesn’t really hurt and it’ll fade.” 

“Who was it?” Pope finally pulls his eyes off the bruise and back up to yours. “Is he a regular?” 

You shake your head and let out a concerned breath. “Deran and I already took care of him, Pope. Please. I don’t want you to leave tonight or put yourself at risk while you’re this upset about it.” Your eyes grow a little glassy and the corners of your lips pull down.

Both your words and the look on your face make Pope pause for a second. He can’t let his anger go. But he can at least try to set aside for now. For you. 

“You took care of him?” His eyebrows raise slightly.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Pretty sure I broke his nose. If I didn’t, Deran definitely did. He was there within seconds of my punch to take over for me.”

“With?” You know he’s asking how you might’ve broken the guy’s nose.

“My fist.” You smile a little at the way the quickest little smirk of pride flashes on his face.

“Does your hand hurt?”

“A little maybe.” You open and close it. “Nothing I’d be desperate to take ibuprofen or tylenol for.” 

“Let me see.” He holds his hand out and you place yours in his. Pope looks down and doesn’t love what he sees. Your knuckles are very clearly bruised. “It’ll be worse tomorrow,” he releases your hand and looks at you, “it always is.”

You shrug. You don’t really care. “But hey, it’s not broken because I had such a great self-defense instructor who taught me how to protect myself for the times when I can’t be with my boyfriend.” Something about ‘instructor’ gets to Pope a little, makes his heart beat a little faster. You pull your sleeve back down, covering the bruise. “Probably the most handsome man I ever laid eyes on.” You hold out your hands for Pope and pull him gently and start walking backwards towards your bedroom once he takes them. 

“He can be taken care of again.” He’s talking about the guy who did this to you. You give him a little nod, shrug in admission and acquiescence. The guy could. 

“Auburn curls,” you continue, squeezing his hands. He goes to squeeze back but stops, doesn’t want to make the bruising worse. “The most beautiful hazel eyes. Big hands that enveloped mine. Soft yet firm tummy I could feel whenever he was right behind me helping me position my hands or something. Muscular arms.” You cross the threshold into your bedroom, warmth flooding through you when you watch the corners of his lips twitch up, his eyes crinkle a little as your words make him give you the smallest smile. “Sharp jaw with some stubble that made me shiver when it would scrape lightly over my ear and face when he leaned in from behind to give me instructions.” You stop walking when you and Pope are standing face to face at the end of your bed, stepping close to him and resting your hands against his chest.

“You were supposed to be paying attention.” He tilts his head slightly as he slides his arms around your waist. “To what you were being taught.” 

You smirk at him. “Evidently I was.” You pull your bruised but not broken hand from his chest and wiggle your fingers at him.

“Maybe you need to take a refresher course from this instructor.” It seems teasing. Or the closest to this kind of teasing Pope will probably ever get. And perhaps it is in part, slight part. But really it’s a type of vulnerability Pope only gives you. It’s a veiled ask and expression of concern. He wants to teach you again, assure himself that you know how to defend yourself when he’s not with you. 

“I’d be more than happy to do that.” You nod at him. 

He swallows. “Thank you.”

“Always,” you murmur. You press your lips together and up, ask him for a kiss. He leans down and in to give you one. More than one. Brings a hand up to hold your jaw gently. Like you’ll break. Another silent ask, though you’re not entirely sure for what. You’re not sure he knows. You pull away a little at a natural break in your last kiss. “What do you need?” 

He shakes his head a little. “I don’t…” His eyes wander around your face, jaw rolling as he tries to find the answer. Not because he feels he needs to give you one but because he wants to find the answer for himself. A few quiet moments pass, but you’re patient. You’re always patient with him. He finally gets what he needs articulable, brushes the thumb of the hand still holding your jaw over your lips, just enough force to tilt your head a little. “To look at you. To feel you.” 

You nod as you study him, his eyes. There’s really two ways to give him both of those. But there is only one way he’s using his eyes and body to ask for, consciously or not. 

If he wanted to strip you and lay you on the bed and look over you by kissing every inch of you his free hand would be playing with the hem of your shirt or the waistband of your pants and his eyes would flick to the bed at least once. But neither of those happen. 

Instead his eyes stay locked with yours the entire time. His free hand squeezes your hip gently, gives it the slightest tug to the right. It matches with the way his thumb tilts your head slightly to the right. The bathroom is off to the right. 

It’s obvious. 

“Shower me?” Your words are important. Especially now, especially to Pope. Shower me. Not shower with me. You want him to do this for you. You’re giving this to him. Giving yourself to him. “Wash him off me. Please. I only want you on me.” 

“Yeah,” he nods, “okay.”  

You smile at him as he lets his hand fall from your jaw and take yours. He leads you to the bathroom, closes the door so the steam will heat the room, turns the shower on and lets the water get warm as he strips you, pants and underwear first, then himself completely, and then his fingers play at the hem of your shirt for a few seconds as he tries to brace himself to see it again before he takes it off, makes quick work of your bra.

His anger hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s right there beneath the surface. It flares when the bruise is revealed again, rings in his ears. But you’re more important than it. You need him right now. To take care of you and wash the guy who did this from your skin as much as he can. 

And he needs you. Now and always. Needs to know you’re okay. He feels like his emotions, his worry and resultant need to see and feel you might be out of proportion with what happened, especially to an outsider. Because at the end of the day you are right. It is just a bruise. It’s not life-threatening. You don’t need any medical treatment. But for Pope it might as well have been. It was life-threatening to him because you were in danger and he wasn’t there. The situation was life-threatening even if the bruise it left you with isn’t. 

The whole thing is a reminder of something he knows all too well, how fragile life is, how easily it’s taken away. How easily the woman he loves could be taken away. It makes him breathless if he thinks about it for too long. So maybe his emotions and his reaction feel out of proportion, would seem that way to an outsider. But they aren’t to him. He’s had too much ripped away, seen too much violence and death, and so every threat to you is life-threatening in his mind. 

Pope grabs your hand again before he uses his other to feel the temperature of the water. You bite your lip at it because something about it is just adorable and precious. He wants to hold your hand here in your bathroom. Doesn’t want to be not touching you. 

Once he’s satisfied with the temperature he gets you in first, makes sure you get completely wet and are warm before he lets you spin the two of you so that he’s under the stream of water. When he’s done he moves you back, has you get your hair wet again before grabbing your shampoo. He’s thorough, massages your scalp a little before rinsing and applying your conditioner. He holds you while it sits, hugs you to him, his head turning to rest on your shoulder. After enough time has passed he rinses your hair, makes sure all the conditioner is out. 

The breath of air he lets out as he takes a step back to grab your body wash would be just that, him letting out a breath, to anyone else. But you see it for what it is, a small sigh of relief that he can now finally do what he’s been aching to do. He can wash you, can run a soaped up washcloth over you, follow behind it with his other hand so he can feel you as he looks you over, go over every inch of you to reassure himself. To comfort himself.

You grab the washcloth and start to get it wet as he grabs your body wash. But you stop him. “Yours, please.” He’s still for a few seconds before grabbing his and turning around to take the washcloth for him. You love smelling like him. And you know that smelling like your shampoo and conditioner and his body wash is going to be perfect for him in bed tonight. Because he loves the smell of you but also loves the possessiveness of you smelling like him. Best of both worlds.

The shower has been quiet and continues to be as Pope washes you, kneeling to wash your legs to make sure he feels all of you, looks at all of you. It’s not unusual. It’s Pope. He doesn’t need words to express himself right now. His hands and eyes and lips say everything. He’s worried about you. He’s scared. He’s angry at the guy who did this. He doesn’t like you getting hurt. He hates it. It’s unacceptable. He’s sorry he wasn’t there. He’s going to take care of you. He’s got you. You’re safe with him. 

He loves you. 

You don’t speak because you know how focused he is and wants to remain. You talking might interrupt or distract him. He might not get everything he needs from this. So you watch him wash you, run your hands through wet curls when he’s on his knees in front of you. 

Pope occasionally presses kisses after the hand following the washcloth. To your hip, your collarbones, your knee, your inner wrist, your tummy, the back of your calf, your lower back, up your spine, your shoulder, your hands, your fingers, your neck. He doesn’t care about the taste of soap on his lips, he doesn’t even really register it. 

He avoids it though. That one upper arm. But once the rest of you is finished and it’s the only unwashed part of you he turns his attention to it. You watch the maelstrom of emotions behind his eyes as he looks at it, watch his jaw clench and unclench. Pope looks at you, waits for the soft smile and nod you give him before his eyes turn back to your upper arm.

He’s exceedingly gentle as he runs the washcloth over the bruise, the hand that follows behind it feather light, fingertips dragging over your skin lightly enough to bring goosebumps to your skin even with the heat of the shower. The washcloth hitting the floor makes a slapping sound that neither you nor Pope really hear. He’s too focused on you and you’re too focused on him.

He leans down, drops his head enough to bring his lips to your arm, shifting as he needs to in order to kiss every single square inch of the bruise. His eyes stay on it once he’s done, fingers tracing over it again. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he brings his eyes back to yours. His scowl has tightened enough to reflect how sad he is, how responsible he feels. They match his slightly glassy eyes. Shame clouds his features and he has to look away, afraid of what he’ll see on your face once his apology processes even though he knows your face isn’t going to change. 

And there’s the fear you knew was coming for him. 

The fear that he fucked up, that he wasn’t there and let this happened and failed to protect you so you’re going to revoke your love. Break up with him. Leave him. Or maybe just punish him with the silent treatment and put downs and little snide comments designed to inflict maximum damage until you decide it’s enough. He knows you won’t do any of that but that type of treatment is all he’s known and even with the years between you where you’ve never done anything of the sort, it’s still almost impossible for the fear to not take him over for a little when he feels like he’s messed up and let you down. It’s a Pavlovian response. And he knows you know that. That you don’t hold it against him or think it’s reflective of what he thinks about you. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Your voice is warm and even. It’s normal, how you always talk to him. You have to fight to keep it that way not because you’re mad at him or upset with him but because seeing him like this, being this hard on himself, feeling this guilty, makes your heart ache for him and hurts worse than the bruise or when it was left. 

“I should have been there.” He shakes his head and you can see his scowl relax back into anger at himself, jaw setting.

