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charmedimsure · 6 months ago

Note

Hello! Can I order a Dae Ho one-shot? about the reader who comes to the game pregnant and meets Dae Ho there and they have some kind of connection and he tells her that when they get out of there he would like to be with her and the baby.

thank you and happy new year <3

*slams bell* ORDER UP! (im sorry that was so cringey)

THE THREE OF US || kang dae-ho

pairing: Kang Dae-ho x f!reader

summary: Trying to make it out of the games with both you and your baby's lives, you meet a man who is determined to help.

word count: 6.3k (i did not expect it to be this long thats what she said)

warnings: pregnancy, guns, death, blood, squid game stuff

A/N: i love jun-hee, but the reader replaces her in this fic. reader has no connection to myung-gi (333). if you find any mistakes no you didn't <3

Part 2: After the Games

The second game is about to start, and time is running out for you to find a team. You've approached a few groups, but have been turned away by all of them. Turns out most groups don't want women on their team.

Out of the corner of your eye you spot the man who had won these games before, along with the man who beat up those other players the day before. Figuring you might as well take a shot, you approach them.

Just as you get to them, a handsome man comes running over, pulling a player along behind him. "Sir! I got someone! He'll definitely risk his life to win."

The man he brought salutes the others. "Victory at all costs!"

The shorter man in the group, player 390, smiles and salutes back. "Hey, were you in the Marines?"

"Class 946, sir!"

Player 390 laughs. "Boy, with three ex-Marines, we'll be invincible." He turns to players 001 and 456. "What do you think? I like him."

Great, you think to yourself. Now they get to pick between an ex-Marine and a woman who can barely stand for more than 20 minutes at a time. Still though, this is a good team, and you'll be damned if you don't at least try.

"Excuse me," you say, getting the group's attention. "Please let me join your team."

Player 390 speaks up. "Sorry, we've already got five people."

Fuck it. Time to pull out the big guns.

"Please help me," you plead, leaning back a bit and putting your hand up to your swollen belly. "I'm pregnant."

All five men grow silent as they look down to your stomach.

"Time for team selection is up."

You can feel the stares of your new team on you as the second game is announced. You just look forward, trying to listen to voice.

"The game you will be playing is Six-Legged Pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each player will take turns playing a mini-game at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one. Here are the mini games. Number one, Ddakji. Number two, Flying Stone. Number three, Gong-gi. Number four, Spinning Top. Number five, Jegi. Your goal is to win all the mini-games and cross the finish line in five minutes. Please decide players for each mini-game."

Player 390 turns to his friend. "It's good that we got a woman." He turns to you. "You can play Gong-gi, right?"

You give him a sorry look as you shake your head.

His smile falters. "Don't girls play Gong-gi anymore?"

You look down at the sand. "I've played it, but I was never good at it."

You can see the disappointment on his face as he nods.

Player 388 takes a deep breath as he turns toward 390. "Actually, I can play Gong-gi."

390 gives him a confused look. "You? And ex-Marine?"

You give 390 a weird look. Is it really that hard to believe that a military man has played a kid's game before?

388 gets embarrassed. "I grew up with four older sisters. I used to play it with them from time to time."

You smile, thinking it's sweet that he used to play games with his sisters.

390 claps him on the back. "That's right. There's nothing a Marine can't do."

Player 456 leans forward to look at all of you. "Everyone else, what game are you confident playing?"

You take a deep breath. Jegi was the game you were best at growing up, but you don't think you'll be able to play it in your condition. You lean forward as well. "I can play Ddakji. At the subway station I flipped the guy's on my first try."

390 nods. "Okay. Miss 222, you can play Ddakji. I'll play Flying Stone. I was a pitcher for my baseball team. I'm good at throwing."

As 456 and 001 decide who will play Jegi and who will play Spinning Top, 388 turns to you.

"Did you really beat him on the first try? It took me at least eight."

You breathe out a laugh and give him a small smile. "Yeah. I probably could have paid off my debt if he had let us keep playing." Your smile falters as you rest your hand on your swollen stomach. "It would have been safer for the baby."

388 frowns sympathetically and scoots a bit towards you. "We will get out of here. And after that, we will go home. You and your baby will be safe."

Although you don't completely believe him, you still give him a smile and thank him for his kind words.

You feel movement in your stomach and let out a small yelp at the unexpected feeling, looking down towards your hand.

"Are you alright? What happened?" 388 asks, concern clear on his face.

With a smile, you lift your head to look at him and the others who have directed their attention to you. "I felt the baby kick."

Player 388 breaks out into a smile as he looks to your belly, seemingly fascinated by what is happening inside of you.

Player 001 lets out a loud laugh. "The baby wants to play Jegi."

You let out a chuckle as the men laugh. You made a good choice asking these players for help.

"All right guys, bring your hands together," 390 says, sticking his hand out in front of him. "All together now."

You need to scoot over a bit, but you put your hand on the pile on top of 388's, who gives you a shy smile.

"On three, we go, 'Victory at all costs.' One, two, three..."

"Victory at all costs!"

The walls open and forklifts are brought in holding boxes with pink bows on top. You watch as the bodies of both teams are separated from each other and placed into each box. One team had made it past the fourth mini-game, while the other had only just finished the second. Both teams were executed.

The bodies are eventually cleared out, but the blood remains on the track. The second team lines up and you recognize the sweet old lady who had given you her egg this morning, as well as her son. Shit, you really hope they make it.

The gun fires and they're off. The first girl, player 095, looks so nervous I'm worried she won't be able to throw the Ddakji. Her first three attempts fail, and she looks as though she won't be able to continue. Player 120 whispers something to her and she nods. She picks up the Ddakji, turns in over in her hand, and smacks it to the floor. Success.

The group celebrates as they move on, and you make a mental note of that little trick for when it's your turn.

Next is player 007, the son. He throws the stone and misses. Instead of panicking like the past groups, they quickly grab the stone and move backwards to the line, saving lots of time. As 007 is preparing to throw the stone again, his mother whispers something to him. A look of anger washes over his face.

"That asshole ruined my fucking life!"

A perfect hit. The entire crowd cheers as they advance to the next mini-game. You smile to yourself. They can do this.

Next is the mother playing Gong-gi. She drops her first two tries. You're guessing it must be at least a few decades since she last played.

"Old hag! What are you doi-"

Player 120 puts her hand over player 044's mouth to shut her up.

You watch as 007 speaks to his mother. With a new look of determination in her eyes, she blasts through Gong-gi until she needs to make the final catch. You and player 388 sit on your heels to get a better look. Her son speaks to her again, and face turns to one of rage.

"Rotten bitch!"

All five pieces end up in her hand.

"She did it!" Player 390 says, getting to his feet, 388 following after him. You try to get up but fall back as you lose your balance. Player 388 notices and holds your arms to help you up, keeping a hand on your back to keep you steady as you stand to watch the next game.

044 fumbles the top as she's wrapping it, but quickly retrieves it and tries again. She fumbles a few more times before stopping. Her team freaks out as she stands there mumbling to herself.

A gasp rings out through the crowd as 120 slaps 044 twice, picking up the fallen top and pointing it threateningly at 044's eye.

"Oh shit," you say under your breath.

Player 044 wipes away the blood streaming from her nose and tries again the wrap the string around the top. She gets it on her first throw and the crowd screams in joy as they move to the next one. Everyone is standing now to watch, chanting along to each step.

Player 120 is handed the Jegi and requests that everyone turns around. Not wanting to mess them up, everyone turns without hesitation. The room is silent besides the sound of the Jegi hitting 120's shoes.

Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Five times.

It's done! They did it!

The rooms bursts into screams as the team crosses the finish line at the last second. You turn and hug 388 in pure joy as he jumps up and down. He quickly pulls away so he doesn't do anything to harm the baby, but keeps his arm around you as he celebrates with 390.

The teams keep going, with everyone celebrating the wins and wincing at the gunfire until it is finally your turn.

As you walk to the starting position, a hand gently grabs your wrist and you turn to see player 388. "Make sure to be careful. Take it easy and don't strain yourself."

You nod with a small smile and thank him, taking your spot in the outer ring of the small track. You take deep breaths as the harnesses are secured around your ankles.

"It's a little sad that we have no audience, isn't it?" 390 says, worry in his voice. He nudges 388. "Hey, are you scared?"

"No sir!" 388 yells, making you jump a bit as you were not expecting it. "It's quiet and easier to focus without anyone watching."

390 looks towards the other team. "Hey guys! We'll see you again at the finish line! Victory at all costs!"

The other team yells back their thanks and support before the pistol is fired and you're off.

When you approach the first mini-game, you take the blue tile and turn it over in your hand to match 095's. Throwing it hard at the floor, you yell in delight as the red tile flips over.

You move on to the next game, holding your stomach as you walk.

As 390 takes the stone, 388 yells out "Let's get this done the first time! I believe in you!"

"When I played baseball, my pitches might have been slow, but I had excellent ball control." You watch as the stones collide and yell out in victory as you move to the next one.

388 takes the Gong-gi pieces and you all crouch down.

390 faces him. "Dae-ho, stay calm. Even if you mess up..."

Player 388, or Dae-ho, puts his finger over his mouth to shush him before facing the board, rolling his wrist a few times and dropping the pieces. As quickly as he can, Dae-ho flawlessly gets through the game and catches all five pieces. You and your team members look at each other in awe of what you just watched. It seems that even Dae-ho can't believe he did it.

He lets out a scream as the guard confirms that he passed.

"That was amazing!" Player 390 yells. "Dae-ho, my boy!"

As you move to the fourth mini game, Player 390 looks down at you. "You're expecting, so be careful."

You nod but try to keep your pace, leaning on the small green table once you get to where you need to be.

As player 001 wraps the string around the top, Dae-ho bounces excitedly. "We might get through everything on the first attempt!"

Player 001 throws the top and it falls lazily to the floor as you all frown.

"It's okay, we have enough time," 456 says. "Let's go pick it up. Ready, go."

You all move forward together to grab the top. "No fun passing everything without a hitch," 390 says.

"That's right," 388 confirms. "You can't grow without failure, right?"

You guess he's right, but it would've been nice to pass everything easily. At least you still have three minutes left.

001 grabs the top and you move back to your spots. On his next throw you watch helplessly as the top flies behind your group. You would have laughed in any other situation.

Player 001 apologizes and you move back to grab the top, with 001 taking his sweet time to pick it up. To save time, he tries wrapping it as you walk forward again, but he breaks out of the arm link in frustration. This time he throws it as soon as it is wrapped. It doesn't spin, but at least it lands directly in front of him so you don't have to move again.

Player 456 picks up the top as 001 sighs in frustration. "What the hell is wrong with me?" He screams and you gasp when he starts slapping himself and calling himself an idiot.

456 takes his arms to stop him. "Try to remember the times when you had fun playing this."

001 nods and takes the top and string again. You take the time to look at the clock and feel a wave of worry wash over you when you see that you have less than a minute left. This time, 001 throws the top with his left hand and it spins perfectly on its axle.

You yell in joy as you quickly links arms again and move to the last game. Player 390 checks on you again as you move, and you just wave him off. The stress can't be good for the baby, but it's definitely not as bad as a bullet.

456 grabs the jegi and moves the pink soldier out of the way. He throws it up.

One hit. Two hits. Three hits. Four hits...

You watch in horror as the jegi flies in front of 456. Quickly, 001 kicks his foot out, making you all almost fall as the jegi lands on top of 456's left foot.

"Pass."

You all yell out victoriously and quickly move, crossing the finish line with a second to spare.

As you're all hugging each other, you flinch at the sounds of gunshots coming from the other side of the room. The other team didn't make it.

The main room is oddly quiet as you walk in. As happy as everyone was to see people pass while watching the games, they don't seem to be very happy about it now. Player 390 next to you waves at someone, and you look in the direction to see the woman and her son.

"That sweet old lady," he says with a smile. "I miss my mom."

You smile at the lady and bow your head to her as she gives you a big smile and two thumbs up.

As you sit down to rest and wait for the pink soldiers, 001 speaks up. "I'm sorry about earlier, everyone."

"If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have made the last kick," 456 says and you nod.

001 looks at you. "Player 222, are you feeling alright?"

You nod. "Yes. Thank you all for letting me be on your team."

Dae-ho smiles shyly and nods.

"She smashed that ddakji and flipped it on her first try, that was impressive," 390 says, making you smile at the praise. "She did great, even while carrying a baby. We were lucky she joined our team."

Dae-ho nods. "What about your Flying Stone play? You hit it with one shot! With an underhand pitch at that! Bam!" You let out a small laugh as he reenacts 390's throw. "You were like Kim Byung-hyun."

"And you?" 390 says. "Was Gong-gi the only game you ever played?" He quickly moves his hand around to imitate Dae-ho. "I could barely see your hand. It was like a martial arts movie."

Dae-ho laughs. "I'm the only son for two generations. My mom only let me play at home with my sisters."

"And yet they let their precious son join the Marines?" 390 questions.

Dae-ho hesitates. "My father's idea, he wanted me to be more of a man. He fought in the Vietnam War, you see."

"He sounds like a great man," 390 says and Dae-ho nods. "Was he a Marine, too?"

You can see the discomfort on Dae-ho's face and he quickly excuses himself from answering the question, instead standing up to face everyone. "Listen. Perhaps we should learn each other's names. I still don't know your names, gentlemen." He smiles a bit more when he looks to you. "Or your's, Miss. I'll start. I'm Kang Dae-ho. 'Dae' means 'big', 'ho' means 'tiger'."