You move your hand within his field of vision so that he knows it’s coming when you slide it into his and squeeze. “I know it feels that way, and your feelings are valid and your guilt makes sense, I promise. But we can’t be together every second Pope. And even if you had been there unless you were following me from table to table it would’ve happened all the same.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he’d have seen us together and not tried.” You tug on his hand a little, try to get him to come closer to you so that he’ll be in the stream of water. You can see that he’s cold. But you’re not surprised when he doesn’t move, knows he thinks being cold is just part of the penance he feels he deserves. So you step out of the stream and drop his hand so you can wrap your arms around him and rest your head on his chest. “And I’d have been there. I’d at least have been there.”

As you expected, Pope slides his arms around you and walks you both back into the stream of the shower. You stand there quietly with him for a few moments until he relaxes enough to truly hug you back, lean over you and rest his head on your shoulder. You rub his back, try to give him as much comfort as he’ll accept before you pull back and lean in to kiss him. 

You break the kiss and let your hands leave his body to hold his face so that he’ll look at you again. “I know I can’t take it away from you or convince you that you don’t need to feel responsible or guilty or like you let me down or failed me. But I can tell you that I don’t feel like you’re responsible for it, I don’t feel like you let it happen or that you weren’t there for me or that you let me down or failed me. This doesn’t change anything between us. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going silent.” You give him another couple of kisses before smiling at him, watch him fight to accept your words. “I still love you more than I know what to do with and I still feel loved by you. There hasn’t been a single second since you first told me that I haven’t.”

“There hasn’t been a single second I haven’t.” He’s urgent in the way he says it, like he needs you to know, needs you to believe him. 

“I know,” you murmur. You steal a lingering kiss from him and then settle him back into you. It doesn’t upset you that he doesn’t really verbally acknowledge the rest of what you said. You know he was listening and taking it in and is trying to process it all.

After another minute or so Pope pulls away from you so that he can quickly wash his hair and body. Normally you’d ask to do it for him but you know it would be too much for him right now, that he’d let you but grow even more tense with how much he’d feel like he didn’t deserve it. So you just watch, step out of the stream when he needs to rinse. And when he’s done he pulls you into him so that your back is against his chest, positions you just right so that the water falls on you both but keeps your heads out of the stream as you soak together. 

Eventually you start to talk softly, chatter at him like you do. It’s something he loves about you. That you’ll talk to him and not expect him to talk in return. But you don’t talk constantly either. You know when to and for how long. You’re not afraid of the silence that often falls between the two of you, it’s always comfortable, always feels safe. Sometimes you just like to break it. Sometimes the energy shift within him as he starts to get in his head is so palpable you can feel it and start to talk to bring him out of it before he gets too far in. Sometimes it’s some of both.

He comments from time to time, gives you hums of acknowledgement to make sure you know he’s listening. He doesn’t need to because you know he’s always listening. Always remembering. He’ll bring up something you randomly spoke about as you guys make dinner a month after the fact. Sometimes you don’t even remember. 

You bring a hand up and back and run your fingers through his hair for a second as best you can. “I love your curls when they’re wet,” you sigh happily. 

“You always love them.” 

You giggle a little at him and the way he says it so simply, like he’s saying water is wet or some other obvious fact, almost a little distracted, voice stoic in a way and low enough to be all gravel. “True.”

From there you tell him about other things that happened at the bar. Give him a little more info on just how well Deran took care of the guy. 

“And as Deran’s hauling him over to the door Craig leaves the bathroom,” you pause in a silent we both know why, “and is like ‘yo, what the fuck?’ and starts yelling for Kai to hand him the bat and when she wouldn’t he started to go for the hidden shotgun. Luckily Deran had the guy out by that point, but then Craig found out what happened and was asking for the bat again and saying he was just going to find and have a talk with the guy and make sure he knew I was yours and that he was lucky it was him and Deran there and not you.”

“Fucking Craig,” Pope huffs. But you know his lips are upturned at least a little, know that he loves it, his brothers protecting you, that he loves them. “Deran should’ve let him.” You hum in acknowledgment and stand in comforting silence for a bit. “I’m glad they had your back.”

You don’t comment on those words, know he doesn’t want you to. Instead you tell him the rest of the night was uneventful, let there be a few minutes of silence before you start talking again, this time about whatever pops into your head. Things you need at the grocery store, somewhere you think you guys should go on vacation, another random story someone at work told you, how you need the oil changed in your car. 

The entire time you chatter at him Pope holds you close, kisses at your neck and just below your ear, occasionally letting his lips pull up just a little at something you say or how animated you get, content to listen to you and let you drown out the thoughts in his mind trying to take over. 

“Leave your car tomorrow and take mine. I’ll change the oil.” He gives your neck one last kiss and then moves his hands to squeeze your hips gently. “Let’s get out. The water is getting cold.”

“That would be very nice of you, thank you.” You spin to give him a kiss quickly before you wait for him to turn the shower off and step out, dry himself and wrap his towel around his waist. He holds his hand out for you and you take it, let him grab your towel and dry you off. 

Pope wraps your towel around you to help keep you warm while he sorts out your wet hair for you. You both hang your towels to dry before heading back into your room. 

“No.” He says it softly but it’s loud enough to hear and you turn to him, abandoning the pair of pajamas you were about to pull from the dresser. His eyes flick to the bed and then back to you. “Please,” he whispers. He needs you skin on skin, no fabric between you. He needs to feel your warmth seep into him. Needs to know you still want his skin on yours.

“I’d love that.” You smile brightly at him. It makes his heart seize a little. He’ll never get over you wanting him in every way, of you looking at him like that. Like he’s your world.

Nor will he ever get over sliding into bed next to you and laying on your side, you seeking him out, tangling your legs together and resting your arm across the side of his waist as your heads lay on the same pillow and you look at each other. 

There’s a couple moments of silence as you both settle in. 

“How’d your day go? Anything you want to share?” The smile you wear reassures him he can say no if he wants. 

He shrugs with his top shoulder. “It was fine until that phone call from Deran. Didn’t really do much.”

You hum at him. “Well I’m glad it was otherwise fine.”

He gives you a single nod and the peaceful silence returns. The two of you just rest together, looking at each other, hands running up and down your sides. You watch his face slowly tighten. He has something to admit. 

You give him time to work it out in his head, don’t prompt him or ask him anything. And eventually the silence is broken.

“I’m finding him,” Pope admits.

You let out a small laugh, smile at him and nod. You squeeze his hip. “I know.” 

“Does that make you mad?” That question is quieter, like he’s afraid of the answer and feels like shit for the way he’s not sure a ‘yes’ would be able to stop him. 

“No.” You shake your head. 

“I don’t want to make you mad.” He swallows thickly, like he’s trying to take his next words down with it. “But he bruised his handprint onto your skin. I can’t let that go, I can’t let that go.”

“It doesn’t make me mad, my love. I promise.” You run a hand through his hair. “Just be careful, yeah? Can’t have you getting hurt on me. Or anything else.” You don’t need to specify you’re talking about him getting caught and going back to prison. He knows. 

There’s a brief pause as he accepts your words. “You like taking care of me when I’m hurt,” he mumbles like it doesn’t mean everything to him.

“Well yeah!” you huff a laugh. “But I’d gladly accept never getting to take care of you in that specific way again if it meant you were here with me and never got injured, or sick for that matter, again.”

Pope nods. More silence. He shifts in bed, just a small wiggle. But he has been the whole time. He’s restless. He knows you’re okay but he needs more to quiet his mind. 

“You’re okay?” He breaks the silence again.

“I’m okay.” You smile at him and nod. Your eyes roam his face and then settle back on his as you hear what he wants. “It’s okay if you need more.” You grab Pope’s hand and roll on your back, tug on his hand to get him to follow you so that he’s on top of you. “If you haven’t felt me quite enough to really believe that I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” he breathes with a nod. 

You lean up and kiss him, run a hand through his curls and use it to guide his head down with yours as you kiss. “Yeah,” you whisper against his lips. 

He kisses you this time, gives you a tiny grunt of appreciation when you open your mouth for him so he can taste you. As you kiss you grab his hand, guide it over your body to remind him that he can touch you, that you’re his, all of you. He doesn’t need much of a reminder, hands roaming all over you as he kisses you breathless. His hands are softer than usual, gentler. He doesn’t squeeze quite as hard. It’s not that he doesn’t want to mark you, he loves marking you. But not tonight. He can’t tonight. 

You whine in discontent when he breaks the kiss and pulls up to look down at you, hazel eyes blown and chest heaving slightly. “Thank you. For not making me ask.” He gives you another lingering kiss and pulls up a little and looks at you again like you’re unreal, a figment of his imagination. But he could never imagine something as good as you, no matter how hard he tried. “You never make me ask.”

“You do ask.” You sigh softly as he moves one of his hands closer to where you want it. Where he wants it. “Just not with words. You ask with your eyes. With your hands, your body. And I learned quickly how to listen. How to hear you.” You widen your legs for him letting his pelvis drop down and settle against yours more as you continue to look him in the eye. His hips and yours roll and his hand falters as you both find friction another way. He gives you a soft groan as his hand starts moving closer again, though for a different purpose this time. The pleasure Pope’s sending through you has your voice breathy and low as your hands tangle in his hair and pull him closer again so that your lips touch. “I hear you. I’ll always make sure I can hear you.”

I hope it was okay and 'Pope' enough! I love hearing your guys' thoughts and comments, they give me serotonin, motivation and inspiration!! Liking, replies and reblogging are always so so appreciated! My inbox and DMs are always open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming!

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[animehideout]

JJK MEN WHEN THEY FIND OUT YOU CAN FIGHT.

A/N: Hello, it's been so long and I'm finally back to writing, my grandma passed away and it's been really tough and hard to find inspiration or motivation again.

Anyways ,I hope you enjoy this one.

Characters: Toji - Satoru - Megumi - Choso.

--------------------------------------------------

‎ Gojo Satoru – Arcade Showdown

‎‎• Babysitting Megumi and Yuuji with Gojo at the arcade sounded chill… until he found the punching machine. His inner show-off self was summoned.

‎• He immediately took his jacket off, rolled his sleeves, and began flexing his biceps like he was the hottest thing on earth.

‎• "Watch and learn, kiddos" he smirked at you three as he punched the machine hard almost breaking it.

‎• Then he turned to you to see your reaction, trying to impress you for the 27738229th time and lowkey to turn you on, to move something in you.