"'Big tiger.' Cool name," 390 says. "My name is Park Jung-bae. 'Righteous' and 'twice'. My parents wanted me to be twice as righteous."

You go next, stating your name for the group. "I don't know what it means, though."

001 says your name, getting your attention. "When you get out of here, go see a doctor right away. You've been under a lot of stress. You need to get yourself checked out."

You nod. "Okay."

"I'm Oh Young-il," 001 says. He points out how it sounds like his number and the group laughs at the coincidence. Young-il turns to 456. "Oh, Gi-hun, what's your last name?"

"My name is Seong Gi-hun," Gi-hun says.

"'Seong' literally means 'last name'," Young-il laughs aloud by himself.

A loud buzz is heard and the guards enter the room. After revealing the results of the game and announcing the next vote, your team turns to each other.

You look down at the red X on your track suit, and look up to see the blue 'O' on Dae-ho's. He sees your gaze and frowns down at his patch.

"I'm telling you, we'll get out this time," he says to the team, though he is mainly looking at you. He looks down at his patch again and curses under his breath. "A Marine should think strategically and know when to retreat." He puts a hand on Jung-bae's shoulder. "Isn't that right, brother?"

"Yeah, you're right," Jung-bae says weakly. "Marines aren't invincible. We should get out." Despite saying this, the look on his face and the nervousness in his tone contradict his words.

"We have to end the games here," Gi-hun says. He turns to look at you. "I will help you guys when we get out. Please trust me and support this vote."

You smile and nod in thanks.

"Guys, all huddle up again," Dae-ho smiles as he sticks out his hand.

"Victory at all costs."

You frown as the buzzer goes off one last time. There had been some... complications during the voting. This lead to the final vote being 116 for X and 139 for O. Standing next to Dae-ho, you don't miss the look of betrayal on his face as he looks over to Jung-bae with the blue patch on his chest.

Dae-ho lets out a loud sigh as you eat your bread. "Brother! Brother Jung-bae!"

You can see Jung-bae tense up from his spot behind the beds.

With a sigh, Dae-ho stands up and approaches the man. "Hey, just come back here."

"No, I'm good here," you hear Jung-bae answer. You roll your eyes.

"Oh, come on." Dae-ho grabs Jung-bae and drags him to face the group.

He stops and stares at you all before speaking. "I'm sorry. I borrowed some emergency cash, and the creditors are harassing my ex-wife and kid. If I play one more game, I think I'll be able to settle my debt."

"Jung-bae," Young-il addresses the man sadly. "You of all people shouldn't have done it. It's not twice as righteous." He sighs before continuing. "But, looking at the results, even if you had voted against, we would still have been outvoted."

Jung-bae jumps at this. "Right? It's not entirely my fault."

"Alright," Dae-ho steps up. "To be honest, I understand why you did it. The money isn't enough for me either, so when I went up to vote, I did think about playing one more game."

Jung-bae hugs the man. "You did?"

Dae-ho pushes him away. "I said I get it."

The shorter man turns back to the group. "Thank you for understanding. But I voted in favor partly because I feel confident. We did so well as a team, didn't we? If we stick together one more time, I'm sure we'll be fine." He turns to you. "I'll make sure we survive the next game-"

"'The next game'?" Gi-hun cuts him off. "In the next game, we might have to kill each other."

There is silence before Young-il speaks up. "Gi-hun, that's a bit much. There's nothing we can do now, so let's try to stay positive. We should eat, pull ourselves together, and try our best again." He picks up his milk and hands it to you. "Here, you can have mine too. Hang in there until the next game."

You shake your head. "No, that's okay."

"Take it. I don't drink plain milk."

You thank him as you take the milk.

Jung-bae takes the bread out of his pocket. "Have my bread, too. I don't deserve to eat."

You smile as you take it. You have been feeling hungry and one piece of bread would definitely not be enough for you, so you're grateful for the men around you.

"I'll take your milk then," Dae-ho says to Jung-bae.

Before you can stop yourself, a loud laugh escapes from your mouth. The others smile before laughing along as well. You look over to Dae-ho to see a blush covering his face as he smiles.

"Pass it to me."

The guys hand each other mattresses as they move them to under the beds. You had been put in charge of collecting blankets and pillows so you wouldn't strain yourself.

"Is this really necessary?" Jung-bae asks. "I don't like sleeping under there."

"Once the lights go out, somebody might attack us," Gi-hun says as he pushes another mattress under a bed frame.

"What?" Dae-ho asks. "Who?"

"The prize money still goes up if we kill each other. It's part of the game they designed."

"Gi-hun, I think you're overreacting here," Young-il says. "Even if that were true, people wouldn't do that."

Gi-hun turns to face him. "In the previous games, dozens of people killed each other at night. Right here. You have no idea how people can change in this place."

Young-il apologizes and you hand the blankets in your arms to Jung-bae.

"We need to take turns keeping watch after lights-out," Gi-hun says. "I'll take the first, you should decide the order for the rest."

The order decided was that Jung-bae would take over after Gi-hun, then Dae-ho, then Young-il would be last. You tried to volunteer to keep watch but they immediately shot you down, saying you needed the rest more than them.

After a trip to the bathroom with players 149 and 120, whose names you still did not know, you come back to find Dae-ho keeping watch. You try to quickly wipe the tear stains from your cheeks as you walk back to the makeshift shelter. You give a quick nod to Dae-ho before trying to move past him, but he calls out your name, making you stop and turn to look at him.

He looks up at you with concern. "Are you okay?"

You put on a smile and nod. "Yes, I'm fine." As you try to walk away you feel his hand gently grab your wrist to stop you.

"No you're not," he says. You sigh, upset that you've been caught. He moves to the side to give you space and you sit next to him, figuring you're not gonna get out of this. "What happened? Was it the baby?"

You shake your head, feeling tears start to well up again. "It's everything." You put your head in your hands. "I never should have played Ddakji with that guy, I never should have called the number, I should have just stayed at home and prepared for the baby."

Dae-ho gently rubs your back as you cry into your sleeves. Even though you really only just met, he feels connected to you. Maybe it's just because you survived the second game together, but he cares for you and doesn't want anything bad to happen to you. He was stunned when you had walked up to the group before the game and asked to join, immediately regretting picking anyone besides the beautiful stranger that was standing in front of him.

"What about your husband?" Dae-ho asks. "Does he know that you're here?"

You shake your head. "I don't have a husband. I don't even have a boyfriend. It's just me and the baby." You turn to look at him and although he's too kind to ask you how you got knocked up, you can see the question all over his face. "My ex-boyfriend is the reason I got into so much debt. He made a lot of bad investments and when he ran out of his own money, he started using mine. When I told him I was pregnant, he freaked out and left. Didn't even say anything, his stuff was just all gone one day."

Dae-ho feels himself getting angry at this. If he found out a man had done this with one of his sisters, he would do something to him that would probably land him in prison. It takes two people to make a baby. Just because the mother is the one that carries it doesn't mean that the father isn't responsible for the child.

"He's a fucking coward," Dae-ho says, making you snort a small laugh. "And he's an idiot to leave you."

"It's for the best, though," you say. "He wasn't a good boyfriend, I knew that even while we were dating. But he was my first love, and we all do stupid things the first time we're in love." Dae-ho nods, watching as you bring your hand to rest on your stomach. "I only wish that my child would have a father in their life."

"They will have an amazing mother, though," he says, making you smile.

"I hope so," you rub your swollen belly. "Hey, Dae-ho, can I ask you something?"

Dae-ho nods, looking at you with intrigue.

"Earlier you told Jung-bae that you had thought about voting to stay. Why didn't you?" You ask.

The man takes a deep breath. "Honestly, I thought of you. You and your baby. When you told us that you're pregnant, it really hit me that I'm not the only person in here, that there are other lives at risk. If you died, it wouldn't just be the end of your life. Your baby doesn't deserve that. You don't deserve that."

You can't help the smile that blooms on your face at his words, as well as the small blush. "Thank you for thinking of me. You're a very sweet person, Kang Dae-ho." You watch as he gives you a shy smile, a light dusting of pink on his face. "What about you? Do you have a girlfriend waiting for you back home?"

He shakes his head. "No, just me." You give him an incredulous look and he chuckles. "Dating wasn't easy while in the Marines, and I guess I just never found anyone that interested me enough after."

You let out a small laugh. "Sounds like you have high standards."

He chuckles. "I'm just waiting to find the one. They say that when you know, you know."

"That's going to be one very lucky girl," you say, watching as the blush on his face deepens. "I hope you find her soon."

"I can't explain why, but I feel like I will." He smiles down at you with a look that makes your heart skip a beat. After a few moments he takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry I've kept you up for so long, you should get some sleep. You'll likely need your energy for tomorrow's game."

You nod, standing up. "You're right, I've been up too long." You start to move towards your mattress, but stop. "It was nice talking to you, Dae-ho."

He smiles at you. "Goodnight."

You smile back. "Goodnight."

For the rest of his watch, Dae-ho sneaks peaks at your sleeping form, a warm feeling running through him when he thinks about your words.

You awake to the feeling of someone shaking you. Groggily opening your eyes, you see Dae-ho leaning over you.

"The next game is starting soon, we need to get up," he says.

You hear the classical music that has played before every game and nod, allowing him to help you get out of bed. "Nothing to start the day off like a sadistic game and fearing for your life, huh?"

Dae-ho lets out a chuckle as you make your way to the doors. He walks behind you on the stairs to make sure you don't fall, and stands right by your side as the curtains are opened to reveal the game room.

"Welcome to your third game. The game you will be playing is Mingle. All players, please step onto the center platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds."

"Oh, this game?" Jung-bae says. "We used to play something similar on school trips. We formed groups by hugging."

"I played it too," you say. "But we would hold hands instead."

Together you set up a strategy. If the number is five, you'll all go together. If it's more than five, you'll grab however many people we need. If it's smaller than five, you'll break off into groups. When your strategy is done, you put your hands in the center.

"Victory at all costs."

"Let the game begin."

The platform jerks as it starts rotating, and you almost lose your balance, but Dae-ho is there to grab you and steady you on your feet.

"Ten."

Everyone starts looking around like mad as they try to find ten players.

Gi-hun looks to a player behind him. "How many are you?"

"Four," the woman replies. You recognize her as one of the women who came to the bathroom with you last night.

"That makes us nine!" Jung-bae says.

A man from another group comes running over. "Are you five? We need five!"

Before any of you can answer, another player yells back. "We have five people! Come with us!"

The two groups go running off towards a door.

"We have to hurry!" Gi-hun says.

"There's no time, Gi-hun!" Young-il tells him.

"We need one more!" the tall woman yells. She spots someone by herself near the center of the platform and grabs her. "We have ten!"

"Room 44! Green door! Hurry!" Young-il yells, already running off in the direction of the door.

You run as fast as you can towards the door as Young-il holds it open for everyone to get inside. You feel Dae-ho's hand on the small of your back the entire way to the room. Before you get the chance to even think, the clock runs out, and the lock clicks on the door.

Screams and gunshots can be heard from behind the door, the sad fate of those who didn't make it in time.

Dae-ho turns to you, putting his hands on your shoulders. "How are you feeling? Is everything okay?"

"A bit out of breath, but I'm okay," you say, and he nods. Taking the chance to look around the room, you see that the other five is the first group that passed the pentathlon the day before.

"You're alive thanks to me!" Player 044 yells out, making you jump. She looks over everyone before stopping on you and stepping closer, making you take a step back. Dae-ho holds you close to him as the woman looks down at your stomach. She then looks up at Dae-ho and gives him a knowing smirk before leaving to speak to Gi-hun.

You look up at Dae-ho, who is still holding you to his chest. He watches the woman walk away before look down at you, your faces so close that your noses are only a few inches apart.

Once the bodies are removed from the playing area, you're let out of the room and make your way back to the center platform. The next round is four people to a room, and Young-il goes off on his own to find three more as the rest of you run to a room with a purple door.

Once you're let out, Dae-ho and Jung-bae yell for Young-il before a voice calling Gi-hun's name grabs your attention. You look over with relief to see Young-il jogging up to your group.

"I knew you were going to be okay!" Jung-bae smiles as he pulls Young-il in for a hug. "I knew it. You're not just anybody."

"I was worried," Gi-hun says. "I'm glad you made it."

Young-il smiles. "I'm a likable guy, so I'm good at games like this." He turns to you. "Are you feeling alright?"

You nod with a smile. "Yes, I'm alright. I'm glad you're back."

Young-il gives you a smile, but his face turns serious. "Wait a minute," Young-il says, "if the next number is six, we won't need anyone else, will we?"

"Why not?" Dae-ho asks.

After a moment, Jung-bae laughs. "Oh, in her tummy?"

Dae-ho lets out a loud laugh. "Right, that makes six."

You smile as they joke around, looking down to your swollen belly.

The next round is three, so you, Dae-ho, and Jung-bae run to a room with an orange door. With every round, you can feel yourself growing more and more tired, and your feet are begging for relief from so much standing and moving.

Once you get out of the green room with Dae-ho and players 120, 095, 007, and 149 (you make a mental note to ask for their names once you're back in the main room), you feel exhausted. As you step onto the platform, Dae-ho grabs your arm to support you.

"Now, the final round will begin."

The platform begins to rotate and you lean on Dae-ho to keep yourself upright.

"What do you think it'll be this time?" Jung-bae leans forward to ask Gi-hun.

"Two," Young-il answers, getting our attention.

"Why?"

"There are 126 people left, and there are 50 rooms. So there won't be enough rooms for everyone, only 100."

"Are you alright?" Dae-ho asks you, concern on his face.

You shake your head. "I don't think I can run anymore."

The platform stops and the lighting dims.

"Two."

Before you can tell what's happening, you are lifted off the ground. You hold on tightly to Dae-ho as he sprints to the nearest door with you in his arms. Once inside, he places you on the ground and moves toward the door, pushing his weight against it to keep anyone else from getting in and pushing you out.

You keep your gaze on the man. He saved your life. He saved your baby's life. Without hesitation. Hell, he even voted to leave for you yesterday. This man who only came into your life a day ago has shown you more unwavering loyalty than anyone else has before.

Then the realization dawns on you: you don't want to do this without him. You don't want anything to happen to him. You want to protect him, just as he is protecting you. Not just in the games, but always.

The lock on the door clicks into place and screams are heard from the other side of the door. Once the screams finish, Dae-ho kneels beside you.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

You shake your head, still in awe of the man in front of you. You examine his face and a surge of confidence rushes through you.

"Can I do something really stupid?"

Dae-ho gives you a confused look. "What?"

You grab his zip-up and pull him to you, planting your lips against his. You feel him stiffen and worry that you've made a terrible mistake, but before you can pull away, you feel one of his hands slide into your hair as the other moves to cup your cheek.

For a perfect moment, you're not in this crazy place. There's no debt, there's no death, there's no fear. There's just you and Dae-ho.

You pull away first but Dae-ho chases your lips, giving you a peck before resting his forehead against yours as you both try to catch your breath.

"I promise you that I am going to get us out of here," he whispers to you. You feel his hand move down to your stomach. "The three of us. If you'll let me."

You gasp at his words, tears forming in your eyes as you nod. This time, you believe him. Dae-ho pulls you in for another kiss and you smile against his mouth, feeling him smile as well.

The sound of the door unlocking gains your attention and Dae-ho pulls away. Voices can be heard beyond the door.

Dae-ho stands up and holds out his hands for you to take, helping you to your feet. He wipes the stray tears from your cheeks and plants a kiss on your forehead before lacing your fingers together and leading you out of the room.

Dae-ho tags: @whatthefuckeryfuckityfuck

Lmk if you want to be added to the Dae-ho taglist!

#dae ho #squid game x reader #daeho #dae-ho #kang dae ho #dae ho x reader #kang daeho x reader #kang daeho #player 388 #x reader #squid game fanfic #squid game 2 spoilers #squid game 2 #squid game

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geminiwritten · 22 days ago

Text

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)

warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.

Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.

But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.

You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.

And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.

“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”

Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”

“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.

Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week��figured she’d get used to staying up late.”

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.

He lives for it.

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.

Where Bob is.

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.

“Wow,” he chuckles softly.

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”

He blinks fast. “No.”

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”

Your brows shoot up. “That so?”

He nods.

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”

His eyes snap open. “Huh?”

“Want to fuck me?”

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.

Well... almost everyone.

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.

Which means he’s definitely listening.

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”

Your heart stutters.

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.

Bob stills for a beat. Just one.

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”

You swear your knees nearly give.

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”

“Copy,” Jake replies.

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”

You and Jake return to formation without issue.

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”

Unfortunately, later never comes.

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.

“Wow,” he mutters.

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

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.”

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”

“Trev!”

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”

“What am I?” she asks.

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”

He freezes.

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.

And then you feel it.

Oh.

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”

They all look at you, confused.

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.

You frown. “What?”

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.”

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.

Everyone falls silent.

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”

There’s a pause. An awkward pause.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.

- Bob -

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”

“I know,” Bob huffs.

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.

He barely sleeps that night.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’

An hour passes. Nothing.

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.

It’s worse—because it’s you.

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.

“I—uh, Trevor?”

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”

“What?”

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?

- You -

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”

Trevor gasps—loudly.

“But he said no.”

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”

“Because he has laundry to do.”

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.

“Trevor…”

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.

But deep down, you know the truth.

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.

You give her a tight smile.

“Feeling any better?”

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely.

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.

“Vex—” he tries again.

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.

Your heart lurches.

Terrain. Too close. Too fast.

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.

You’re not going to make it.

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.

Then—freefall.

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.

But you’re too low. Far too low.

You don’t even have time to brace.

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.

White-hot pain detonates through you.

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.

And then… everything goes still.

Muted.

Quiet.

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.

Great. Another win.

Two whole days pass, and still no word.

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.

Even if it kills you.

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.

“What are you doing here?”

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”

His brow creases. “You do?”

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”

He laughs again, broken this time.

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.

“Love?” you whisper.

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”

Your heart lurches into your throat.

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.

He blinks. “What?”

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.

You nod. “Hangman.”

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.

“I know I had no right,” he mutters.

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

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dontpulloutman · 1 month ago

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7 minutes of lewis & yn talking about each other

singer!yn x lewis pullman (more) a/n: i have maybe 2 more singer!yn wips + 1 owen taylor wip. i'm super busy this week so i'm not sure when i can post those uhhh pls be patient w me ty ily i hope u like this

The video begins with the oldest; it’s Lew seated in an interview with Jay and Monica to promote Top Gun: Maverick. “So, it’s safe to assume that all the flight training and exercise needed to stay in shape must take many hours. Who are your favorite artists to jam out and work out to?”

Lewis can’t hide the way his lips quirk, “Recently, I’ve been listening to a lot of Y/N.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see the way Monica and Jay look at him. Knowing glints in their gazes.

“Really?” the interview asks, “I didn’t expect that.”

“No, yeah. She’s great.” Lewis smiles.

“She’s really great,” Jay adds. Monica tries to subtly hide her smile behind her hand.

“I jam out to Bad Blood on the treadmill.” Lewis comments, cheeky smile plastered on his face before Monica changes the topic.

“Muses & Anecdotes, congratulations on the new album!” The radio talkshow host exclaims. Seated across from him, you smile. “Thank you so much!”

“It’s doing really well. All thirteen tracks on Billboard’s Top 20. How does it feel?”

“It feels amazing. I had some doubts about releasing an album entirely on my own again, but I was encouraged by some very close friends and I decided, ‘Hey, why not?’. Luckily, it’s working out so far.”

“It’s more than just ‘working out.” The host teases, and you let out a little laugh. “So, speaking of ‘muses & anecdotes’, can we perhaps have an explanation to what ‘muses’ and what ‘anecdotes’ mean? Not the Merriam-Webster definition, but the YN LN definition.”

You let out another laugh. Letting out a hum, you think of how to phrase your answer.

“When I first started to conceptualize the album, I knew that it would encompass thoughts and feelings of certain events over the course of six years. Anecdotes quite literally means an account of an event that is… amusing or interesting.”

“And what does ‘muses’ mean to YN LN?”

The host eyes you, you catch the humor on their face.

“You know what it means, Rich.”

“I don’t! Promise!” the host is laughing.

“All of the songs in this album are inspired by and dedicated to a special person in my life.”

“That person being…?”

“Oh, stop it," you joke with a roll of your eyes.

The next clip is of a red-carpet interview for the premiere of Thunderbolts. Front and center of the video, Lewis is talking into a mic, he’s grinning at the question the interviewer asked him.

“My muse is here,” he’s grinning, head turning quickly to the side, down the aisle where you’re engaged in another interview of your own.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the interviewer starts, “But is this your first red carpet together?”

“Yes, it is,” Lewis confirms, “This is… Coming to an event like this has been something we’ve always wanted to do together, but it never really worked out in the past. I’m just happy we’ve finally done it.”

“How do you think YN will react to The Sentry?”

“Oh, I think she’ll hate him. I sent her pics during filming. She absolutely hated the hair. She’s in love with the Void, though.” Lew lets out a small laugh, mind recalling the texts you sent him when the trailer released.

“That was unexpected!”

Lewis gives a wink to the camera, “She loves his hair more.”

“I’m so excited. I’m such a huge fan of everybody, and Flo is one of my closest friends in Hollywood. I just — I can’t wait to see the whole film!” The next clip is YN on the same red carpet, with the same interviewer.

“And of course, you’re here for Lewis too?”

“Yes, of course,” you cut yourself off, turning your head to look for him, “Where is he? — Oh, there.” You see him ahead of you in the press line, talking to another interviewer. “I told him the reason I came today is to see the Void. I love his hair.”

“Lewis told us awhile ago. Not a fan of the blonde?”

“I am! Just… I love the Void more.”

The next clip is a little blurry, taken under the dim lights of your most recent concert. The camera is focused on the stage, where you’re dancing to ‘Dress’.

I woke up just in time, now I wake up by your side

My hands shake, I can't explain this ah, ha, ha, ha

Say my name and everything just stops

The camera turns to where Lewis is watching you from the VIP tent, it zooms in on his face, his smile, and how he whispers your name, before the beat starts up again.

I don't want you like a best friend

Only bought this dress so you could take it off

Take it off

“I feel so lucky to know her.”

The final clip is from a Zoom interview, Lewis is leaned toward the camera of his laptop, a lazy smile on his lips, “She’s my best friend, my biggest supporter.” This whole press junket, ever since the two of you went public with your relationship, questions about your relationship never fails to be brought up at least once. He never gets tired of talking about you.

Comments (274)

ally_browne PARENTS

falsedg0dz yn cant stop yapping abt lewis she released bonus tracks of muses n anecdotes OUT OF FUCKIN NOWHERE???

lewpulledman this is the first celeb couple where i feel like they really like each other

bobonboard girlie cant stop singing abt how in love and horny they r for one another

l0vedstory hard launching at 6 years …. we couldve had 6 yrs of them doing this

ynlewtruther I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT YN’S ROLLING STONE INTERVIEW

millsjules wait why? ynlewtruther she wrote some songs at lewis’s montana place and she said in the interview that she realized he liked her back when she walked in on him playing “snap out of it” by arctic monkeys on the drums dfhgjkdfhg milesjules WHAT???? thats hilarious

voidedyn yn … lewis …. me …. sabrina carpenter paris juno position

#lewis pullman #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman social media au #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #thunderbolts #top gun maverick #outer range #favorite muse

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reiderwriter · 2 months ago

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Rumours

A/N: I'm back! I started this one literally in February and then got so distracted by my job I couldn't finish it. Employment is a curse.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Plot: Spencer is displeased about some rumours he hears about you around the office. Only the way he goes about confronting them is clumsy and downright maddening.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, misogyny, misunderstanding, Spencer is a dick for a while, violence (breaking glass etc.), penetrative sex, oral (F receiving), slapping, choking, anal fingering, general BDSM content, Dom!Spencer, sub!reader, breeding kink (tee hee), cock warming, almost exhibitionism?

Masterlist

It wasn't as if you'd made it your life's mission to be the most rumoured about person on your team at the FBI, but you weren't exactly doing anything to correct people's perception of you. Spencer may have been to jail, Emily may have faked her own death, and Luke's past was a big, fat question mark, but nothing caught the attention of the pencil pushers in the office than the string of broken hearts you'd ostensibly left behind you at Quantico.

At one point in time, you'd even promised yourself you wouldn't date anymore law enforcement officers, lawyers, detention officers or anyone even remotely adjacent, but life was short, and you had a decent appetite for a men with guns and badges. It was very convenient to say the least.

Convenient for everyone apart from Spencer Reid.

The FBI was a boys club, sure, but with all the women on your team, the most ridicule you got after a drunken escapade with a distant coworker was a few teasing remarks. The first few months on the team, you'd been able to date, fuck, and play freely without any judgement. And then Spencer Reid had come back from leave, and you suddenly began to doubt your bachelorette lifestyle.

Because fuck was he frustratingly territorial.

It wasn't as though he was interested in you. He was 13 years your senior, fresh from an FBI mandated leave of absence and false imprisonment, and absolutely used to being coddled by every member of the team. If the BAU was a family, he was absolutely the youngest child who'd returned home to find his parents had adopted a dog while he'd been gone to replace him with.

You were the dog.

Spencer took issue with your attitude, your work ethic, your professionally, and with the sheer amount of times he'd been approached by men asking for your number, home address, or if the rumors were true.

He was used to casual oversharing, of course, he'd worked with Penelope long enough to not be phased by much sexual talk. But everytime he stepped into the office - or specifically the offices male bathrooms - he'd end up stuck in the same conversational loop.

“I heard she can do this thing with her tongue…”

“... definitely likes it rough…”

“I could show her a good time…”

“....I'm definitely hitting that by the end of the year…”

He stewed in it for a few weeks before the cracks fully formed in his exterior professionalism. When he heard about how you'd definitely fucked every male member of your team, though, that's when he lost it.

“You need to be more careful,” he said one day, pulling you aside between cases in a rare private conversation.

“Oh, yeah, in the field I can definitely rush in-”

“No. You need to be more careful with men.”

The look on his face sent a flare of shame through your chest, as you found yourself suddenly out of your depth. You didn't know this man well enough for him to be giving you advice. Your body set to full alert, and your fight or flight was in full go, as he cornered you and continued.

“They talk about you in the bathrooms, and I would not like to repeat what they say, but-”

“I don't care what they say.”

“You should.”

You frowned again, as he continued, completely oblivious to your growing anger.

“You should, because now it's reflecting badly on the team, and-”

“The team? I'm sorry what had the team got to do with this?”

To his credit, Spencer at least managed to look uncomfortable after that. He was set on reprimanding you, fine, but you'd make sure he wouldn't try to get so personal again.

“They're saying that you've slept with a number of coworkers-”

“Why should I care if-”

“Including me.”

You managed a half laugh in his face as his frown deepened.