‎• Flashing you some stares as if he just saved the world again.

‎• He smirked flirtatiously, he has to tease you in any way,  "Come on, your turn, princess, oh and be careful not to hurt your precious knuckles or break a nail"

‎• You rolled your eyes at him then stepped up, calm and collected, you adjusted your stance and BOOM.

‎• The machine shook. The sound echoed taking everyone's attention.

‎• The score just… kept… rising.

‎• Everyone around stopped. Gojo’s shades slid halfway down his nose as he stared, wide-eyed.

‎• He’s staring between you and the score on the machine.

‎• He can feel the heat rise up his neck.

‎• "H-hey waitwaitwait, was that… did you just—holy shit" he muttered, blinking.

‎• "Damn" Yuuji whispered.

‎• "I thought I was supposed to be the strong one here" Gojo grinned, rubbing the back of his neck.

‎• You just shrugged with a smirk, "Did I hurt your pride Satoru?"

‎• "Come on do it again, punch that shit again"

‎• His ego? Bruised. His crush on you? Stronger than ever.

‎• He wanted to impress you yet you're the one who ended up impressing him even more.

‎• High-key turned on. Now he's gotta work harder to make you fall for him.

‎• "That was hot Y/N, you know that right?"

‎• "Yeah I know" you said with a smirk.

‎• "Oh, we are so sparring later. You’re not getting out of this, gotta test that punch of yours"

‎• And yeah, later that day…There’s definitely a sparring.

‎• And you ended up sitting on top of him pinning him with a smirk, while he’s breathless and smirking beneath you.

‎• "I would love it if we spar more often from now on"  he said eyes locked with yours.

• "I would love that too".

‎

‎‎‎Choso – Don’t Mess With My Man

‎‎• A cute stroll, holding hands, enjoying the sunshine , that’s all you wanted, you and your boyfriend Choso.

‎• You sat down, enjoying each other's company.

‎• But the two idiots nearby had other plans, mocking Choso’s hair like immature clowns.

•Making gestures with their hands and throwing some comments.

‎• "Look at him dude, how did he even pull that girl beside him with that stupid hair?"

‎• He tried to ignore them, just squeezing your hand tighter. Trying not to ruin the date by beating them up.

• But you? You were not letting that slide. You were way beyond pissed.

‎• You love Choso, you love everything about him, you know how much of a sweetheart he is, and someone making fun of him is something that you can never accept.

‎• "Stay here" you muttered, eyes sharp.

‎• His heart jumped, "Y/N no wait".

‎•He tried to catch your hand and pull you back but you were too fast, you were already in front of them, glaring down at them.

‎• Choso followed behind you.

‎• "Cut it out" you said calmly.

‎• But all what they did was to laugh at you.

‎• You scoffed yet didn’t hesitate. One punch. Right in the face that made the guy's nose bleed.

‎• When the other tried to come for you, "You bitch"  you ducked and slammed your fist into his gut, making him crumple down like paper, coughing.

‎• "That's what you get when you talk shit about my man"  you said still calm but within you a lot of rage.

‎• Choso stood frozen, mouth open, genuinely speechless.

‎• "Y/N…" he whispered, rushing to you "Is your wrist okay? Did you hurt your knuckles?" he said checking your wrist.

‎• "I'm fine Choso, relax! No one makes fun of my baby and walks away" you said, dusting off your hands.

‎• "I– I really didn't know you can fight like that. You had me worried Y/N"

‎• "Well I can fight, when necessary" you smiled at him.

‎• His heart? Exploded. He didn’t know whether to scold you or kiss you breathless and sensless.

‎• Well, probably both.

‎

‎Toji Fushiguro – Bar Trouble.

‎‎• Toji didn’t even look at the woman flirting with him across the bar, not once.

‎• His hand stayed on your thigh the whole time, his eyes focused on you and only you.

‎• But she didn’t get the message.

‎• You noticed, the whole bar noticed how she was desperate to get his attention and that pissed you off.

‎• You weren’t insecure or jealous, you were just done. People really liked testing your patience.

‎• You just really hate it when people don't get the hint even though it's as clear as water.

‎• Oh and Toji loves it, he loves it when you're pissed. Your angry face does things to him.

‎• So he tried to push your buttons and get you more angry but he didn't know to what extent it could lead.

‎• "What’s got you all fired up baby?" he asked, smirking, squeezing your thigh tighter playing dumb.

‎• But bad timing when that woman chose to be more bold and walked by, brushing her chest against him.

‎• Toji glared, opening his mouth to probably curse at her, but you beat him to it.

‎• You grabbed her by the hair, slammed her face onto the bar, and hissed.

‎• "Are you blind, or do you need to be beat up to understand he’s taken?"

‎• The bar went silent.

‎• Toji's eyes widened and mouth hang open, then his smirk grew and leaned back, arms crossed, man spreading, watching you like you were his favorite show.

‎• His eyes darkened with arousal and pride.

‎• He sat back and watched as you handled the situation.

‎• Eyeing you up and down as if you were the most tasty snack.

‎• He simply loves it, he loves it when you act possessive and when you put people in their place.

‎• The girl whimpered out an apology "I'm sorry".

• "If I catch you again looking at my man, I won't be this nice"

‎• You let her go still glaring, then turned to him and said, "Wash off that smirk Toji"

‎• He tilted his head, voice low and hungry, "Can't help it when you're hot as hell, in front of me"

‎• "What? did that turn you on?"

‎• "Maybe? Fancy finishing the night somewhere more private? Like our bed?"

‎

‎‎Megumi Fushiguro – Jiu-Jitsu Date

‎‎• Megumi thought a martial arts class would be a fun, non-traditional, non-typical, non-boring date idea.

‎• He likes to be creative when it's about you.

‎• "Just some light training" he said. "Nothing serious" he said.

‎• He wanted to impress you a little, show his composed, strong side.

‎• You've never seen him fight before, so a Jiujitsu date is an opportunity for him to show off his fighting skills.

‎• You started following the coach's instructions, learning a new technique to take down your opponent.

‎• But he was shocked when the instructor chose you to be the first one who tries out the technique.

• He paired you with a blue belt for some practice sparring, and Megumi instantly tensed.

‎• "Wait—what if you get hurt?" he mumbled.

‎• "Then what's the point of training?" you smiled confidently.

‎• You stepped onto the mat, bowed, and boom. In one clean motion, you flipped your opponent and pinned her down flawlessly.

‎• Megumi blinked. Froze. Mouth parted in disbelief as the girl tapped out beneath you struggling to breathe.

‎• "How… how did you do that?" he stuttered.

‎• "I know how to fight. That wasn’t too hard" you said stretching too casually.

‎• "You know how to fight?? Since when!?"

‎• "Why are you so surprised?" you teased, walking toward him with a grin.

‎• "I’ve just… never seen you fight before" he said, cheeks pink.

‎• You tilted your head, "So do I"

‎• His heart exploded.

‎• He fell in love with you all over again.

‎• He wouldn't stop thinking about it ....ever.

‎

[sweetcalebb]

Brat tamer Zayne ! ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

wc: 3.2k

a/n: for my pookster (@ohshitcindylou) also, i don't write a lot of smut for zayne, so i wasn't sure if he was ooc. i hope it's okay!

content: overstimulation, multiple orgasms, soft dom (?), desperate reader, you drive zayne crazy but he loves you, praise kink, (idk guys)

—

Nudes. 

That's what you did when you wanted attention—sent nudes in the middle of the workday. 

"Zayne?"

He blinked, swallowing harshly before looking up at Dr.Greyson. "Yes?"

"Are you all right? You look a bit flushed."

Zayne's lips pressed into a thin line, trying to will the heat creeping up his neck back down. 

"I'm fine. I just need a minute," he murmured, shoving his phone in his pocket and handing Greyson the charts he was holding.

"Oh—okay? If you're feeling unwell you should—"

"I'm fine." Then he was gone, his coat rustling as he rushed to his office. What were you trying to do to him, sending him such provocative pictures in broad daylight? 

When Zayne reached his office, he shut the door with a sigh and locked it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he slowly stalked over to his desk and sank into his chair. 

He sat there for a moment, hand hovering over the phone in his pocket, contemplating whether or not to take a second look. 

Zayne shouldn't. He was already half-hard. He wasn't proud of it, but he couldn't help the way his body responded to you and seeing you all posed and naked again definitely wasn't going to help.

Then, like you already knew he was spiraling, another text came in.

His chest tightened, his hand hesitantly curling around his check the message. Zayne glanced down at his screen, and there was your text. 

Zayne exhaled, awkwardly shifting in his seat. 

You: You saw my pictures. 

Simple. Yet so teasing. 

You: Did I get my Zayne all cute and flustered?? <3

Very teasing. You knew what you were doing, didn't you? And worse, it was working. 

Zayne shifted in his seat again, his thighs tensing as he subtly tried to find some relief. Then quickly, he groaned, pressing back into his chair like that might keep him still. 

Because no. No, he wasn't doing this. 

Zayne: During my shift?

Zayne: You know better. 

You: Do I?

You: [1 image attached]

Against his better judgment, he tapped on the picture and nearly forgot how to breathe. You were a vision. Even when you were sending the most teasing pictures known to man—God, you were gorgeous. 

You: I just can't help it

You: I miss you so much 

I miss you. 

Zayne's eyes narrowed, tilting his head in his hand. Teasing or not, those three little words would always undo him. 

He missed you too—always did—but he couldn't let you off so easily. No, not after those crude pictures.

Zayne: You miss me

You: Mhmm

Zayne: Then you'll be good tonight. No games. 

You: And in the meantime? You're not here to stop me...

You: [1 image attached]

Zayne's jaw clenched, rolling his hips and sighing when he found nothing but the fabric of his jeans that were suddenly too tight. 

Christ.

The things you did to him. 

Zayne: Take that off. 

Zayne: Sit on your hands.

Zayne: And don't touch yourself.

Zayne: I'll know if you do.

He watched as three bubbles popped up, disappeared, popped up again, then disappeared once more.

After a minute, you finally typed back with proof of just how good you were being.

You: Yes, Zayne.

You: [1 image attached]

He twitched in his jeans. You were going to ruin him if you kept sending pictures like that. The only reason he'd let this one slide was because you were listening.

He typed back.  

Zayne: Good girl.