“Oh so this isn't about my reputation, it's about yours. I should be safer with men because I'm reflecting poorly on our golden boy?”

“That's not what I'm-”

“Don't worry, Spencer. I'm safe enough.”

You made sure to push past him as you walked away, and he'd not been quiet about his dislike of you ever since.

Every man on a case you interacted with got you a disapproving glare, a slight turned down lip, a questioning glance. It was like you were being watched constantly, and it felt horrendous.

It was almost worse when the knowing looks he sent you were spot on in their assumptions. If you spoke to a man you had been with, hooked up with, been on a date with, even simply flirted with for a while, you felt his eyes pricking you.

His gaze knew everything it needed to know, almost as if he'd been in the room watching you submit your body for pleasure.

You thought it would be better on cases, that he'd be focused on other things and not worry as much, but when your first case post-argument landed, it landed you uncomfortably close to your childhood home, and included a face from your past you'd hoped not to see again.

Having an ex boyfriend in the police department in the middle of nowhere Washington was helpful for the case, but on a personal level it sucked.

You managed five minutes of personal conversation before you felt his eyes on you.

“Beautiful, you're not paying attention to me anymore. And here I thought fate had sent you back into my life as a little gift for a job well done,” your ex had said, ducking in close to you at your makeshift desk but locking eyes with an approaching Spencer as he spoke.

“Y/N, can I have a word?” he asked, though his jaw was set, and his tone insistent.

“Professionally or privately?”

“Y/N,” he warned, his tone a bit lower as you rolled your eyes and stood, following him to a quiet interrogation room quickly.

“What's wrong with you this time?” you demand as soon as he has the door closed. “Panties in a twist?”

“We are on a case, Y/N. Please at least pretend to be a professional.”

“What? What am I doing that is so wrong?”

He fisted a hand in his hair quickly, closing his eyes as if it would drown out your arrogant tone.

“You can't be serious, Y/N, he was practically fucking you with his eyes in the middle of the precinct-”

“And that's a behaviour he needs to change, not me. What. Did. I. Do. Wrong?”

“What? What, you expect me to sit around here and wait for him to ask you if you can still do that thing with your tongue that makes him cum instantly? Want me to wait around for him to ask you if you're still as flexible as you were give years ago, while we have work to do?” He demanded, stepping so close you had to back up against the wall to avoid colliding with his incoming body.

“I bet you'd love to hear just about everything I can do Spencer, but if you're going to act like a jealous ass, maybe you should take a breather.”

“Jealous? You think I'm jealous?” he chuckled slightly, raising a hand slowly and pushing against the wall as he stepped, somehow, closet to you again.

“You're so obsessed with my personal life that-”

“Your personal life is not so personal when I have people asking me if I've also fucked you on a weekly basis-”

“You're being cruel. My sex life is none of your business, Spencer.”

“That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. I'm glad we finally agree.”

He was so close you could practically taste his breath, and while your mind raged at his thoughtless words, your body wanted his to press his against it and say all of that one more time with his hand wrapped around your throat this time.

“Jackass,” you said, pushing against his chest and storming out of the room quickly, before you could make any other mistakes.

Part of you wanted to stick it to Spencer after that. Part of you wanted to do something to start an even bigger rumor, something to piss him off more, something that would get him angry and bring him closer to you somehow.

Another part aggravatingly agreed with him. Your behaviour, while nowhere near as promiscuous as half of the male staff, was judged twice as hard as anyone else's. You enjoyed sex, and you wanted to unashamedly keep enjoying sex, but every man you ran into recently had that look about them. Half judgement, half possession, like they were looking at goods to consume rather than a coworker. You weren't obtuse, but you'd allowed yourself to ignore it until Spencer made you face it, which only made you resent him more.

You stopped going on dates, stopped entertaining the men in the office when they flirted with you. You put your head down, and you worked, and it frustrated you to no end.

You ended up snappy in the office, short with every single coworker and not just Reid, who was also (inexplicably) short with you. You'd done what he'd asked, and he was still not satisfied.

Emily, sensing the tension, tried to ease the situation slightly, with a mandatory team dinner, volunteering Rossi for dinner duty.

“Welcome to Casa Del Rossi, keep your hands off the pasta until I serve it, and please do not ask about the wine unless you want to be talking about it all night.”

You felt slightly uncomfortable being forced to play happy families under the watchful eye of 5 profilers and an incredibly perceptive tech support girl, but you tried to be civil over dinner.

Until you couldn't be.

“So, Y/N, any dates recently?” Emily laughed over a sip of wine, genuinely curious about your sudden lack of suitors.

“No,” you said, locking eyes with Spencer, who rolled his eyes as he looked away.

“What, not even a single hinge match?” JJ added, and you suddenly regretted not telling any of your other coworkers the root of your tension with Reid, because they were happily digging your grave.

“Come on, we all love your stories, Y/N,” Penelope laughed, prodding you with a finger as you smiled feebly.

“No, not all of us do,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, still loud enough that the room fell silent.

“Relax, Doctor Reid, I'm not going to regale you with tales of my conquests.”

“Good, I get enough of that in the male bathrooms,” he said, standing up from the table and excusing himself.

You stared slack jawed at him as he walked away, simmering anger getting ready to explode. You stood as well, and followed him, aware of every set of eyes watching you intently as you searched for Spencer.

You found him in a spare room, following him in and closing the door behind you with a thud so he would know you were there.

“What the fuck is your problem, Spencer?”

“Oh, it was Doctor Reid earlier, but now we're friends, huh?” he said, not bothering to look at you as he picked up a book and sat in a chair at the edge of the room.

“You can't just disrespect me in front of the team like that, and… and what? Slink away to read?”

He looked up at you with an annoyed glance, and you almost lunged at him. You'd probably be able to gouge out an eye before he could react if you wanted.

“You know, when we first talked about this, I was seriously worried for you. The way those men talk about you-”

“How do they talk about me? What do they say about me specifically that's any worse than usual misogynistic bathroom talk, huh?”

You stepped closer, leaning over him and poking his chest. You wanted him to react, wanted him to get angry. You wanted a fight, not for him to walk away shaking his head in resignment.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes. I'm a big girl, tell me what's so bad that has you acting like such a spoiled brat.”

“Okay. Okay, fine.” Putting down the book, he looked up at you, locking eyes with you as he started.

“They talk about how well you take it. How much you love cock, and how if they got the chance they'd fill you up with so much cum you'd be leaking for days. Some of them even talk about using you as a human toilet.”

“They mostly talk about your body, about how flexible you are, about how flexible they'd force you to be, how-” he had to stop to look away, clear his throat and start again.

“Mostly they talk about your lips,” he said, finally risking a look down at them before dragging his eyes back up to your own.

“My lips?” you asked, mentally scolding yourself when you hear the breathy whisper you let out.

“They talk about your lips a lot. I'm sure you can imagine.”

You take a second to think about it, reeling at how close he was, how open he was being, how….

How turned on you were hearing these words fall from his mouth. Every sentence from his mouth felt like a confession.

“I don't believe them though,” he said finally.

“What?”

“I don't believe them. I don't believe you're as good as they say you are, as they're fantasising about you being.

Your mouth opened in shock, and the indignity of the accusation had your heart beating out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demanded, forcing him to meet your eyes again.

“You're not that good, Y/N. I'm sure of it.”

Quickly, you snaked your arm up and around his neck, grabbing him and pulling him down to meet your lips. You'd hoped to take him by surprise, to enter his mouth as he lost himself in the feel of you pressed against him. You'd hoped for the upper hand, until you realized you'd played right into his.

He kissed back immediately, hotly, insistently. His hands roamed your body for any hold of you they could find, settling on your waist and your ass as he pushed you back into the wall you stood in front of.

Frustrated by his attitude, you pushed back, twisting your bodies around until you'd switched positions, nails digging into the tender skin at his collarbone. You wanted to grab him hard enough to draw blood, you wanted to permanently scar him to remind him how good this felt.

He growled into the kiss, and you momentarily lost focus. He swung you around again, hands pushing your shirt up and roughly grabbing your boobs as he bit down on your lower lip.

With a moan, you hiked a leg up around his hips, rolling into him as he pinned you to the wall.

Your final act of defiance was pushing him away with all your strength.

Taken aback, he stumbled once or twice before hitting a dresser behind him. It shook, and with the tremors, the lamp that had been sat on it fell to the floor with a crash.

You stared at him panting as your coworkers ran to you both, opening the door with a loud bang as they assessed the situation.

You kept your eyes on him as Emily scolded you both, putting the two of you on BAU time out.

You quickly left the party after that, apologising to Rossi and tucking your tail firmly between your legs as you retreated.

Desk duty for the next two weeks was exactly the punishment you were expecting from Emily. Honestly it was what you deserved. If you couldn't play nice together, you weren't allowed to play at all.

You sat at your desk, and Spencer sat at his, and you were happy and content to ignore him for as long as physically possible.

Unfortunately, your sudden voluntary celibacy must have been driving you insane, because you couldn't stop picturing his hands on your waist, his hot lips tracing down your neck, your hips pushed so close you could practically feel his cock begging to be inside you.

Imagining.

You were sure your staring was making the man uncomfortable, or at the very least frustrated. You saw the vein in his neck jump out when he noticed you looking at him, but it didn't help too much to dispel the sudden and aggravating attraction you felt towards him.

You wanted to be angrier. Every interaction you entered needing to be angry.

Instead you found yourself somewhat softening based purely on lust, and it was eating you up.

You were not a pushover, and contrary to popular office belief, neither were you desperate or easy. One kiss with a coworker shouldn't have you trailing after him like a forlorn love struck child.

Spencer was definitely avoiding you though.

At first, he justified it to himself as giving you space, an apology of sorts after you'd been so brash before.

Then he came clean to his own conscious and realized he was afraid of another confrontation. Afraid was perhaps the wrong word, eagerly anticipating might be better, though when he tried to explain it to Penelope it didn't come out right at all.

“It's like- Okay, so we're like water and potassium, right?”

“You've lost me lover boy, I do computers not sciency science.”

“Potassium and water are both stable enough on their own. They do their job well, they work nicely.”

“Potassium is in potatoes, ergo they are in French fries. They work superbly.”

“Yes, but when you put potassium in water it has a tendency to catch on fire and explode.”

Penelope still looked at him confused, unsure what kind of avoidance excuse he was crafting in his mind.

“I'm potassium. She's water,” he said again to no avail.

“I need to avoid her so I don't explode.”

“What makes you think you're going to explode? Just talk to her nicely. Avoid topics you think are going to be more… reactive?”

Spencer just solemnly nodded and went back to avoidance.

He realized quickly that the only thing he'd ever talked to you about outside of working hours was your sex life, and that made him feel like both a creep and a pervert and also like he needed to take a long cold shower before quitting his job and moving into a cabin somewhere in the woods. But he wasn't Gideon, so he just suffered through it, leaving rooms you entered and ending work related conversations as quickly as possible, before his mouth could move quicker than his brain.

After a week of being swiftly dodged, you had the chance finally to corner him and you took it.

Watching as Spencer stood to get himself another coffee from the break room, you stood, grabbed your own mug and quietly followed him. You prayed to God that the room would be empty, but were quickly forsaken by the door when you heard two make voices inside.

“So Y/N, huh?” an unfamiliar voice asked, tone polite but playful.

“I've heard some stories about that one,” he chuckled, and even the sound of it set your hair on edge.

“She's a very hard worker,” Spencer simply answered, as you heard him preparing his own coffee.

“She certainly makes working hard,” the man slapped his back, taking a sip of coffee.

“I heard you two have been going at it in the office. Strange foreplay, but she must be into rough stuff like that, isn't that right?”

You'd heard enough men talking about you in your life to be used to it, but a flush of anger still ran through you at the man's insinuations. You almost walked in to embarrass the man when Spencer spoke up.

“I don't like your tone,” he said calmly, and continued quickly when the man tried to joke again. “I have been to prison, you work in white collar, let's see which of us comes out of the kitchen in better shape when you're done speaking.”

“You're fucking insane.”

“You're what, 35? From the looks of it, your marriage is over because you keep playing with your ring uncomfortably, probably because you're cheating, but you feel just guilty enough about it to worry about your kids. They lied by the way, your not the world's no. 1 dad. Even if such metrics could be determined, you'd rank low on the list. Is it their babysitter or their teacher you're sleeping with? Or your wife's sister, perhaps?”

“You're crossing a line, Dr Reid, I don't know how-”

“Well, I'm glad you seem to understand boundaries well enough. There are lines you cross, and ones you respect, and if I hear anything at all unprofessional from you about my coworker again, I will use the last six months of my experiences to make life difficult for you.”

You walked in quickly, hearing the change in Spencer's tone from casual to something more threatening, more desperate. The other man had two fistfuls of Spencer's shirt, though you didn't doubt Spencer would easily be able to floor the man.

“Good afternoon,” you said quickly, just loud enough to be heard above the thick tension filling the room. “I believe you were just leaving, right?”

You looked to the unfamiliar man, and the shame burned his face as you forced him out of the room. As soon as he was gone, you walked over to Spencer, finished making his coffee as he stood silently next to you, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You put the hot drink in his hand, smoothed his shirt out and whispered a quick thank you before retreating back to your desk.

After that, you didn't get closer.

You thought you would. You tried to follow him to the kitchen to actually have the talk you wanted in the days that followed, but you never quite managed it.

You'd just stand together in equitable silence making your coffees. Sometimes you'd talk about the weather. About the case. About things your coworkers did that you both found funny. About shows and books you both liked. About whatever random fact Spencer became enthusiastic about that day, or whatever noir movie he'd seen the previous day.