Then he huffed, his dick giving another traitorous twitch at the praise. He could imagine how riled up it would get you. How you would squirm and pout because you couldn't do anything after that. 

Zayne stood up, his cheeks a shameful red as he slid his phone back in his pocket.

What was he doing, humoring his girlfriend's sexting while he was at work? 

He stopped at his door, taking a steady breath. He had to calm down. Had to will his painful erection away before anyone saw him like this. 

Zayne adjusted his coat, making sure it covered the obvious tent in his pants before stepping out and shutting the door behind him. 

He nodded politely at a passing nurse, hoping she didn't see the furious blush coloring his face.

God. You were going to pay when he got home.

 

°❀.ೃ࿔*

Zayne glanced at the clock as he stepped into your shared apartment. 1:43 a.m. He sighed, loosening the collar of his shirt. 

It was late. 

But he knew you. Knew that you'd still be up, waiting for him.

He washed his hands in the sink—thorough but tired. It was his routine. He always had to wash his hands first thing when he got him.

When he finished drying off his hands, he started stalking toward your shared bedroom. 

He quietly stepped in, glancing around. The room was quiet, lights dimly lit, and then there you were, curled under the blankets. 

Zayne moved closer, his chest squeezing when he saw the way you sat up and turned to him the minute you heard his footsteps. Your eyes were tired with sleep, your hair mussed from the pillows, and—when the sheets spilled down around your hips—still naked. 

"Hi," you breathed, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips as he padded closer. 

Zayne stopped in front of you, then slowly, he leaned down and captured your lips in a long, reverent kiss. He cupped your cheek and held you firmly, like you might slip away otherwise. But you both knew you weren't going anywhere.

You eagerly kissed back, bringing your hand up to his. Just when you gently swiped your tongue across his bottom lip, Zayne pulled back.

You frowned, but you didn't say anything.

Zayne eyed you carefully. He noticed it then—you nervous. The look made him narrow his gaze and tilt his head. 

You didn't behave, did you?

He studied you a second longer, then quietly, he asked, "Did you behave?"

"Yes, I did," you breathed, squirming in your spot as you watched Zayne's gaze drift over you. 

"Are you being honest?"

You paused at that. "I... I didn't touch myself."

Zayne nodded, slow. "So something else did. What was it?" His voice was deceptively gentle. 

You didn't answer at first. You didn't want to answer, but your hand subconsciously drifted toward your bedsheets and tugged it close. You should've kept still though.

Zayne took the sheets from your grip and examined them. Then, he found it. A damp patch, like the fabric had been stuff between your legs. 

Zayne stared at it, his mere scrutiny making your stomach flutter. "I.. I didn't—I mean, I didn't finish."

Zayne gently dropped the fabric and met your gaze again. "That wasn't the point, love."

You whimpered at the pet name. 

"I'm sorry. I just missed you so much and I—"

Zayne cupped your jaw and kissed you again, harder this time, but not cruel. Never cruel. 

"Lie down," he murmured as he pulled back.

You blinked up at him, eyes already glossy. "Zayne, I'm—"

"Shh. Lie down."

You didn't argue. You simply lied flat on your back and brought your hands over your stomach, heart beating so fast you thought Zayne might've heard it. 

Zayne nodded in approval before stepping away with the bed. He didn't speak. Didn't look at you, just quietly shrugged his coat off and draped it over the hanger behind your door. Then he loosened his tie to finally take it off.

Meanwhile, you sat there and watched the. The over-confident brat from earlier was long gone. Now, all you were left with was a desperate need.

When Zayne finally undid his shoe laces and nudged them off, he made his way back over to you. You stared, your body drumming with anticipation as he calmly settled into bed next to you.

"What are you doing?"

"Lying down beside you," he replied, carefully grabbing your hips and turning you over so your back was facing him before pulling you into his chest. 

Zayne sighed, pressing his lips to your shoulder like he'd been waiting all day to do this. "You made me hard in the middle of shift today," he murmured, dragging his fingers over your stomach. 

Your breath caught in your throat, your body instinctively arching into his touch.

"I had to keep a straight face and pretend I wasn't losing it," he added, kissing up your neck. 

At the same time, he brought his hand lower, easing toward the cleft between your thighs. He nudged you, softly, letting you think he might actually touch you before pulling away. "And you knew what you were doing. Didn't you?"

Your hips bucked in protest, but Zayne only clicked his tongue as a warning. 

You sighed. "Yes. I knew."

Zayne's breath fanned against your skin as he let out a shudder. "I thought about you all day," he whispered, his fingers sliding up to graze the underside of your boob. "Thought about how warm you'd be under these sheets... How pretty and pouty you'd look when I told you not to touch yourself."

Your whole body burned with desperation. You wanted him to touch you—needed him to touch you. Really touch you. Not just brush his fingertips over your skin with that teasing cool.

"What am I supposed to do when I miss you?" you asked, shifting against him. 

Zayne's hand traveled tantalizingly close to your sweetest spot. He so, so close, just not quite there. He teased his fingers down your inner thigh, the touch pulling a light shudder from your body. 

"You wait, or entertain yourself with the resources I got you. You don't send me nudes while I'm at work." 

You gasped when you finally felt his fingers slide through your slick folds. 

"And if I tell you to behave, you certainly don't rub yourself on the blankets."

You jerked your hips against his hand, but Zayne gave another low click. "Be good."

His other hand curled around your chest and cupped your pillowy breast. "Tell me what you did. Walk me through it." 

Your mouth parted, but all that came out was a breath. You couldn't speak. You were shaking and he'd barely even touched you. 

Zayne hummed, pressing an open mouthed kiss against your shoulder. "If that's too much, then show me."

He firmly cupped your mound, fingers pressing deliciously against your needy flesh. "Go on. Show me what you did when you were too desperate to wait."

"W-what?" you managed. 

"Pretend my fingers are the blanket. What did you do?"

Your cheeks burned from embarrassment. "Zayne..."

"[❀]," he replied, gently shifting his fingers. 

Your lips opened in a silent gasp. You were so pent up. Any little movement had you reeling. Had you fighting everything in you not to rut against his hand like a woman possessed. 

You rolled your hips once, your body shaking with the effort of holding back. 

"Is that all?" Zayne mused, his mouth still working over the skin of your back. "I find that hard to believe given the mess you left on our sheets."

You bit your lip as you gave another weak roll. God. It was too good. You nudged your hips back, moaning when you found the perfect angle. 

Then you started again, slow, shaky. You'd occasionally stop and squeeze around his hand—just keep him there for a little. And when you couldn't hold back anymore, you started over. 

And Zayne never moved. Just patiently kept his hand between your legs as he watched—felt—reenact what you'd done earlier. 

When you felt your stomach coil a little too tightly, you stopped with a stuttered movement. "And then—and then I stopped."

Zayne was still kissing you, his lips practically melted against your back. "You were close."

You bit your lip and nodded.

"Finish."

Your hips almost moved on instinct. You turned your head over your shoulder, trying to look at him. "You'll let me?"

Zayne hummed in assurance. "Go on."

You didn't hesitate. You ground yourself against his fingers, curling one hand against his (the one on your breast), while you fisted your other hand in the sheets. 

You should've been embarrassed, but you weren't. All you were was a girl chasing down her orgasm like her life depended on it.

"That's it," Zayne whispered, feeling every broken little thrust as you got closer and closer to the edge. 

Then, with a raspy gasp, you were coming undone, spilling yourself down his hand, down your thighs. You sunk your nails in his hand, but he didn't pull away, didn't even wince.

Just let out a quiet groan and reflexively squeezed around your breast tighter. 

"Is that what you needed?" Zayne murmured.

You gave a lazy nod. "Mhmmm."

You thought that was it. That he would kiss you and forgive you for misbehaving the way he always did. But then you felt him rubbing firm, languid circles over your clit. Again.

You squeezed your legs around him, whining. 

"Z-zayne! What are you—!" Your sentence trailed off on a desperate mewl as he moved faster. 

He knew your body better than you did, and he was using that to his advantage. He avoided all your perfect spots before, now he was hitting them over and over and over again. 

"You didn't think I was going to let you off that easy after today, did you?" Zayne asked, eyes fluttered shut with concentration. "You wanted attention. Now you have it."

Your stomach curled tight, limbs tingling at the way he wrung out every drop of pleasure you had to give.

"Mmnn..! It's too soon!"

Zayne moved faster at your protest. "You earned this, remember?" he murmured, his words ghosting over your shoulder. "This is what happens when my sweet girl can't behave."

You squirmed, pressing the side of your face into your pillow and whimpering quietly. "Z-Zayne!"

Zayne hummed quietly, slipping his hand away from your breast to cup your jaw and tilt your face. His eyes roved over yours, drinking in every twist of pleasure. 

"You're doing so good," he muttered, pressing his lips to yours and tensing when he felt your moans spill into his mouth. 

It was addicting. 

He wanted to swallow every last sound. But he was never one for self-indulgence, so grudgingly, he pulled away. 

"Will you give me another one?"

You shook your head no, even as your body screamed yes. 

Zayne furrowed his brows. "That wasn't a question," he murmured, his voice so soft you might've thought he was coaxing a nervous animal into his hands. "You'll give me another one because you couldn't seem to resist the urge to send me nudes today."

He worked his fingers over your throbbing clit with expert precision. He used the perfect pressure. The perfect strokes. The perfect speed. It was the kind of skill that made your vision blur. 

"Isn't this what you wanted?" 

Your lips parted with a guttural cry. You could feel the heat in your stomach curling tight.

"For me to touch you?"

"Yes! But—! Hhnn'but—"

You bit your lips to try and keep your sounds down, but it was pointless. Your hips jerked forward as they chased the friction of his fingers like he wasn't already making you lose your mind. 

You didn't think you could come so soon, but you were getting achingly close again. 

"Then I'm going to touch you until you can't take it anymore," he husked, his cock twitching painfully in his jeans. But this was all about you. About how pretty you fell apart. "Just like you wanted."

Your body seized as your second orgasm ripped through you, your hand shooting down to wrap around his wrist. You weren't even sure if you just wanted to hold him or push him away. 

"Good girl."

Oh, God. Any thoughts of pushing him away melted the instant you heard those two words. You'd do anything to hear that. 

"Th-thank.. you.." you breathed out. 

Zayne let out a sharp breath. He carefully drew his hand away from your face, instead curling it around your chest again. 

For a second, you relaxed. 

Zayne seemed to relax too, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek. It was so sweet and gentle. 

Then you felt him moving again, the slick sound filling your ears and making you clench around nothing.

God. You couldn't possible be capable of another orgasm.

You dug your fingers in his wrist. "Nnnh—Wait!"

"You're not done."

You whined, desperately trying to twist away, but Zayne only curled his arm around you tighter and pulled you flush against his chest. "You have one more in you," he breathed. 

Tears brimmed in your eyes. "I-I don't—I can't—" you choked out, trying to push his wrist away even as your hips helplessly rolled into his touch. 

"Yes you can," he said, his words quiet and full of awe. It was less like a demand and more like a fact. "Look at yourself." His breath warmed your already flushed skin. 

"You're still moving. Still so beautiful."

You trembled. He was right. You were still moving—still torn between squirming away from him and grounding yourself on him like you couldn't breathe without it.  

You let out a quiet little cry, your thighs and stomach burning with the effort of processing the overstimulation. 

Zayne bit back a soft growl. "I've got you."

You couldn't stay still. You were a mess—toes curling, hips jerking, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks, breath ragged. 

And Zayne never stopped. He couldn't. 

Because you deserved this. Every last touch and word.

He continued to work your clit with aching accuracy, his fingers slick with your arousal.  

"You're doing so well," Zayne praised, his wrist burning from the repeated motion. 

You bit your lip to stop the whiny cries from slipping past, but it barely helped. They'd just come out in low hums.

You couldn't come again, you just couldn't. But your body said otherwise. It was soft—needy—and you could feel that familiar heat curl low in your belly again. 

You couldn't tell whether to cry or moan. 

It was too much, too fast. 

"Wait—I'm—"

A breathless moan tore from your throat as you came again, your body trying to curl in on itself. But Zayne didn't let it. He held you tight, his fingers finally slowing as he worked you through your third orgasm. 

"That's it, sweetheart," he cooed, his body never leaving yours.

When the final twitches of your aftershock washed over you, Zayne carefully turned you around and hugged you to his chest. Didn't wait or tease. Just quickly tugged you toward him.

And you melted into him. You wrapped your arms around him and held onto him as tightly as you possibly could (which wasn't that tight). 

Zayne stroked your head, gently messing with the ends of your hair, the feeling making you tingle. 

"I'm very proud of you," Zayne finally whispered, a subtle smile tugging at his lips when he felt you hum against him. "I hope you learned something today."

You nuzzled into his chest and murmured a soft, "I did."

Zayne kissed the top of your head. "Good girl. I'll start the shower for you."

You smiled lazily against him. "Thank you."

Zayne grudgingly peeled himself away and stepped toward the bathroom. He let out a stuttered huff and ran a hand through his hair. 

He was throbbing in his jeans. Precum had soaked through his boxers and dampened his jeans, but it was all worth it. 

You were always worth it.

—

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[wonderlandwalker]

Those Who Can't Do...

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x fem!reader x eddie munson 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: It's been goddamn torture having to restrain yourself from the need clawing inside you, luckily Steve may have just found a solution 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, mdni, cursing, prolly repetitive language I might edit out later, no comprehensive plot whatsoever

𝐚/𝐧: I'm not sure where this came from either but here it is. For some reason I can't manage to write any long fics at the moment but I still enjoyed this, hopefully you will too. Oh and also enjoy my inability to write a comprehensive ending

The evening had been a slow, sweet torture.

Time dripped like syrup—thick and golden, clinging to every breath, every glance, every accidental brush of skin against skin. You sat beside Steve on the couch, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, yet somehow still too far. Your body hummed with restless energy. Maybe it was the weed, its smoke curling through your lungs like a whispered secret, honeyed and hazy. Or maybe it was the relentless pulse between your thighs, that weeks-old ache sharpening into something vicious tonight, gnawing at your patience with teeth and tongue.

Probably both.

He shifts beside you, wincing as he adjusts his weight. He bruised his ribs two weeks ago (and, you suspected, a few other things he still refused to name—stubborn as always) in some sort of heroic attempt to get Dustin’s frisbee off the roof, clearly having forgotten gravity exists.⁠ You’d been more than happy to play nurse, doting on him with soft hands and softer words, savouring every hitch in his breath when your fingers traced the mottled blues and purples blooming across his skin. He tried to play it cool, of course—leaning into the couch like he wasn’t affected, like he wasn’t starving—but his body betrayed him. The way his muscles tensed under your touch, the way his chest rose just a little faster when you leaned in, and the way his fingers twitched against the cushions, itching to pull you closer.

But the way he looked at you—those big, pleading eyes, so unused to tenderness, so fucking grateful—it was testing your resolve in ways you hadn’t expected.

At first, he’d been insistent. "We can still fuck," he’d murmured against your neck, voice rough with promise, hands already sliding under your shirt like he could will his injuries away through sheer determination. His touch was feverish, fingers mapping your skin with a possessiveness that made your breath catch. "Just ride me, baby. I can take it."

And you had. Slow and careful, hips rolling in a rhythm that made him groan, his head tipping back into the pillows. His fingers dug into your thighs, blunt nails leaving half-moon indents as he urged you on, chasing the friction, the heat. You let him lose himself in it, let him chase the high until his orgasm hit—until the sharp gasp he let out wasn’t just pleasure but pain, his ribs protesting under the movement. The way his face twisted, equal parts bliss and agony, had been the end of that experiment.

His next attempt had been simpler: "Then just let me take care of you," he’d panted, fingers already working the button of your jeans, mouth trailing hot kisses down your stomach. But Steve Harrington had never been good at restraint, and the second he got his hands on you, all bets were off. Eagerness overtook caution, his touch too rough, his kisses too desperate, his breathing strained as he pushed through the ache of his body—like he was trying to prove something, like if he could just make you cum hard enough, it would erase the fact that he couldn’t fuck you like he wanted to.

"Steve—Steve, stop," you’d gasped, catching his wrists when his grip tightened, when his teeth scraped your collarbone a little too hard. He froze instantly, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with frustration. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth; his whole body coiled like a spring.

"I’m not made of glass," he gritted out, but the wince as he shifted gave him away.

"No," you agreed softly, thumb brushing over his pulse point, feeling the wild, rabbit-quick thrum beneath his skin. "But you’re not invincible either."

The fight drained out of him then, his forehead dropping to your shoulder with a shaky exhale. "Fuck," he muttered, voice raw with frustration, with surrender. "I just—I want to make you feel good."

Now the TV’s glow paints the room in flickering blues, shadows clinging to the sharp angles of Steve’s face like they’re reluctant to let him go. His thumb traces idle circles on your hip, slow and deliberate, the calloused pad of his finger catching against fabric—against skin—just enough to make your breath hitch. You can feel his gaze on you, heavy-lidded and dark with intent, like he’s already mapped every shiver he wants to pull from you, every gasp he hasn’t earned yet.

His hand slips beneath your shirt, palm warm against your ribs, his thumb sweeping in slow, maddening arcs over the dip of your waist. Normally, this lazy drag of his touch would be soothing, lulling you into that hazy, sleep-drunk space where time blurs and thoughts dissolve. But right now? It’s gasoline poured way too close to the fucking fire. 

And you’re this close to snapping.

His fingers dig in. It’s sudden and possessive, his grip tightening like he’s just now realising how thin his restraint’s been stretched. A rough noise tears from his throat as he shifts closer, his breath hot and ragged against your ear, lips grazing your jaw in a way that’s more teeth than kiss.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, voice rough as gravel, “you’re going to kill me like this.”

The words punch a soft whimper out of you—raw, unbidden—your body arching into him before your brain can catch up. You grind down harder, chasing the friction, the heat, the something that’s been simmering between you all night, molten and insistent. Steve’s smirk is pure wicked amusement when he pulls back just enough to watch you unravel. His teeth catch his lower lip and his eyes—God, his eyes—dark with a hunger that sends a dizzying rush between your thighs.

Like he knows.

Like he’s been counting every shaky breath, every aborted roll of your hips, cataloguing each desperate little noise you try to swallow down. And he’s revelling in it, in how far gone you are, how easily he could tip you over the edge with just the press of his palm or the scrape of his teeth.

And maybe you are far gone. Because for one long, breathless moment, you’ve fucking forgotten Eddie is even there—frozen on the couch beside you, his usual sharp-tongued bravado stripped away like a band-aid ripped off too fast. His fingers twitch absently around the joint, the cherry burning perilously close to his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even seem to notice. His gaze is locked onto the way you move against Steve, pupils blown so wide they swallow the whisky-brown of his irises. A traitorous flush creeps up his neck, blotchy and pink, his lips parted around a breath he hasn’t remembered to exhale.

Steve’s gaze cuts sideways, slow and deliberate, and Eddie jerks his eyes back to the movie like he’s been burnt—too quick, too obvious. But it’s too late. The damage is done. You feel the shift in Steve before you see it: the way his body tenses, the quiet, possessive edge that sharpens his movements. His free hand slides up, fingers tangling in your hair, cradling the back of your neck with a grip that’s firm enough to make your breath hitch. There’s no hesitation in the way he pulls you closer, no room for protest—not that you’d give it. His lips graze the shell of your ear, the warmth of his breath fanning over your skin in a slow, deliberate tease. A shiver skitters down your spine, pooling low in your stomach as his voice curls around you:

“Wanna have some fun, baby?”

The words drip with smug satisfaction, already knowing the answer. You don’t even need to speak—your body betrays you, arching into him, pulse fluttering under his touch. You can feel his smirk against your skin before you see it, that lazy, knowing curve of his mouth that sends heat licking through your veins. A whine catches in your throat, weak and wanting, and your gaze flickers helplessly toward Eddie before you can stop yourself.

Eddie, who’s still staring. Eddie, whose fingers have gone white-knuckled around the arm of the couch. Eddie, who hasn’t taken a single fucking breath since Steve’s hand slid into your hair. ⁠His throat bobs as he swallows hard, Adam’s apple jumping under the strain, and when he shifts, the fabric of his jeans pulls taut over his thighs, denim straining where he’s already fully hard. The sight punches the air from your lungs, leaving you lightheaded.

Steve notices. Of course he fucking notices.

His thumb drags over your lower lip, calloused and insistent, tugging your mouth open just to watch the way your breath hitches, the way your tongue darts out instinctively to taste the salt of his skin. But his eyes—dark, amused, challenging—never leave Eddie.