You didn't become closer, but you grew used to one another.

When the team finally came back, Emily patted herself on the back for a job well done for keeping the two of you grounded. You begrudgingly admitted to yourself that while Spencer lacked tact, you should've been more patient with him when he was asking you to be careful.

You'd heard him similarly chastising a handful of men since, always careful just to listen until he was done, and then clean up afterwards.

Spencer found his anger closer to the surface after prison than it had been before prison. Instead of sympathy or words, his fists always tightened into balls when anything displeased him. He wanted desperately to hit colleagues sometimes, and kept his breathing steady enough to reply with violent words rather than violent actions.

He couldn't blame his experiences in prison for everything, of course. Part of the blame was yours.

As much as he knew potassium and water weren't a safe combination, he found himself wanting to be dropped back into that pool once again. Looking at you was like setting himself on fire, remembering your bodies twinned together was like a little explosion.

He didn't know what brought him to your door, but he knew it was an inevitable reaction, one in a long chain.

“Spencer?” you asked, meeting him at your door, wrapped only in a loose robe and the too small, too flimsy sleep set you'd taken to sleeping in in the summer months.

“Hi,” he said, a little awkwardly, as if gaining the courage to knock on your door was the end of his plan, and he didn't know what the next steps were.

“Hey. Why are you…?” Here. Standing at your door looking so hot after you'd stayed obsessed with him for the last week.

“Why are you holding a bottle of wine?”

“Oh. Oh this. This is for you. To drink. Its for us to drink together, really, I… I wanted to apologise.”

You welcomed him in silently and quickly. Quickly still, you made your way to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses and a bottle opener and made your way back to your sofa where Spencer was standing awkwardly still.

“Please sit down,” you said, craning your neck to look up at him as he gently handed you the bottle. He nodded and sat down next to you, both too close and too far away at once. You'd thought of Spencer as more of a silent apologiser. You'd expected him to just be happy and friendly with you from here on out instead of directly acknowledging anything had happened. You'd seen him bottle up so many emotions, what was a little more shame and sympathy?

Now that he was in front of you, you didn't know what to do.

“So, um. I'm sorry.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

The tension in the air was thick as you turned to pour two glasses of wine, waiting for him to continue.

“Thank you,” he said taking the glass you offered him in two hands before glancing at it quickly and then downing it.

“When I got out of prison, I was in a bad shape, and that isn't an excuse, it's just a fact. My brain was in overdrive, and I was on guard around all… all men specifically. The things I heard in prison weren't good, nothing nice as said about women in prison, and when I got out, and I still heard those things…” He stopped and looked away, taking another deep breath.

“I was overstepping. I was being overprotective, and overfamiliar, and jealous-”

“Spencer, stop,” you said, putting your glass down, and smiling at him reassuringly.

“I appreciate your apology, but really it's fine. I came in while you were gone and getting back to schedule when your entire team dynamic is off is hard, so of course you were going to be on edge around me and a little bit jealous of my bond with the team but-”

“The team?” Spencer stammered quickly, cutting you off as you tried to reassure him.

“You were… jealous of my place in the group. I was an outsider who took your place and then you were just a little shorter with me than you would've been if we were introduced in normal circumstances.”

“No, Y/N… I- Did you think this whole time I was jealous of you?”

He said it in his softest voice which almost hurt a little bit more.

“Yes. That's how you were behaving, you were always annoyed and-”

“Jealous. Yes. Not of you, because of you.”

You felt every single place on your body where the material of your clothes were touching your body. The distance between the two of you, already small, felt smaller still, like you were tipping over an edge towards one another when in reality you were as solid as a statue in your seats.

“Y/N, I want you,” Spencer whispered, almost little bit ashamed, a little bit scared of his confession. It was the kind of voice criminals used when confessing, a voice that seemed ashamed of its own actions. “I listened to every single word men said about you, and I wanted to rip their tongues out and feed them back to them so they wouldn't have the chance to taste you again. So they couldn't torture me with their knowledge of you.”

He stood up abruptly and took a step back, placing his wine glass down on the table and pacing a few more steps away.

“Y/N, why did you have to kiss me?” He said, almost defeated. “Why did you have to kiss me and then push me away?”

You stared at him for a second, unsure whether he wanted a real answer or not, his eyes round with desperation, but face turned away slightly, as if he couldn't bare the answer.

“To shut you up,” you whispered. He nodded at your answer and took a deep breath.

“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist-”

“Spencer? What-”

“I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do?”

“Spencer, what are you doing, why are you- are you quoting something at me.

“If you want me to stop, you know an effective solution,” he said, kneeling to the floor and looking up at you, continuing after a moments pause.

Quickly sinking to your knees as well, you grabbed the man by the collar and brought your lips to his.

As quietly desperate Spencer had been moments before, he took your kiss as an act of submission and countered quickly. You'd come to him, you'd listened to his request, and now he wasn't going to let you get the upper hand anymore.

Pulling you into his lap, his to guess pushed into your mouth as he wrapped your legs around him, guiding your cunt over his bulge as he kept up his attack against your tongue.

You fought back, trying to push him down to no luck. He caught your hands quickly, and standing up on his knees with one hand holding your ass in place, pinned you to the floor, arms held above your head in one large, strong, nearly painful grip.

Your body shook at the sudden motion, robe falling open and satin spilling over your body, revealing a single pink, perked up nipple that he eagerly latched onto.

You moaned at the contact of his hot tongue, the cold air hitting you at the exact moment his tongue dipped, as you held in a moan.

You couldn't hold in the second or third. By four you were practically humping up into the air to chase the sensations of his body pressed against your cunt.

“Spencer-” you moaned, cut off by a choke from your own throat as he roughly ripped down the other side of your shirt, harshly tugging at your other nipple with his fingers.

“If I had more time, I'd make you cum just from this. I'll spend hours edging your sore little nipples, just to make you happy,” he whispered, and you moaned as if it were your job, as if you were some cheap whore he was paying to abuse for the night.

“Good girl,” he said, tugging your underwear to the side and rubbing you slowly, coating his digits with your juices before pushing two fingers fully inside you quickly.

“No complaints. Take everything nicely.” he said, changing the angle of his hand as he began fucking you hard with just his hands.

“Fuck, Spencer, fuck- no, no, no, you have to stop! Fuck, I'll-”

He stopped just as instructed quickly, and you grabbed his hands to still his fingers, still inside of you.

“I need… shit I need hard nos's quickly Y/N. Tell me what I can and can't do.”

You gathered your breath enough to speak, but it was breathy, your breath still uneven, your legs still twitching as you lay on your back, cunt exposed to Spencer's greedy eyes. He drew small, gently circles on your clit with his thumb as you recovered.

“W-Why?” You managed to squeak out, cunt twitching at every accidental contact between you both.

“Because I'm either going to slap you to shut you up, or fuck your face, and I do believe in letting the lady decide.”

You couldn't help the scoff that came from your mouth, even though it was followed by another hitched breath and moan as you melted beneath him.

“You wouldn't do that, you're not the type.”

“What? What type am I not?”

“Slapping, spitting, demeaning. You're too… Spencer to do any of that,” you said, slowly raising your hips to fuck his fingers once again, pracitically begging him to keep us all his hard work.

Until he withdraws his hand and pulls you back into his lap, arms locking you in place on either sides of your waist.

“If I was anyone else,” he said slowly and deliberately, “Or if I was me and I possessed the ability to do any of that, would you consent to it?”

His words were a whisper, his fingers wet and hot on your nipples as he pulled, prodded, and played with them quietly.

“Well… you wouldn't-” you moaned at a sudden hard pinch, your hips jolting as he continued abusing your nipples.

“Everyone else has. Why can't I?”

“Spencer-” Another sharp pinch cut you off, forcing your eyes down to where he had a hand gently brushing against your chest, before sharply pinching it again.

“Hmm? What was that?”

“Spencer, p-please-”

You moan again as his other hand hooks around you to slide into your panties.

Pulls you fully onto his lap as he starts playing with your clit while tugging on your nipples, and he's waiting for you to give him permission to fuck you rougher.

“Can I do those things, Y/N?”

“Spencer….”

“Use your words to answer me, not your cunt. I know you're enjoying this.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said, letting a hand trail up to your neck before kissing you gently on your lips again. The softness didn't last long as he picked up the pace with his other hand again, looming over you like a monster bent to its prey. His hand moved quickly, pushing in and out of you as you writhed on the floor, breaths shallow as he controlled where you went, where you looked, how you moved, and even how you breathed.

“S-Spencer,” you choked out, hands wrapping around his between your thighs, already twitching as your first orgasm hit you, twitching as he didn't slow down, moaning as you felt wetness seeping out of you in waves.

“Good girl. Good girl, you're doing so good for me. You want me to stop?” He asked.

“Yes, I can't- I can't do it anymore- nghhhh.”

“You can. Yes, you can, baby, you can. My little whore,” his voice was soft where his hands were hot, gripping your neck tighter as you focused only on breathing, legs shaking and twitching, squirming to get away even as you wished yourself to stay put.

“Good girl,” he said again, kissing you once again as his hand on your neck eased up. “One more time? One more right, baby?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself not to scream. With an open hand he slapped your face, just hard enough to draw a moan from your lips.

“Use your words, Y/N.”

“Y-Yes, I can do one more,” Ayou moaned, unsure if the stars you were seeing were from the harshness of the slap or the overstimulation. “Please.”

“Good manners,” he said, fingers slipping out of your cunt as you started to grind into him again, as soon as you said yes to another orgasm. “But I don't think I want you to cum yet.”

Lifting your hips, he urged you to turn over, pulling a pillow under your hips to help you lift them, still trembling as you were. A soft blanket was put under your head as he pushed your hips up, your shorts and panties pulled down and not just to the side now as he took all of you in.

“So drippy and wet, just for me…” he mused, probing a finger at your pussy again, laughing when you twitched at the contact.

“They say it tastes better than it feels you know,” he said pulling his phone out of his pocket before snapping a photo of your pussy, dripping and ready for him. “Look at it, what do you think?”

He thrusts the photo in your face as he pulled his dick out, letting it rub against the folds of your pussy as you moaned into defeat.

“Y/N, come on, what do you think? Do you taste better, or feel better?”

He propped up the phone in front of you and opened the camera, clicking record quickly as he slapped your ass.

“Answer me,” he insisted, cock head rubbing furiously against your clit now, fingers clamped down on a nipple, nails digging into your waist.

“Should I fuck you or eat that little cunt?”

“I- I don't know, Spencer, I don't know please-”

“Yes, you do. What should I do?”

You cried out in pleasure as you came again, the pressure on your clit too much too soon.

“F-fuck me,” you said, exhausted but still excited.

“Good girl,” he said again, withdrawing his touch before laying down under you and bringing your cunt to his mouth.

You tried to hold yourself up, but you couldn't as he licked and sucked and nudged at your clit with his nose. He'd ignored you, prolonged your torture, and decided he needed to decide for himself.

“Spencer…” you moaned, but it was weak. He chuckled into your cunt and you clamped your thighs around his face as far as you could, but he didn't relent.

Running a finger through your pussy to pick up your cum, he pushed a single digit into your asshole as you moaned slowly and weakly, face completely squished into the floor.

He pushed in and out slowly at first stretching your ass as you began riding his face, fucking against his to gue as you got closer and closer to release. The sooner you came now, the sooner he would release you.

But Spencer stilled your hips, and slowed his own movements to a few kisses here and there, letting one finger become two as he fucked your asshole. Eventually, all contact stopped with your cunt as you hungrily fucked his fingers, the stretch uncomfortable but good.

“Good girl, you like that? You like being my little anal slut? Good girl.”

The words hit hard, as you came on his face. He pulled his hands away and pushed you onto your back again, rising up to your fsve again.

“Open,” he said, and you obeyed letting him spit your own cum back into your mouth. His tongue connected with your own as you tasted yourself, hot and heavy on his lips.

As you kissed, he pushed your legs up, knees spread and with a single, hard, rough push, filled you with his cock.

You screamed in pleasure as he cooed into your ear. “I'm sorry baby, I couldn't help it. Your cunt looked too delicious, it was begging for my dick.”

Another slow pull out, and again he pushed in hard, stealing the breath from your lungs without even needing a hand on your neck.

Grabbing his phone, Spencer angled it towards where you were hungrily taking him in.

“This cunt is mine now, okay?”

You nodded, and he slapped you again.

“Words, Y/N, I need words. Tell me whose cunt this is.”

“Its yours, Spencer, all yours,” you moaned as he picked up his pace, lifting to his knees so he could drop it all into you.

“Shit, say more. Tell me what I can do to this pussy?”

“Abuse my pussy, Spencer. Stretch me out, slap me, keep me full, fuck I don't care, breed me,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck as you lifted your chest up to his, thighs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked together behind him.

“You want me to cum in you? Want me to claim you so everyone can see?” He asked, nails digging into your thighs almost hard enough to draw blood.

“Yes!”

“Good…. fucking… slut,” he saif, and with a final thrust, he emptied his balls inside you.

You didn't move for a long time, catching your breath on the floor, a pile of limbs coated in sprsys of wetness and cum.

You started rubbing your cunt again first, as he joined in again with shallow thrusts, wincing and seething as he overstimulated himself.

You came quietly that last time and waited for him to pull out and clean you up.

He didn't. Keeping himself sheathed inside you, he awkwardly lifted the two of you to the couch and pulled your head down into his chest, letting you cockwarm him as your cum soaked into the material of the couch.