“C'mon, Munson,” he taunts, voice rough with laughter and something lower, darker. “You really just going to sit there and watch her suffer like this?”

Eddie shifts, thighs tensing as he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. But the movement does nothing to hide the way his cock twitches against his zipper, the outline obscenely obvious now, thick and straining. 

He’s never been the nervous type in bed—never been one to fumble, to second-guess. Confidence comes easy when you know the rules, and he’s always known the game: quick with clever comebacks, filthy promises, and that razor-edged grin. But this?

This shit is different.

Because you’re not his to take.

You’re Steve’s.

The two of you have a relationship so sickeningly sweet it makes Robin fake-gag regularly—all tangled limbs and whispered inside jokes, shared glances that speak in a language no one else deciphers. It’s the kind of intimacy that leaves Eddie equal parts fascinated and furious, a gnawing hunger in his gut that he’s never allowed himself to name. Not fully. Not when it tastes like betrayal, like greed, like wanting something so far out of bounds it might as well be signed in his own blood.

And now Steve is watching him with that lazy, taunting stare, one eyebrow arched like he’s enjoying a private quip. Like he already knows Eddie’s going to fucking unravel the second his hands are on you. Like he’s counting on it.

Eddie’s throat clicks as he swallows hard, voice caught somewhere between desire and hesitation.

"I—" he begins, but the words falter, cracking like a teenager’s voice on the verge of breaking. His eyes flicker with a mixture of longing and restraint, fighting against the urge to give in.

Steve doesn’t let him hesitate. His grip tightens around your jaw, fingers firm but gentle, tilting your face up toward Eddie. The involuntary moan that slips past your lips is soft but incendiary—a pure, raw sound that immediately hits Eddie’s cock like a lightning strike, hot and undeniable.

“You what, Munson?” Steve presses, laced with a false innocence that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze darkens with amusement, a silent challenge hanging in the air. “Are you going to get your shit together? Or do I need to hold your fucking hand?”

That’s all Eddie needs. Something snaps inside him like a switch flipping. His hands, trembling at first, surge forward to grip your hips, yanking you onto his lap. His touch is tentative—like he’s afraid you’re a fragile illusion, about to shatter at the slightest touch—but that hesitation quickly dissolves. The second your nails scrape down his neck, drawing a shudder from him, he groans aloud and gives in completely, fingers digging into your hips. He looks at Steve one last time, searching his face for reassurance, for some sign that this isn’t some fever dream born from too much weed and reckless desire. That this moment is real.

Steve simply raises an eyebrow, giving a slow, deliberate nod—an unspoken command, an invitation.

Without further hesitation, Eddie pulls you closer, his lips crashing onto yours with a ferocity born of starvation. He kisses you like he’s been drowning, and you’re the first gasp of air he's tasted in days. His hands are already roaming, exploring, desperate to claim every inch of you. Your own fingers claw at his shirt, eager to rid yourselves of the barriers between you—anything to bring you closer.

Steve’s laugh is low, approving, a quiet sound that fuels the fire burning in Eddie’s gut. Eddie doesn’t quite know whether to flip him off or thank him—maybe both—but in this moment, neither matters.

His hips buck up into yours, a jarring movement that sends a jolt of friction straight to your core. The sharp gasp that escapes your lips is raw—like you’ve been waiting for this moment for ages. The contact sparks an electric current beneath your skin, each pulse of pleasure crackling through your veins, igniting every nerve ending. You instinctively arch into him, chasing the heat of his body pressed against yours, desperate to drown in the feeling.

Eddie’s mouth is molten, a fiery brand against your skin. His lips leave a trail of heat as they slide down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you catch your breath. Each nip is a promise—rough and teasing, a slow burn that leaves you trembling—and each kiss is a torturous whisper of sensation, a deliberate game of push and pull that keeps you on the edge.

Your gaze flickers back to Steve, half-lidded and needy, eyes dark with unspoken hunger. He lounges casually against the couch, one arm draped over the back, the other lazily tipping a bottle to his lips, but nothing about his relaxed posture feels genuine. The way his fingers curl tightly around the glass betrays his composure—white-knuckled and tense. His jaw clenches subtly, a tell that he’s fighting to keep his cool, even as his eyes—so hungry, so intense—track every movement you make.

He watches you and Eddie with a predatory focus, drinking in every shiver Eddie wrings from you, every tremor that rips through your body. His gaze lingers on your fingers clutching Eddie’s shoulders, on your breath coming in uneven little pants, and every little sound you make seems to feed his desire, fuelling the simmering heat that’s barely contained beneath his calm exterior.

The air between you three hangs thick with anticipation, heavy and electric—each exhale infused with unspoken longing, every breath a shared secret that crackles in the silence. The tension is palpable, almost tangible, like a living thing coiled tight and waiting to unravel. “Please,” you whimper softly, your voice trembling as you roll your hips in slow, deliberate circles. The friction of fabric against your skin only intensifies the ache between your thighs, a dull, persistent thrum that demands release. You press down harder, chasing the heat, desperate for more—more contact, more sensation, more everything.

Steve’s smirk is infuriatingly calm, his expression cool as he sets the bottle aside, the glass softly clinking against the table. His eyes linger on you, dark and unreadable, as he says, with a low, velvet rasp that only makes your pulse race, “I’m not the one you need to ask, sweetheart.” The words curl around you like smoke—smooth, dangerous, and utterly commanding.

Eddie’s nose nudges the neckline of your top lower, his breath hot and tantalising against the swell of your breast. His lips brush over your skin in a fleeting, maddening caress—tongue flicking out to taste, to tease, to torment. A soft whimper escapes you, fingers twisting into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against you, a raw sound that vibrates through your body. When you rasp his name—“Eddie, please”—his eyes flicker with a mixture of lust and hunger. He tears himself away just long enough to meet your gaze, pupils blown wide, lips slick from your skin, a raw, primal want etched into every line of his face. 

“Fuck—yeah, anything—” Eddie’s voice is wrecked already; his hands tighten on your hips, grip fierce as he grinds upward into you, the friction stealing your breath. Every movement is a craving, a hunger that can’t be contained, a relentless push toward the edge.

Your hands scramble desperately for Eddie’s belt, fingers fumbling with urgency, nails scraping against leather as you try to tear him free. Every second feels like an eternity—your need mounting, your body aching to feel him fully, to have him inside you. The moment his pants finally give way—along with yours—his cock springs free, heavy and hot against your bare stomach, sending a shiver straight through you.

Eddie’s head drops back with a guttural groan, his hips jerking upward instinctively, as if drawn by an unbreakable magnet. His muscles tense beneath your touch, the heavy desire burning in his eyes as he braces himself for what's to come.

When he finally sheaths inside you in one brutal, perfect glide, the sensation is everything. You’re soaked, clenching around him in frantic, greedy ripples before he’s even fully seated—every inch stretching you deliciously tight. The burn is exquisite, almost too much, and you can’t help but muffle a broken sob against his shoulder, overwhelmed by the sensation.

Eddie’s hands grip your hips like a lifeline, fingers digging into your flesh as if anchoring himself to you. His throat works around a silent curse, Adam’s apple bobbing wildly, desperate to hold back.

“Fuck—” His cock twitches inside you, already on the edge, trembling with the effort to hold back. You can feel it—the way his thighs quiver beneath you, the tight grip of his hands, the tension radiating off him like static. He’s fighting—trying to keep his stamina intact because cumming just moments after entering would be embarrassing, a waste, especially when he’s barely begun to savour this. Yet every second, his body betrays him, urging him closer to the edge. And you, desperate and insatiable, cling to him, feeling the heat of his desire, knowing that neither of you can hold back much longer.

Your gaze flicks to Steve, the tension in his body unmistakable—his own arousal painfully evident beneath the waistband of his trousers. Fully hard, lips parted as he watches you ride Eddie with desperate, grinding thrusts—his eyes dark with hunger and restraint. His jaw is clenched tight, resisting the urge to touch himself, every muscle taut with need, fighting the craving to give in. And when your eyes meet his, he doesn’t hesitate. He commands, low and rough, his voice thick with desire and authority as his gaze stays fixated on you.

“Rub your fingers over her clit.”

It’s not even a request—it's an order. Eddie obeys instantly, his calloused fingers finding your swollen bundle of nerves, pressing into it with greedy pressure. The sudden contact makes you cry out sharply, your hips bucking against him as if seeking more. Your moans spill into the air like a sinful melody, raw and unfiltered, echoing around the room.

Steve’s lips curl into a smirk, satisfaction flickering in his dark gaze as he watches you unravel, caught in the storm of pleasure he’s orchestrated.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, voice dripping with approval, each word laced with pride. Your ass twitches against Eddie’s pelvis as you grind down harder, taking him deeper, chasing that perfect, dizzying high. Eddie’s cock jerks inside you; the sensation of your body moving against him, so tight and wet, feels like an exquisite punishment, every ripple of your muscles designed to drown him. You’re dripping around him, slick and clenching, as if your body was made solely to decimate him. His cock moves through your soaked core, gliding through your wetness, a perfect fit—each thrust sending shockwaves through both of you. Eddie is so close to losing it—so far gone he can’t tell if the moans echoing in the room are his or yours or—  Steve’s.

“Keep going, baby,” Steve’s voice is gravel and velvet, his hand splayed possessively over the small of your back, urging you down harder, deeper. “Look at you. Taking him so fucking well.”

Eddie’s eyes roll back—literally—because, fuck, this isn’t just pleasure anymore. It’s a goddamn boss battle, and you’ve got him trapped under a status effect he can’t escape. His body shudders like a plucked guitar string, breath ragged and uneven, cock jerking inside you as your fluttering walls threaten to bring him to the brink. Every tiny movement of your hips frays his control further, every gasp and moan blurring into a tangled mess. He’s fighting—barely holding on—clinging to whatever shred of composure he can muster, even as you pull him apart with every responsive ripple of your body.

You’re a wreck above him, trembling and breathless, chanting Steve’s name like a prayer—like he’s the only god who’s ever answered. Even though it’s Eddie buried deep inside you, your voice is pure worship, trembling with raw need and surrender. Your thighs clamp around Eddie’s hips with violent spasms, milking him relentlessly—like you’re determined to extract his very soul through his cock. His body jerks beneath you, muscles taut, on the verge of losing control, his climax coiling tight and desperate in his gut.