“Sleep for an hour or two. You'll wake up when it's time to go again.”

When you woke, it wasn't to Spencer starting again, but instead the ring of your phone. You tried to reach for it, to silence whatever alarm had decided to disturb you at that point, but Spencer was faster.

“Hello?” he said down the line, forgetting where he was for a second before you nestled into the crook of his neck again, fingers gently tracing his collarbone.

“Spencer?” Emily asked, confused and voice tired.

“Emily?” He asked. “We have a case?” He sat you up with him crasling you in his arms as you fully woke, your muscles objecting at this sudden movement. His cock stayed buried within you as you reoriented yourself.

“Uh, yeah. We've got an hour to get to the office and debrief, then were flying out- Spencer. This is Spencer?” she asked again, voice a muddle with confusion, tone rising by the second.

“Yes, Spencer. I'll be there.”

“And Y/N?” Emily asked. “I didn't dial the wrong number, Spencer, I have you all on speed dial. You're with Y/N?”

You sat bolt upright and took the phone from Spencer quickly, the shrill ringing of Emily's voice echoing down the line.

“We’ll be there,” you practically shouted. “We just drank together and-” you pulled the hair out of your face as you felt Spencer go rigid inside you again.

“A-and that's it. See you in an hour.”

Speedily you hung up, grabbed Spencer and pressed your lips to his again, pushing him down into the couch.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #dom spencer reid #sub reader

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tommysversion · 2 months ago

Text

Forbidden Fruit [Part 1] - Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

Summary: he's been watching you for longer than he can remember, thinking he's too old for you, too dangerous. It's easier to keep people at arm's length, and he isn't the roughened lover he used to be. Turns out you don't care much for what he used to be.

Note: I got this out before episode two dropped. There are no spoilers here, just old man Joel being loved.

Word Count: 3.8k. || Part Two Here

- x. -

Joel knows that deep down, he's not the good guy that he tries to be in Jackson. That no amount of hard work and somewhat begrudging neighbourly behaviour will truly ever mask what he really is.

He does a damn good job hiding it, though. Looks almost unassuming with his greying curls, the crows feet forming round his eyes, the glasses he wears more often than not.

Then there's you. God knows how much younger than him - does it really matter, when he's pushing sixty and you're clearly not - and full of life.

He sees you around and just one look at you gets him half hard; you don't even have to fucking do anything, just be wandering past and give him a friendly wave, a half smile.

He finds his eyes glued to your ass more often than not, given your standard attire of a pastel plaid shirt and jeans does nothing to hide your figure. He feels like a dirty old man each and every fucking time, but he can't help it. Especially when you wander past to get ready for a patrol, an honest to god cowboy hat perched on your head, a lasso and a gun on your hip.

It makes some deep buried dark and depraved part of him wish he was still the cocky, confident bastard he once was. The kind who would have no problem whatsoever with talking to you and getting exactly what he wanted. Age has made him hesitate, though, and so he sort of just contends himself with trying to be as subtle as possible with his stares.

He'd be lying if he said he thought of anything else when he fucked his own hand each night, though.

Imagining you. How you might look spread out beneath him. On top of him. How you might sound with his name on your stupidly pouty lips, which he absolutely hasn't made note of or anything.

Joel likes to think he's completely subtle in his interest in you, thinks he might just be burning up inside with his own desires and need, until Tommy calls him the fuck out for it one night.

They're in the bar long after closing time, just the two of them, perks of Tommy being on the governing council, Joel guesses, and two or three glasses of whiskey deep.

"Don't know why you don't just go after her, y'know." Tommy takes a long sip of his drink. Gives Joel a smirk that he never thought he'd see again, given his younger brother is all settled down now, married with a kid and whatnot.

"You know damn well why not." Joel snipes back, refills his glass with a narrowed gaze. "'M too old and I'm too fuckin' dangerous. She'd probably break or something."

Tommy just laughs. But it's more like his old laugh. The slightly dark sound that Joel hasn't heard in years that makes him goddamn certain his brother knows something he doesn't.

"What?"

"Nothin'," Tommy says, tossing another cube of ice into his glass, swirls it around. "Don't blame you for lookin'. Girl's got a sweet ass, and damn, she can ride, too."

There's that tone again, the one that says he definitely knows something. More than knows something. So Joel gives him that look he does that always inevitably has Tommy spilling the beans.

"And how d'you know the girl can ride, huh?"

Tommy snorts, drags a hand through his messy black curls.

"Wasn't always with Maria, ya know. Back when I first came to Jackson... girl can handle her way around a saddle. Ain't half as cocky when she was gushin' all over my cock in a hay bale. Tell y'somethin, never seen a prettier sight than a cockdrunk woman."

He downs the rest of his drink before he shoots Joel a crooked grin.

"And trust me on this one too - she loves her an older man."

Joel doesn't want details. Doesn't care much about something that happened six or so years ago.

What he does take from the conversation stays worked into his head over the next few days. He's just thinking he might make some excuse to leave his office early, to go home so he can either drink himself senseless or fuck his own fist until he has some semblance of self control again.

He's still debating which it'll be when someone knocks on his office door; he looks up, about to tell whoever it is to fuck off, and instead stops. Because there you fucking are, your hair pulled off your face, still windswept. Dressed in a pastel purple and blue plaid shirt, another pair of jeans that should be fucking outlawed and worn cowboy boots.

“Hey, Joel.”

Vaguely, he wonders if this is the first time he’s actually registered you saying his name; he likes the way it sounds in your voice.

“Hey. What can I do for you?” He can’t help but sense some sort of mischief, wonders whether Tommy has decided to interfere, again, in something he has no business in.

“Oh, uh, Tommy said you were the one to go to if the barn door got caught again?”

Joel registers what you’re saying, can’t help but listen to the way his brother’s name sounds in your mouth, as if he’s looking to see if there’s any hint of any sort of affection in it, but he finds none.

He also thinks his goddamn brother is full of shit, because he knows damn well that Tommy is just as capable of fixing the stupid barn door. But Joel is nothing if not an opportunist, and he sees exactly what’s being offered here – an opportunity.

So he gets up out of his chair, pockets his glasses, and gives you a nod.

“Sure. Let’s go get that fixed up before dark.”

- X -

You’re aware of the sheer size of the man beside you as you help him lift the barn door back onto the track it usually slides in. He must be at least sixty, and yet he’s so big and broad that it doesn’t quite show. That doesn’t mean you’re oblivious to the greying curls, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. You’re not blind. Maybe you’re just fucked up, because you’ve always preferred older men, at least, since the outbreak.

Maybe it’s some convoluted thought that someone older might be able to keep you safe. As if you aren’t a damn good shot yourself. As if you aren’t entirely capable of keeping yourself safe.

You haven’t been as oblivious to his stares as he thinks. No, Joel Miller is not a subtle man, not anymore. Never has been.

That, and you’ve seen a similar look on his brother’s face, once upon a time. The kind of look that says they want to devour you. To do things to you that’ll make your toes curl.

Like you haven’t been watching Joel since he first set foot in Jackson. Figured maybe you were too young, too out of range of his usual type, whatever the fuck that was.

And then you’d noticed him watching you, dared to perhaps hope, but never make the first move. Until now.

“Thanks for the help,” you say as you test the door, pull it open and closed to make sure it isn’t stuck again.

“’S fine,” Joel answers, shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Walk you home?” You offer, and the hint of a smile curves his mouth.

“Don’t know that I’m the one who needs a chaperone to walk round after dark.”

You laugh lightly as he falls into step with you regardless.

“Ah, Joel, nobody would be stupid enough to lay a hand on me.”

You don’t entirely believe that, but confidence is certainly part of it, and the last thing you want is for him to think you’re someone weak and scared.

“Why, you got some scary ass husband or somethin’ I don’t know about?” Joel asks, and you can hear the hint of jealousy in his tone, even if he thinks you won’t; it lights up something in your belly that trails all the way down to your core.

“Pff, no. No husband. No boyfriend. Just me, and apparently I’m scary enough.”

You give him time to take all that in, but that means you arrive at his house far too soon with very little progression in conversation. You’re almost feeling disappointed when he speaks again.

“Comin’ in for a drink?”

Joel isn’t sure where that confidence came from. Maybe the way you’ve confirmed there’s no significant other in your life. The almost flirty way you’ve spoken to him. The way you had seemingly no issue getting up in his space as you fixed the barn door.

He notices, too, the way your eyes flicker with something like triumph at the offer, before you just nod, follow him up the steps and into the house.

- X -

Joel watches the way your lips curve around the glass tumbler, and he really thinks he should be more focused on his own liquor consumption at his age more than the way it looks, but he can’t help it.

Unbidden, his mind gives him a picture of your lips wrapped around something else entirely, and for the first time since Tommy shared his little bit of “wisdom” about you the other night, he resents his brother for it. Because of fucking course his goddamn brother would have had the balls to just make a move. So why doesn’t he?

As he’s pondering this, he’s oblivious to your gaze, focused on him over the rim of your glass. They’re so alike, and yet so different, the Miller brothers. You haven’t quite worked out what makes Joel tick yet, can sense a sort of brooding, shut off darkness in him that you aren’t entirely certain you’d like to see unleashed.

What you do know, though, is that you’ve caught his eyes on you more than once. That you want him, even if it’s only for one night, that you don’t care if he shreds your heart to pieces after, so long as you get one single night where you can see what it’s like to be his.

And so while he’s still lost in thought, you down the rest of your drink and cross from your chair to his, straddle his lap and tap him lightly on the cheek.

“Hey, still with me?”

Not a lot takes Joel by surprise; he wasn’t sure what to expect when you moved, but to find you in his lap is definitely unexpected. He puts his half-finished drink to the side and just looks at you for a second, tries to will his cock into behaving, but it’s too late, he’s already hard as fuck, uncomfortable in his jeans with you pressed against him, and you both know it.

“What’re you doin’, sweetheart?” He manages to get out, because he’s got to be sure you’re not just fucking with him, or making some poor decision fuelled by liquor, even though he doubts the single drink has even touched the sides.

“What’s it look like?” You can feel how hard he is, can’t help but rock into him slightly, taunting, teasing, because God forbid you actually want this.

“Makin’ a real poor decision?” Joel regrets saying it as soon as he does so, and it shows on his face; luckily you ignore him.

“You want me to stop?” you ask instead, your hands at the buttons of the flannel shirt he always wears, a well loved dark green thing that you think sets off the olive tones to his skin perfectly.

He shakes his head so fast he almost feels dizzy, because there’s no way in hell he wants you to stop, but he wants you to understand what you might be getting yourself into.

“Fuck, no,” he almost growls it out, leans in to press a kiss to your bare collarbone where your shirt has fallen. “More just… I'm an old man, darlin', but I've never been good at bein' gentle."

You just laugh, because you don’t want gentle. You don’t want young and sweet and inexperienced. You want whatever the hell is lurking behind his tired gaze.

Still, he doesn’t move until you lean in first, press those pouting lips against his, part them so he can taste liquor and strawberries on your tongue. It’s not until you grind down against him again and moan into his mouth that he reacts.

Then whatever control he has left (which isn’t much) snaps, his hands pushing up your shirt; glad he had the foresight to build a fire when you got in, because the last thing he wants is you shivering for any reason that isn't good, isn't at his hands.

You figure he isn't moving fast enough, help him shed your layers of clothing one by one until you're in his lap in just your emerald green panties, and fuck if Joel doesn't think the colour looks good on you.

His hands are wandering, up from your hips, slowly, cupping your tits and rubbing his roughened thumbs across your peaked nipples. You almost wish you could get him naked, but the most he'll allow is a few buttons of his shirt undone. Not that you're about to complain, so full of want for him that you'll take whatever he gives you.

You can feel the fabric of your panties getting damper with every hungry, open mouthed kiss, your little moans muffled as he slowly draws circles with his thumbs around your nipples, humming when he feels you react.

"Sensitive, huh?" His dark eyes stay fixed on yours as he pinches your nipples gently, making your back arch slightly. "Yeah you are, aren't you, sweetheart?"

You just nod, grinding yourself down against the thick length of him, your hands finding his belt buckle.

He doesn't stop you, too preoccupied with playing with your tits, the way you lean into his touch. Your hand unzips his jeans, frees his cock from the too tight confines, and slowly strokes, drawing a low groan from his chest.

Fuck, but you know what you're doing, slow practised strokes from base to tip, gentle twists of your wrist when you reach the thick head of him, spreading the precum that drips heavily along his length.

"Fuck, sweetheart, don't make me cum before I've got you there-" he warns, and you laugh, not at him, but because you're so fucking pleased that you're having that much of an effect on him.

He shuts you up effectively though, slides one rough hand into your panties and almost immediately finds your swollen clit, rubs circles on it with his thumb, smirking at how soaked he finds you.

"Christ. Don't even need t'get you ready for me, do I?"

You shake your head, but he does it anyway; nobody can say he isn't merciful, Joel thinks, as he slides his index and middle finger into your wet heat, drawing a filthy sound from you as he curls them deep.

He kisses you again, rough and needy, thinks about how if he was five, ten years younger he'd pick you up, carry you to the nearest horizontal surface and fuck you into it. The thought makes his cock throb painfully, but even this is enough, having you in his lap, writhing on his fingers...

You're aware of his mouth on you; on your throat, your collarbones, your nipples, then he moves his fingers a little more and you're aware of nothing beyond your own pleasure, your cunt weeping onto the thick digits as he continues to move them, not stopping until he's absolutely certain you're through it.

"So fuckin' pretty for me, baby. You want to come sit on my cock now?"