And Steve notices.

“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, voice low and rough, leaning in close. His breath hot against Eddie’s ear, each word dripping with authority and desire. “Fuck her just like that—harder. She’s close. Want to feel her cum on you?” His hand slides up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make you whimper, a sound of pure need.

Eddie’s senses are aflame—every nerve ending tingling as he fights to hold back, but it’s impossible. Heaven isn’t some pearly-gated choir. No, it’s this—your slick, trembling body, the wet heat surrounding him, the way you writhe and cling to him like a vice. It’s a sin so sweet it nearly baptises him in its own salvation, a divine kind of damnation that leaves him craving more. He chuckles softly to himself, cursing the irony—maybe he should start going to church, just to thank God for this wicked blessing.

Then, with a shuddering gasp, Eddie gathers his last shreds of control, driving into you harder and faster, each stroke rough and relentless. His pace remains steady, hands gripping your hips as he pushes you closer to the edge. He can feel you cumming around him—your body tightening, convulsing, writhing in helpless pleasure. You bury your face in his neck, gasping as your surrender becomes complete. And that’s all it takes—Eddie’s own body erupts, spilling inside you, his climax crashing through him like a tidal wave. His body goes on autopilot, fucking you through your orgasm with reckless abandon, veins pounding, senses overloaded. Every muscle tightens, every breath uneven as he rides the waves of pleasure that threaten to drown him. As the final tremors fade, you collapse with Eddie still buried inside you, clinging to him in the aftermath, the heat of your bodies mingling, sweat cooling on your skin in silence—only the sound of your ragged breathing and the distant echo of hearts pounding in your chests.

[jellyfishline]

Sorry for adding unsolicited advice, but one of the most valuable things I've learned as a writer is how to push over this kind of block! So I'm gonna share a few strategies that have helped me, and might help other people too!

Strategy one: skip over it.

Literally don't write a transition. Just skip to the next interesting scene. Promise yourself you'll go back and write a smooth transition later. A shocking amount of the time when I come back to edit I find that I don't even need more of a transition at all. Sometimes, your brain is so stuck in the story that it doesn't want to leave any negative space, but the negative space of a new scene, a new chapter, or a new paragraph is what the story craves.

Strategy two: just describe it.

Don't try to write it nicely, prettily, or well. Write like you're making an instruction manual, or notes for an actor in a screenplay. Write "and then they walked into the room." Write "and the conversation was over." Write "the next day, [blank] happened." Again, a shocking amount of the time for me, writing it in plain language turns out to be what the story needed. And if it does need more detail, you can always add that detail later! It is so much easier to add frills once you've got the bedrock of a scene in place.

Strategy three: just dialogue.

Idk how often this happens to other people, but I often get tripped up trying to juggle dialogue, actions, body language, and internal monologue when writing. When that happens, I switch to writing just the dialogue in short exchanges, no dialogue tags or description, with only paragraph breaks and punctuation to structure it. This both frees me up from the paralysis of trying to write everything at once, and has the added benefit of really honing in on character voices. I love to try to give all my major characters a distinctive enough voice that you can work out who's talking by the cadence of their speech, even without dialogue tags.

Strategy four: outline it.

This is sort of an expanded version of strategy two. If you're really struggling, or if this transition is something you know is going to take a whole scene or a whole chapter and more than just a line or two of description, pause to write out the events in a short, descriptive, beat-by-beat way. "They talked. They argued. No one listened to each other. They all went to bed frustrated." Sometimes this beat-by-beat plotting will transform into something you can really use--fragments of dialogue, a solid description, a realization that you can restructure so an important piece of information doesn't actually have to go here--but if not you still have a workable framework to either propel you into the next scene or start building up into a meatier bit of prose.

Strategy five: just do it.

Putting this strategy at the end because while I think it’s a lot of writers' first instincts when coming up to a roadblock, I also think the inability to force ourselves through the boring miserable bits of writing and "just do it" is a major reason why projects get abandoned. Sometimes, you might find yourself in a position where you really do just have to write your way out of the problem you've made for yourself. In those cases, I think it’s a good idea to take a deep breath, be generous with yourself, and applaud yourself for showing up, even if you're only writing a sentence or two every day. Writing is hard! Even professionals have bad days. You don't have to burn yourself out putting words on a page. Take the pressure to perform off yourself, and just write what you can. Eventually you'll get past it, and the words will flow again.

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[hearts4hughes]

okayyy so i have a request . can you write tigh riding w dbf rafe and bug reader. but without any weirdness like she calls him "daddy". I'm sorry . in general write as you feel, but I want it to be that the reader tries not to show that she wants to do it, but then gives in. maybe he sees that she is not calm all day and he kind of lets her relax, but at first she pretends she doesn't want to? I don't know. well or you can do it the way you feel will be better

warnings: smut (mdni), thigh riding, age gap (reader is 20+)

you’ve been quiet all day. not in the sweet, dreamy way you usually are—drifting around the house in red socks and too-big sunglasses, humming show tunes and popping grapes in your mouth like a bored heiress. no, today it’s the other kind of quiet. the kind where you’re too aware of your body—too aware of his.

he’s been here since noon—fixing the sink, helping your dad with the broken fence, doing the things he always does without being asked. and you’ve been trying so hard not to look at him. not to need him. but god, it’s not easy.

not when he’s in a white tee soaked with sweat, hair messy, sleeves rolled, hands rough. not when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans against the counter like he knows what he’s doing to you. he always knows. yet today, he’s not saying anything. he’s just watching.

by the time your dad heads out for a work dinner, it’s sunset. the house is quiet. golden. soft. rafe’s still here and still in that goddamn t-shirt. you sit on the couch with your knees tucked under you, pretending to scroll your phone, heart thudding so loud it’s embarrassing. you don’t say a word. you don’t have to because eventually, he walks over.

he sits next to you, slow and calm. his thigh brushes yours. “you’ve been tense all day,” he says, voice low, casual.

you blink, glance up. “i’m fine.”

“sure,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth. “you always go quiet and pouty when you’re fine.”

you glare. “i’m not pouty.”

he just raises a brow. lets the silence stretch. then, his lips curl into a devilish smirk. “come here.” you shake your head. “i didn’t mean like that,” he says, voice steady. “just…sit on my lap for a second.”

your stomach drops. heat curls low in your spine. “no,” you say too fast. “why?” he leans back, spreads his legs slightly, and shrugs.

“you’re clearly fidgety. figured you could settle down.”

settle down. you hate how your body responds to that. you should say no—you want to say no. but your thighs ache, and you’ve been clenching your jaw for hours, and he smells like soap and salt and home.

you hesitate—then shift. you crawl into his lap. not in a suggestive way—just carefully, cautiously, like you’re pretending it means nothing. he keeps his hands to himself and rests them on the couch. you sit sideways across him, your legs draped over one of his thighs, your body curled, head tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

his breath is steady. his body is warm. slowly, you realize how solid his leg is beneath you. your hips shift without thinking and your breath catches when your core brushes the muscle. he doesn’t move and doesn’t say a word. but you can feel it. the tension and the shift in the air. the way he knows. “rafe,” you whisper, voice cracking. he hums. “you said—just for a second.”

his voice is gentle. “i know.” your hands fist in the front of his shirt. you press your thighs together. your hips twitch again, the tiniest grind—just once, just to feel—and that’s all it takes. his hand slides up your back, his lips ghost your temple. “go ahead,” he murmurs, barely audible. not pushing or not demanding…just giving.

you let yourself move. slow and hesitant. a single roll of your hips against his thigh.then another. and another. you’re already wet—already shaking. your head drops to his shoulder as your hips rock again, this time a little harder. “you needed this, huh?” he says, voice low and wrecked.

“i didn’t mean to—”

“shh.” he kisses the side of your head. “you’re okay. take what you need.”

you do. you grind against him until your whole body’s trembling, fingers digging into his arms, whimpering his name so soft he almost doesn’t hear it. but he does because he hears everything. finally, you break. you shudder and still and melt into his chest. he wraps his arms around you like you’re the only thing that matters.

you believe it and he knows it.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04

[thevanillerose]

FAN | YANDERE!JINU x READER | KPOP DEMON HUNTERS

~ WRITING COMMISSIONS ~ ~ PATREON ~ ~ KO-FI ~ ~ NOVELS ~ Join my Patreon to get early access to my works, exclusive stories and free commissions!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own anything except my own writing. All properties belong to their respective creators. Content Warning: YANDERE | Captivity A/N: Like everyone and their mother, and their grandmother, and their great grandmother, I'm simping for Jinu (and Abs).

You didn’t mean to be there.

Your friend begged you to come—front row tickets to the Saja Boys, a gift she didn’t want to use alone. When you tried to insist it wasn’t your thing, she persisted, convinced you’d somehow change your mind when you saw these guys.

“Trust me, they are AMAZING!”

Of course, shooting down your friend’s optimism wasn’t on the agenda. But…you really didn’t understand why she picked you. 

You didn’t even like idol groups. You didn’t wear glitter or carry photocards. You didn’t wave banners. You barely knew their names. You were the wrong kind of person for this.

And yet.

The stage was everything you expected—blinding lights, perfect smiles, choreography sharp enough to cut through hellfire. The fans around you screamed themselves hoarse, reaching and sobbing, tears streaming down painted cheeks. But you just stood there. Still. Watching.

Honestly, you had to admit, you kind of got it now. This energy was infectious, and the guys, well…not only were they easy on the eyes, but they made it all look so effortless. Despite your initial reservations, you found yourself getting drawn into it, fixated…

That was when…he saw you.

Jinu.

The leader of the group was every bit as handsome as people said. Dark haired and dark eyed, with a perfectly-sculpted face and a body to match. 

He didn’t miss a step. Didn’t falter. His routine was flawless. But his eyes locked onto yours straight from the stage, like a dagger pinning paper to a wall.

For a moment, just a moment, you swore you saw something. A flash of gold in his gaze, a sharp widening, almost pausing, almost stumbling over his next line.

Then just as quickly, it was gone, like something you had merely imagined. He was back to effortlessly, beautifully performing.

As if nothing were amiss.

Weirdly, it made you uneasy. It was surely just a trick of the light, but you wondered if it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get some air anyway, if you could somehow muscle yourself out of this crowd. 