Slowly, slowly, he slides his fingers out, enjoys the dazed look on your face as you nod; your ruined panties are dragged down, tossed aside, then you're there, intimately close as he lines himself up, catches the tip of his cock at your soaked entrance.

He lets you sink down onto him with little to no guidance; groans when your hips meet far sooner than he expected.

"Fuck, there's a good girl-"

You make a sound of assent, wriggle in his lap to get comfortable, only serving to make his cock twitch inside you and drag another pretty little sound out.

"You like how it feels?" He knows you do, can tell by the way your pussy tightens around him, trying to pull him in deeper, but he wants to hear you say it, almost needs the ego boost.

"Y-yeah," you breathe out, then, "Joel-"

His name is drawn out, a half plea for something that he isn't quite sure about.

"What d'you need, honey?"

"Need you to move," your voice is almost demanding, somewhere between pleading and insistent, but you'll get what you want regardless.

Joel keeps his hands on your hips, giving you some semblance of control still, but he starts to move, slowly rocking his hips up as you rest your forehead against his.

So maybe it's not what he first pictured, not what he'd have done to you ten years ago, but it doesn't quite matter to him, not when he can feel how wet and tight you are around him, hear every single pathetic little noise you make for him.

Your fingers drag through greying curls, tugging lightly; you're rewarded with another low groan, more like a growl, as his hips snap upwards sharply against yours. You don't get to savour that victory, too preoccupied by the suddenly rougher pace.

"Fuck, Joel-" You gasp and he laughs, tightens his grip on your ass to bounce you on his cock just that little bit harder, faster, hitting all the right places inside.

"That's it, good girl," he presses greedy, open mouthed kisses to your throat, keeping up the pace, feeling you tightening around him and knowing without a doubt that you're close already, so worked up for him that tipping you over the edge will be almost easy.

"Such a tight, sweet little cunt, baby, made to take my cock, weren't you?" The filthy words pour out before he can stop them, but you're responsive to those, too, clinging to him, moaning as his cock hits your sweet spot again and again, getting you closer; you try to hold it off, don't want this to be over yet. But God if it isn't difficult.

Joel can feel you trying not to cum, can feel you holding yourself back.

"C'mon, sweetheart, go ahead and cum for me. Y'really think this is gonna be the only time I give you my cock, sweet girl? Fuck, gonna keep this pretty pussy full of me til you get sick of it."

You gasp a moan, because there's no way in hell you could ever get tired of this, of the hint of roughness and the burning passion with which he handles you.

Regardless, once he gives you that permission, even though you didn't need it, your resolve breaks; he presses in deep, grinds his hips against yours so the coarse curls at the base of him brush your over-sensitive clit, and then you're gone, spots in your vision as you cling to him, your cunt fluttering and throbbing around the thick cock splitting you open as your release drips down him, soaking his lap.

Joel groans, almost cums right there, because he can count on both hands and feet how long it's been since he made a woman cum so hard, felt a pussy spasm around his cock and gush fluids into his lap. Fuck, if he doesn't love it.

"Not gonna last much longer, sweetheart," he warns, voice low and rough as he rubs circles on your back, trying to get you through it whilst holding back his own release.

"Please-" Your voice is hoarse, eyes wide and pleading as you look at him, not bothering to finish your sentence and instead leaning in to kiss him.

It's the kiss that pushes him over the edge; years of rough, emotionless encounters, against walls. Bent over surfaces. And here you are, younger than him, softer somehow, kissing him like he's someone good and deserving.

He knows he should pull out of you but it's too late, his cock aches and twitches inside you as his release fills your still fluttering cunt, breaking the kiss only so he can rest his head on your shoulder and try to breathe.

Then your hands are in his hair again, stroking through the soft curls, getting him through the aftermath of his climax with the same gentle touch he gave you.

"Joel," you whisper his name and this time it's not a plea, not an impassioned moan, just your voice being gentle as you continue to stroke his hair.

"Hm?" He's content to just stay like this, actually, even if his joints are starting to protest. He'll deal with that later for another five, ten, fifteen minutes of this with you.

"You don't fuck like an old man." Your voice is soft. Sleepy. Like he's fucked any fire inside you out of you, lulled you into a sense of safety.

Joel can't help it. He laughs, a proper laugh that barely anyone gets out of him these days.

"Guess not, huh."

He feels his softening cock slip out of you, wraps his arms around you and tucks you against his chest.

"Can we do this again?" You dare to ask, because you're feeling sleepy and stupid and high on him, on the feeling of his seed slowly dripping down your thighs as he presses little kisses to your head.

Joel looks down at you for a moment, understands you don't mean right now, but in a sort of ambiguous future way.

"Yeah, sweetheart. Whenever you want. You want a blanket or something?"

Because inexplicably he's worried that you might be cold, as if he's only been watching you to think with his cock and doesn't actually, possibly, maybe care.

You shake your head and nuzzle back into his chest.

"Can we just stay like this for a minute?" You ask instead, and Joel nods, because he really does need to catch his breath, and even if his knees are protesting, he doesn't give a damn, because you're nice and warm in his lap and you fit there just right, like you were made to fit there.

"Yeah, baby. As long as you want."

It won't occur to him until maybe a week or so later, when you're picking strawberries in the greenhouse, that that should have been the moment he realised he was a total, utter goner.

#my writing #my fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #x reader #hbo tlou #hbo joel miller

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cowboybeepboop · 10 months ago

Text

Desire

“Anything you want, baby,” he murmurs, his voice strained with desire. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x fem! Reader

Genre: Friends to lovers, romantic smut

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: Your feelings for Jake resurface after you tried to push them away, leading to an extremely intimate night with your best friend.

a/n: I really hope there's still an audience for Top Gun Maverick smut because I really loved writing for Hangman and Rooster. Also, I’m currently working on the requests in my inbox but as always feel free to send any my way! I hope you enjoy <3

You're best friends with Jake, in fact you're the only one who he doesn't seem to have an attitude with. Working at The Hard Deck allows you to see him even more frequently, which you truly enjoy.

You know not to get too attached to him, you know how he is with women, you know that given the chance he would simply fuck you and leave your life forever. So of course you’ve entirely given up on the chance of ever being anything more than just his friend, his best friend.

The doors swing open with Mav and his team bounding in, he greets Penny, glancing over at you as you lean over a table obviously lost in thought.

“What are all of you doing here? I’m not even open yet,” she starts to scold but Maverick brushes her comment off.

“I thought you could make an exception for us,” he shoots her a sly grin and she rolls her eyes. Hangman gives you a gentle pat on the back as he passes you, saying a soft hello.

Phoenix chuckles as she stands in front of you, “Hey Y/N,” you groan in response.

“Hey, bagman.” Phoenix addresses the blond who's standing at the pool table, “What's up with Y/N?” Hangman turns toward Phoenix and raises an eyebrow in response to her question. He didn't seem particularly interested in the conversation, but his attention was piqued nonetheless.

"Hm? Oh, Y/N? What about her?" he said, leaning against the pool table with a nonchalant tone.

“I mean, just look at her. She looks like she's got something on her mind.” she says, nodding in your direction. Their gazes fall on you, watching as you wipe the same place over and over. He approaches you with a frown on his face, clearly noticing your distracted state.

He stands in front of you, his arms folded across his chest, and observes you silently. "You look like you're in another world, sweetheart," he finally says in a low voice, tilting his head to get a better look at your face.

You glance up at him, letting out a soft sigh. “Yeah, something like that.” you mutter.

“Well, don't just say that and not give me the details.” he raises an eyebrow, watching the way you look away. Something was definitely on your mind, he could tell by the look on your face alone. He knew you all too well, and your usual mood was certainly not this solemn.

He leaned down a bit, making sure he was in your field of vision again, his arms still crossing his chest. “Come on, you can tell me. What's going on?” he prodded, a hint of concern in his voice.

“It’s nothing,” your expression softens as you toss the rag into the red bucket under the counter.

“Oh, really now?” he says with a doubtful tone. He knew you were lying straight to his face, you were usually a pretty terrible liar. He leans against the counter a little bit, keeping his eyes on you. “I know there’s something going on in that pretty little head of yours. So spill it.” He spoke in a firm tone, trying to get you to open up to him.

“It's just,” you purse your lips as you choose your words carefully, making sure he doesnt find out you're talking about him. “Just some guy, has me distracted.”

“A guy?” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. There was something off about the way you spoke, like you were intentionally being vague. But his curiosity quickly shifted into jealousy as you mentioned you were distracted by another guy.

His arms tensed across his chest as he leaned a little closer towards you. “Who is this guy? Is he bothering you?” he asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He didn’t like the idea of someone else capturing your attention, let alone making you distracted.

“Don’t worry your pretty head over it.” you tease him, your mood becoming a bit more lighthearted.

He rolled his eyes at your teasing, a small hint of a smile appearing on his face. But he was still determined to figure out who this other guy was, who was taking your attention away from him.

He pushed off the counter, moving to stand in front of you so that you were now face to face. “Come on, spill it. Who is this guy?” he said, a hint of insistence in his voice.

“I don’t want to make you jealous.” There was a hint of a smirk on his face as you mentioned making him jealous. He knew you were teasing him, but his competitive nature couldn’t resist the challenge.

“Oh, you think I’d get jealous?” he said, a hint of mock arrogance in his tone. “I don’t get jealous, sweetheart.” you think for a second, realizing that maybe getting advice from the man who's bothering you so much, might actually be your best option.

“Fine,” you pull yourself up on the counter, sitting on the edge in front of him. “He’s an ass sometimes, all he cares about is getting laid so I know I need to stay away. But.. I just can’t stop thinking about him.” you sigh.

Hangman looks a bit surprised by your admission, he wasn’t expecting you to be so blunt about the situation. He wants to tell you to forget about the guy and focus your attention on him instead, but he knows he doesn’t have any claim over you.

He leans against the counter next to you, his arms resting across his chest once again. “Sounds like a player, why bother with him?” he asks, trying to sound indifferent.

“I don't know, it’s just that he's always on my mind.” you lean back on your palms, “I guess that's why I’m so distracted today.” He can see the hint of frustration and confusion in your expression, it was clearly bothering you that this guy was constantly invading your thoughts.

He’s silent for a moment, his mind racing with different thoughts and feelings. But eventually he speaks, his voice low and firm. “You can do so much better than some player,” he says with a slight scoff, “You don’t need a guy like him in your life.”

Your eyes wander across his face as you sigh, “I know..” your voice trails off. He looks down at you, noticing the way your eyes are wandering across his face. He can see the hint of disappointment in your expression, as you admit that you know you can do better.

He steps a bit closer to you, his eyes never leaving your face. “So why bother with him then? Why waste your time and energy thinking about a guy who doesn’t deserve you?"

“I should get back to work.” you smile softly at him, hiding the frustration at his admission. He didn’t want you to go, he wasn’t ready to let the conversation end just yet. The way you smiled softly at him, a hint of frustration in your eyes, made him want to keep talking to you and find out more.

But he knew you had a job to do, and he didn’t want to come off as needy or overbearing. He nods in response to your statement, forcing a small smile back.

“Y/N,” Penny smiles warmly at you, “How about you call it a day?” she presses her hand to your back.

“Are you sure?” you question her, she simply nods at you. You find your way over to the pool table watching the pilots play.

The pilots are in the middle of a game of pool, laughing and teasing each other as they take turns shooting. Hangman in particular is clearly enjoying himself, relishing in the competitive atmosphere. He knows he's good at pool, and he's not afraid to show it.

He’s the first to notice your approach, and his demeanor changes slightly. He glances at you, a hint of a cocky smile on his face. “Finished working already?” he teases, his eyes watching you intently.

“Yeah, but my ride won't be here for a couple more hours.” you bite down on your bottom lip, gazing at him.

He steps even closer to you, his gaze unwavering. “If you don't want to keep waiting, I can drive you home.” his voice lowered as he stares down at you.

“Actually that sounds like a great idea,” you smile up at him, thankful you won’t have to stay any later.

He can't help but feel satisfied that you agreed so easily to his offer, pleased that he'll have more time alone with you. He grins back at you, his arms still crossed in front of his chest.

"Alright then, let's get going." he says, jerking his head towards the exit. He places a hand on your lower back, guiding you towards the doors. You wave goodbye to Penny and Mav who are deep in a conversation.

“Do you maybe have time to watch a movie with me?” you fiddle with your fingers, “I mean, it's been a while since we've hung out just the two of us.”

He listens to your question, his mind racing with different thoughts, but he quickly shoves them down. He would do anything to spend more time with you. He pretends to act a bit indifferent, but his voice betrays him as he replies.

"Sure, we can watch a movie." he shrugs, trying not to seem too eager. "Got one in mind?" you reach for the handle of his passenger side door.

“Hm, we could watch anything. I just want to be with you,” you admit carelessly while getting into the car.

He can’t help but feel a flutter in his chest at your admission, his heart races a little bit faster as he watches you get into the car. He quickly gets into the driver��s seat, trying to act like your words don’t affect him.

“Anything, huh?” he teases, glancing over at you quickly as he starts the car. “Even a cheesy romance movie?” he smirks, knowing how much you love them.

You gasp in response, “Obviously, you *know* they're my favorite.” his mind goes back to the discussion you had earlier as you smile at him.

He lets out a soft chuckle at your response, “Of course I do, I can’t forget your obsession with them.” he teases, his eyes staying focused on the road as he drives. But his mind starts to wander again, thinking about your earlier confession.