If I had made that choice then…how different things would have been.

It started slow. A shimmer in the air. A strange distortion in the bass. One of the backup dancers collapsed mid-move, and a few gasps arose in your section. 

His body arched all of a sudden, more sounds of shock erupting, as something blue and wispy came trailing up from his chest.

That was no trick of the light. That was real.

And then Romance stopped dancing. Turned his head sharply. Grinned wide, his human eyes melting to yellow slits.

The crowd screamed—but not in excitement this time. In terror, and confusion. No fancy stage effects could make something like that happen.

Their idols, their precious, beloved idols, began to change.

Skin shifting to deep violet. Claws unfurling. Pupils narrowing to slits. Fangs flashing in the flashing strobe lights.

Demons.

The entire stadium fell into chaos. Security fled. Lights shattered overhead. The screams grew ragged as girls collapsed one by one, faces frozen in euphoria as glowing threads lifted from their chests—souls. Pouring out like perfume from open bottles.

You couldn’t move.

You were frozen.

You should have run. Everyone else did, and you even watched your friend vanish into the stampede. But your legs didn’t work. You were locked in place. 

And Abby—Abs Saja—was walking toward you. Slowly. Casually. Like a predator savoring the only meal that hadn’t bolted. And, to him, you were a meal.

“Well now,” he said, voice silk and static. “Not even gonna try?”

You opened your mouth. No words came out. What could you say? What could you do?

This didn’t feel real.

Abby smiled. And opened his mouth wide, suddenly lunging for you. All you could see was a blur of pink and gold, before you were knocked back with a painful, cracking thud against the confetti-littered ground. 

Abby, crouched over you, straddling your hips like a beast just before the bite. His face hovered inches from yours, demonic markings glowing faintly beneath the glamor of his skin. His yellow eyes burned like lit oil. His lips parted wide—too wide—revealing not just sharp fangs, but rows. More than human. More than necessary.

“You smell scared,” he purred, breath hot across your cheek. “I like that.”

You squirmed. Tried to shove him off. But his hands—clawed and heavy—pinned your wrists easily above your head. His grip was tight enough to bruise. His reputation as the ‘tough guy’ was accurate.

He leaned in closer, and you saw it. The flicker of energy, like thread made of smoke, rising from your chest. Your soul. He was calling it forward. Drawing it out.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered. “It won’t hurt long. Just feels like—suffocating. From the inside.”

He opened his mouth wider, and you shut your eyes tightly, yelping, bracing yourself.

Yet suddenly there was a sharp flash. A wind like a scream.

Abby was slammed off you, tossed like a doll into the wreckage of a shattered speaker. Metal shrieked. Sparks flew. The soul-thread snapped back into your chest and you gasped as air flooded your lungs, your second chance.

Above you stood Jinu.

“Enough.”

The voice cut through the air like lightning. He was glaring at the guy who’d just gone for your throat, clearly furious. In full demon form. But…still beautiful. Terrible and beautiful.

Abby hissed, pulling himself up out of a pile of broken banisters, wiping his mouth.

“It’s just a soul, Jinu.”

Jinu didn’t look at him. He looked at you.

And something in his gaze…cracked. Not the same feral hunger as his bandmate, but instead, a kind of admitted relief.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s not…”

Abby scoffed. “What the hell does that—”

Jinu didn’t let him finish. He extended his hand once more, still without so much as glancing his way, and sent a surge of rippling, demonic power straight for that famous chest of his. Abby was sent careening backwards halfway across the chaotic stadium.

Lowering his hand again, he stepped closer to you. Jinu reached out slowly, claws retracted now, and touched your wrist.

And the second his skin met yours—

Silence.

The voices in his head—the endless droning guilt, the ghost of Gwi-Ma’s laughter, the memory of his mother’s scream—they all stopped.

He could breathe. For the first time in centuries, he felt peace. 

Peace was far from what you were feeling, though. Your eyes were wide. Terrified. Trembling.

“You…” he whispered, awe-struck. “You made them stop…”

For a moment, just a moment, you didn’t know why but you felt…pity for him. You let his touch linger…you saw the humanity in his face.

But the shrieks and screams around you came flooding back in, and you were reminded.

He’s a monster! I have to—

Run. 

You tried.

But everything went black.

…

You woke up in a palace. 

Grander than the concert hall. Eerily dark and ornate. There were no windows. Only vast empty halls, flooded with a strange violet hue, petals scattered across lacquered floors. A single bipa lay in the corner of the room, untouched for centuries.

Jinu sat beside you. Legs folded. Head tilted.

Still in demon form—but his markings had dulled, as had the glow in his eyes. He may have been dressed like a reaper, all in black, but he was calm.

Nonetheless, you flinched and scrambled back, frightened. 

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’m not gonna eat your soul.”

You stared at him. “You’re…a demon.”

He smiled. Sad. Tired. Like it was a fact he had come to miserably accept a long time ago.

“Yes.”

You shook your head. “I should go—I shouldn’t be here—”

You tried to stand, and were surprised when he didn’t try to stop you. Yet all it took was two steps, and the walls around you warped. Suddenly, the hallway extended into a chasm. The doorway vanished.

You were trapped.

Turning back to him, your eyes began to fill with tears.

“Let me go…”

Finally, he stood. He walked across that strange, ever-shifting space towards you, until you were almost chest-to-chest. It only made you all the more aware of how small and fragile you were by comparison, to a man like this.

No. Not a man.

“I would,” he said. “If you weren’t the only thing keeping me sane.”

Need. You could see it in his face.

“I didn’t know what I was missing,” he said, voice rough. “Until I looked at you and everything finally…stopped. The noise. The shame. Gwi-Ma’s curse. It all stopped.”

You backed away. He followed, toe-to-toe.

“Do you know what that feels like?” His voice cracked. “To have your mind to yourself again? Just for one second?”

The two of you were forced to a stop by the paper wall behind your back. You cowered against it, whimpering in his shadow.

“You’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel human again. So no, I’m not letting you go.”

This…has to be a nightmare. This can’t be real. None of this can be real!

Desperately, you tried to push past him, to get away. Whatever this evil place was, this place that felt so cloying, that smelt so strongly of blood, you had to escape it. 

But of course, Jinu didn’t let you budge. He grabbed you by your upper arms, pushing you back against the wall again, with force enough to almost break through it.

“LET ME GO–”

He cut you off with a kiss. A surprisingly tender kiss, that left you reeling for a moment, that spread a heat through your body despite yourself. You weakened against the wall, sinking a little. 

A seal. A pact. A claim.

That was how it felt. 

But clarity came again, and you shoved him hard, gasping and turning your face away. Your trembling hand covered your mouth, struggling to believe he had really just done that. 

He stumbled away—but only because he let you. He could have easily held strong. 

For a moment, he gazed at you sadly. It was what he had expected, but still, in an ideal world, you might have been able to accept him. To see just how much he needed you. To stay, willingly.

Lowering his head, he sighed slowly.

“If you knew how it felt, you’d understand. But it’s alright. We have time…I can tell you everything.”

“I don’t care!” horrified, letting your anger show, you lowered your hand slowly and looked at him from the wall with a glare, “You’re nothing but a demon! And I won’t let you keep me here like some sort of prisoner!”

Jinu stilled.

“...So you still think you can run, is that it?”

As his head raised, his fangs glinted. His eyes were glowing again.

This time, he looked more amused than anything else. It seemed whatever sorrow, whatever sympathy he had felt for you, had now waned.

With a tilt of his head, he gave an eerie smile. 

“You can be scared of me. That’s fine. You can scream and struggle. Try to escape. But it’s futile.”

He began pacing towards you again,

“I’ve suffered long enough. These voices…I can’t bear it anymore. I refuse.”

As he reached you, he leaned close. Eyes boring into yours, as his clawed hand cupped your cheek, and the tips of his sharpened nails dug a little into the plush surface of your skin.

“My master doesn’t need your soul…”

He slid his hand slowly down your throat, and curled his fingers delicately against it, feeling your pulse.

“I do.”

Seeing your fear, he smiled, though there was nothing comforting about it.

“Don’t worry. I won’t kill you for it.”

Jinu pressed closer, his body fully against his, his lips by your ear,

“I’ll keep you here. Alive. Forever…”

You let out a squeak as he nipped at your skin. 

“You’re mine now, little fan.”

Like my writing? I can write for you! Check out my WRITING COMMISSIONS!

[snapdragons-nest]

I feel like you lose a lot of nuance about who Snotlout is as a character by watering down his relationship with Spitelout to "Snotlout and his physically abusive father who hates him"

Like. Snotlout is who he is because he has a weird fucked up relationship with his emotionally manipulative and unavailable father. Snotlout is insecure because Spitelout is insecure

I am of the belief that Spitelout isn't physically abusive, nor hates his son, but I feel like a large part of this fandom doesn't want to have that conversation 😭💀

[secondbeatsongs]

hey, could you explain the bill that got passed to me, a non-usamerican? i haven't seen reports on it in my country yet and i wanna get angry with you

it's hard to know how much context you have about how the US government works to be able to understand this, but the AP has an article about what's in the latest version of the bill:

but to talk personally: I will lose my health insurance if this passes. it might not be right away (or it could be; we don't know), but myself, my sibling, and at least 630,000 other people in my state would lose their healthcare.

having this health insurance has been one of the most amazing things to happen to me. because of this I can afford my medications, and I was able to have multiple life-saving surgeries that I needed over the past five years. if I hadn't had this insurance, I honestly might not be alive right now.

and that's really the tip of the iceberg - there's so much other shit in this bill that will have devastating impacts on the american people. it's...horrific.

and I know you're not usamerican, but for anyone who is: https://5calls.org/

call your representatives. put your location into the website, and it will give you a script. read the script over once (to familiarize yourself with it, and to see if there are any special instructions for if you're leaving a voicemail), call the number, and then read the script out loud.

if a person answers, their job is to write down that you called and what your position is, and your social skills or anxiety level will not matter to them. if you reach a voicemail box (which you probably will if it's past 5pm ET), leave a message.

jesus, I'm exhausted. but we have to do what we can. and right now, this is it.

[ancientstone]

i've been on and off tumblr the past few years but whenver i come back you're hte blog i want to catch up on <3 i still read your fics pretty often, much love hope writing is going well !! :3

Thank you anon 🥺❤️❤️