As his mood shifts slightly, he glances over at you with a hint of a frown on his face. “So, uh, this guy you were talking about,” he says, breaking the silence in the car. “How… how serious are you about him?”

“Hm?” your eyebrows furrow softly. His grip on the steering wheel tightens ever so slightly at your reaction, his eyes staring straight ahead as he continues to drive.

He can’t help the pang of jealousy that runs through him, he glances over at you, his face trying to maintain a nonchalant expression. “I just mean, you said you didn’t want to get in trouble with a guy.” he says, his tone guarded.

“I don’t know.” you sigh looking out the window.

His heart does a backflip at your words, he tries to maintain a neutral expression, but he can’t help the small smirk that appears on his face. “So, you’re single, huh?” he teases, a hint of hope in his voice.

“Mhm, why do you ask?” you question him. He continues to drive, keeping his eyes focused on the road as he answers your question.

“Just wondering,” he replies casually, trying to feign indifference. But he can’t help the nervous energy that’s building inside of him. He glances over at you, his gaze raking over your face thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve been single for a while too,” he adds, an underlying hint in his voice.

“You’re always single,” you retort, “you prefer hook-ups over relationships, right?” you tease him.

He lets out an annoyed huff, not expecting you to tease him like that. His face flushes slightly as he remembers all the past hookups he’s bragged about to you, in an attempt to make you jealous. “Hey,” he says with false annoyance in his voice, “I can be in a relationship if I wanted to.”

“And would you want to?” you question as he pulls into the parking lot of your building.

He parks the car, his heart racing slightly at your question. He turns to look at you, hesitating for a moment. The thought of being in a relationship, with you, was something he’d fantasized about for a while. But he’s also a coward, terrified of being vulnerable and getting hurt.

He takes a deep breath, trying to maintain a casual composure. “Maybe, if it was the right person.” he finally responds, his eyes searching your face for a reaction. You nod in response, slightly disappointed with his answer.

“Who’s your right person?” your voice is quiet. He’s taken aback by your question, the subtle disappointment in your voice stabbing at his heart. He glances down, his mind racing with different thoughts and emotions.

He takes a deep breath, his eyes shifting back up to meet yours. His heart pounds even faster as he musters up the courage to answer you. “Well.. I think you already know.” your eyes widen at his implication, feeling his hand moving to cup your cheek.

He can see the surprise in your eyes as he cups your cheek gently, his thumb stroking your skin softly. His heart is racing as he looks down at you, his eyes searching your expression for a reaction.

He takes a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak. “Do you… do you feel the same way?” he asks, his voice soft and nervous.

“Jake.. I.” your heart races as your words get stuck in your throat. His chest clenches as you struggle to speak, his stomach in knots as he waits for your response. His hand is still gently caressing your cheek, his eyes never leaving your face.

He swallows hard, trying to maintain his composure. “Please, just tell me. I need to know.” he says, his voice quiet but firm. Finding yourself speechless, you respond by pressing your lips to his.

He’s taken by surprise by your action, his eyes widening for a split second before he responds to your kiss. A wave of relief and happiness washes over him as he feels your lips against his, his heart racing with excitement and disbelief as he realizes the asshole you were talking about earlier just so happens to be him.

He moans softly against your mouth, his hand moving to the back of your head, his fingers burying into your hair as he kisses you back, passionately and hungrily. You lean closer to him, your hands cupping his cheeks as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue twirling with yours. He can’t believe this is actually happening, that you feel the same way he does.

He pulls you closer, his hands gripping your hips and guiding you onto his lap. He moans against your lips, his hands roaming down your sides, his touch both gentle and desperate at the same time.

“Jake,” you whisper against his lips, feeling his bulge pressed against your heat. He shudders hearing his name leaving your lips, his eyes darkening with desire for you. He can’t help but moan softly as he feels your body pressed against his, his hips instinctively bucking up slightly in response.

He pulls you even closer, his hands gripping your thighs, his lips trailing down your neck. “Sweetheart,” he breathes, “I want you so damn bad.” you moan quietly, leaning into his touch.

“We need to go inside,” your voice and gaze are filled with desire. His heart races at your moan, his body aching with need for you. He nods in agreement, his eyes filled with the same desire.

“You’re right, we should go.” he mutters, his hands roaming over your hips, unable to keep himself from touching you.

He lifts you off his lap, opening the car door and practically dragging you out with him. He shuts the door behind you before pulling you towards the building’s entrance, his eyes filled with impatience and lust.

He presses you against the wall of the elevator, his hands roaming over your body, exploring every inch of exposed skin. His lips trail down your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses in their wake.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” he mutters against your skin, his voice thick with desire. He kisses and nips at your neck, unable to get enough of you, your soft moans fill the cramped space.

He can’t help but smirk to himself as he hears your moans, his heart racing as he realizes he’s the one making you feel this way. He feels a surge of pride and satisfaction knowing he’s the one who has your heart racing and your body yearning.

“Jake, fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” The ding of the elevator pulls you both out of your trance as the doors open, revealing the empty hallway. He grabs your hand, practically dragging you towards your apartment.

You fumble with the doorknob as you unlock it, feeling his desperate hands around your waist.

He can't keep his hands off you, his fingers tracing the exposed skin of your waist as you fiddle with the keys. Impatience floods him, his desire growing with every second.

He presses himself against you from behind, his lips finding your neck once again. "Hurry up," he mutters against your skin, his breath hot against your ear. "I need you, right now."

You pull the door open, smirking at his impatience. He traps you between his arms, your back pressed against the closed door, his body pressed firmly against yours. He gazes down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and possessiveness.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and low. He leans down and captures your lips in a fierce and passionate kiss, his body desperate to get closer to you.

You press against him, your palms against his lower abs, as you lead him to your bedroom blindly. He follows your lead through the apartment, his lips never leaving yours. His body is on fire, the feeling of your hands on his abs driving him wild.

He pushes you against the doorframe of your bedroom, his body pinning you to it as he continues to kiss you deeply and hungrily. He can't get enough of your mouth, his tongue tasting every inch of it. He slips his knee between your thighs, pressing into your sensitive pussy. You moan into his mouth, your eyebrows scrunching in pleasure.

His knee presses against your sensitive core, his tongue exploring your mouth greedily. He can hear your moans, your breath hitching as he presses into you. He feels a surge of satisfaction as he knows he’s the one who makes you feel this way.

He nips at your bottom lip, his hands roaming down your sides, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. “You like that, sweetheart?” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse. “You want more?”

“Please,” you grasp onto his sides, moaning desperately, “I need more please.”

He can hear the desperation in your voice, your fingers gripping his sides. His heart aches at your plea, his body responding instantly to your need.

He moans against your mouth in response, his hands roaming down to your thighs. In one swift motion, he lifts you up with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you into your bedroom.

He gently but firmly presses you against the plush comforter of your bed, his eyes devouring every inch of your body. The room is bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting shadows across your flushed cheeks and the passionate hunger in his gaze. You can feel the heat emanating from his body, and it sends shivers down your spine.

With a low growl, he starts to peel away the layers of fabric that separate his skin from yours. His rough hands glide over your smooth flesh, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Each piece of clothing that falls away reveals more of your beauty to him, and he can't help but moan in appreciation. His eyes are locked onto yours, watching the way your pupils dilate with every touch, every kiss.

He nips at your earlobe before tracing the line of your jaw with his teeth, making you squirm under him. His hands are everywhere, exploring the curves of your body, learning every dip and peak that makes you gasp. His kisses become more fervent, his teeth grazing your neck as he sucks soft hickeys into your skin. You can feel the pressure build, the promise of bruises that will be a secret between the two of you.

Your breath comes in pants as he kisses down your chest, his tongue swirling around your hardened nipples. You arch your back, pushing your breasts closer to his eager mouth, your hands tangling into his hair. He groans, the vibration of his pleasure echoing through your body, making your core clench with need. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, and you can't help but bite down on your lip to stifle the moan that threatens to escape.

His mouth continues to travel downward, leaving a trail of hot kisses down your stomach. His eyes never leave yours, the hunger in them growing with every inch closer he gets to your wet pussy. You can feel your heart pounding against your ribs, the anticipation of his touch making your skin tingle with excitement.

With surprising gentleness, he spreads your legs apart, his gaze lingering on the wetness that's already gathered there. He groans, his own arousal evident in the tightness of his pants. He leans in, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, and you can't help but moan out his name as he kisses the inside of your thigh.

The first suck is gentle, but firm, and you feel your pussy clench in response. He starts to suck dark hickeys along the sensitive skin, each one a little harder and closer to your center. Your hands tighten in his hair as he works his way closer to your core, the pleasure building with every mark he leaves.

“More, Jake, please!” you beg him, your voice desperate and needy. He chuckles against your skin, his tongue flicking against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. Your back arches as he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking hard. You moan loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls of your small apartment.

He inserts one finger inside you, feeling the slickness of your arousal. You gasp as he starts to pump in and out, his thumb rubbing circles around your clit, teasing and taunting it. His eyes watch yours as he reads every reaction, making sure to hit all the right spots.

You're close, so close, but he knows you can take more. He adds another finger, stretching you just right, the friction making your toes curl. Your eyes roll back into your head as he starts to pump faster, his mouth never leaving your clit. He feels you tighten around his fingers, the warmth of your orgasm approaching.

He keeps his rhythm steady, not letting up even when your moans turn into whimpers of pleasure. You're so close, your body begging for release. His eyes never leave you, the intensity of the moment causing your chest to heave with every ragged breath. And then it hits you, the orgasm crashing over you like a wave.

You scream his name, your body convulsing with pleasure. He keeps his mouth on you, drinking in your release, savoring the taste of your arousal. As the waves subside, he kisses up your body, his hands still holding you in place.

"You taste so good," he murmurs against your skin, his voice filled with satisfaction. He can feel your legs shaking as his own need for you grows with every second. He strips off his own clothes, his eyes never leaving yours, and then he's on top of you, his body pressing you into the mattress.

He positions himself at your entrance, his cock aching to be inside you. He looks into your eyes, searching for permission, and you nod eagerly. He takes a deep breath, then gently pushes in, feeling your warmth envelop him. You gasp as he stretches you, his eyes never leaving yours, watching for any signs of pain or discomfort.

As he’s fully sheathed in your wetness, he holds still for a moment, savoring the feeling of being connected to you so intimately. He starts to move, his hips rolling in a slow, torturous rhythm. Each time he thrusts into you, your eyes widen and a moan escapes your lips. He loves the way you react to him, the way your body moves with his.

He keeps his movements gentle, not wanting to overwhelm you, despite his own desperate need to claim you completely. His hands are everywhere, stroking your skin, feeling your curves, as he kisses along your jawline. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your legs tightening around his waist.

Your thighs squeeze around him, your heels digging into his back as he continues to thrust into you, deeper and deeper. His movements become more urgent as he feels your body tightening around him, the walls of your pussy clenching down on his cock. You moan his name, urging him to go faster, harder, and he responds eagerly, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm.

You can feel yourself on the edge of another orgasm, your breaths coming in short gasps. Hangman’s eyes are locked on yours, watching the pleasure build in your gaze, feeling the power he has over your body. He can’t believe how beautiful you look, your face contorted in ecstasy, your eyes glazed over with lust.

Your body begins to spasm around him, your pussy clenching down hard. He groans, his hips stuttering as he feels you start to cum. The sensation is overwhelming, your muscles tightening around his cock like a vice, sending waves of pleasure through his body.

With a sudden jolt, he pulls out of you, unable to hold back any longer, his cock spurting cum onto your stomach with a loud groan. His eyes never leave your body, watching as your orgasm takes over, your pussy pulsing and gripping at nothing.

He's left breathless, his chest heaving as he looks down at you, his expression one of awe and satisfaction. He leans down, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, before his eyes drift down to the mess he's made of you.

He watches as your eyes flutter shut, your body trembling with the pleasure he’s given you. He can’t help but feel a sense of pride and satisfaction at the sight of your beautiful, sated body.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and exhaustion. His eyes rake over your form, taking in every curve and plane, every mark he’s left behind.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he mutters, his fingers tracing the lines of his bites and hickeys on your skin.

“Now let's get you cleaned up, hm?” He lifts you up, wrapping his strong arms around you, and carries you to the bathroom. He turns on the shower, letting the water run until it warms up, before placing you gently under the spray.

He steps in after you, his body pressing against yours as he begins to lather your body with soap, his hands moving over your skin gently but possessively. You exhale contentedly as you press into his chest, relaxing in his embrace.

He holds you close, his arms encircling you, as the water cascades over your bodies. His hands run over your body, washing away the sweat and evidence of your passionate encounter. Jake nuzzles his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, a sense of peace washing over him. He murmurs sweet nothings in your ear, his voice low and soothing.

“You’re not just fucking around with me are you?” your voice is uneasy as your stomach twists with anxiety. He freezes, taken aback by your vulnerable question. He can hear the anxiety in your voice, and it pierces his heart.

He pulls away slightly, turning your body to face his, cupping your face gently in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are intense but filled with understanding.

“No. No, sweetheart, I’m not just ‘fucking around with you’.” His voice is firm but tender. “What we did tonight, it meant something to me. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. You mean way too much to me.” your eyes soften as his gaze into yours with sincerity.

“Good, because I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.” you bite down on your lip. He feels a rush of tenderness and protectiveness wash over him as he hears your sincere words. He pulls you closer, your wet bodies pressed against each other, his arms encircling you in a firm embrace.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he mutters against your hair, his voice filled with a mixture of vulnerability and possessiveness. “You’re all I want too, sweetheart. You have no idea how much I need you.”

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