#but it was scratching at the door of my brain to get out | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

papayadays · 18 hours ago

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OH MY GOD LILY this read so well and i legit still have butterflies that altered my brain chemistry and i love this fic so much it's literally one of my favs now and shgjsfdfgjdk

the banter? the stages of falling? the dramatic action scenes that force them to come to terms with their feelings? the brilliant BRILLIANT use of chekhov's gun + foreshadowing? (i literally screamed seeing all the small details come up again and i was literally like, i called it) this was such a beautiful fic and was basically a movie for the reader

“Stop being so mean to me, or I swear to God I’ll fall in love with you,” he replies lightly, ridiculous grin on his face. Something warm blooms in your chest, which you promptly stamp down until it can never reach your brain again.

EEEEE starting off with this sets the tone so well they're already falling

The room falls into a tense silence. Lando’s jaw ticks, and the strangest memory floats to the front of your mind: an early day in training, Lando much smaller and skinnier than he is now, practically getting pulled through an obstacle course by a tall, lanky guy. George. Compromised. You blink, hard, and the memory’s gone.

so that cracked my heart, legit was a gut punch and maybe i'm just a sucker for sentimental stuff

He turns to you, his smile slow and so obnoxious. “I’ll accept the mission on one condition.” He pauses dramatically, and you raise your eyebrows at him as if to say get on with it. “You have to promise not to fall in love with me for real.”

we all know how that will end 🤭

He does a slow, exaggerated spin on his heels. “Admit it. Your husband is hot.”

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you relax against the velvet-tufted wall. “Baby is fine. Maybe love. But if you call me snugglebug during the gala, I will push you off the balcony.” The soft smile that crosses his face is enough to make you instantly regret what you’ve agreed to. “That’s the spirit, baby.”

oh. OH. i think my heart skipped a beat

He flops on the bed, starfishing his limbs over the expensive mattress and grinning up at you in a way that makes your heart do something annoyingly unprofessional in your chest. “I’m heartbroken, baby. Truly.”

you've nailed down his personality and the banter is what i live for

In the event that any agent is compromised, retreat. Do not attempt rescue.

oh i knew this was going to come back, that one of them would go back for the other, chekhov's gun and all 😌

He must have slept that way all night, you realize, just so he didn’t disturb you. Something about the idea makes your heart ache in your chest.

howling at the moon, this is so fluffy and the fact that they're slowly realizing? be still my heart

“I just…” His eyes drag down your body for one excruciatingly slow moment. Then he blinks, shakes his head slightly like he got hit. “Shit. You look stunning.” There’s none of the usual flirtation or teasing in it. Just something quiet, awestruck, and it makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.

everyone stay calm, it's happening!! they're realizing feelings!

You’re turning to the side, calculating the best place for you to take the hit and keep moving, when Lando shoves you out of the way, swinging wildly towards his temple. The guard falls hard, and Lando flinches backwards, something clattering out of his hand to the ground and skittering across the tiles. You barely have time to turn and lunge for the drive before the last guard is scooping it up, running full speed back down the corridor and disappearing through the swinging doors.

HE TOOK THE HIT FOR HER CHIVALRY ISN'T DEAD

“Because I thought I was going to lose you!” you snap without thinking, the uncomfortable truth scratching out of your throat like a shard of glass.

awww they're finally starting to admit their feelings also the simile?? figurative language hits different

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair, fingers tracing small circles on your back soothingly. “I’m okay. ‘M not going anywhere, yeah? Gonna keep annoying you for as long as I can.”

i swooned. this is so so sweet and i got butterflies in my stomach i love them so much

It tastes like punishment, the type you deserve for letting yourself want something you can never, ever have.

oof that line resonated with me and twisted the knife in my heart 💔

Wonder if when he said you could hurt him however you wanted, if he ever pictured this.

heart. been broke. so. many. times 😔

“Don’t worry,” he adds, standing up and grabbing his watch off the dresser roughly. You’ve seen him handle a Glock with more tenderness. “I’m not going to let you down.” The words, unspoken, hang in the air between you two. Not like you did to me.

just stab me in the back while you're at it

“We met at a pub, actually,” Lando says casually, not missing a beat. “This place called Mother Kelly’s. It was the day before I started my job, and I wanted to scope out the neighborhood a bit. Walked in, and there she was — this girl sitting at the bar, hair pulled back, no makeup on, drinking a Guinness. Most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I offered to buy her a drink, thought I was being really fucking smooth. And she looked me dead in the eyes, pointed at the pint and said ‘Open your eyes, mate. I’ve already got one, don’t I?’” He huffs out a laugh. “Cheeky as anything.” He pauses for a moment, and his voice is softer when he speaks again. “And then she smiled at me, and that was pretty much it. I’ve been gone for her ever since.” The women at the table coo, marveling over the sweetness of the story. But you just stare at him dumbstruck, your heart hammering beneath your ribs. Because that’s not Claridge’s. That’s not Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair’s story. It’s you and Lando’s.

don't mind me quoting all of this but OMG I SCREAMED I KNEW IT'D COME BACK AND THAT'S THE CUTEST THING 🥹 inject this into my veins, this changed me

Lando turns, spits blood onto the floor. Then slowly, deliberately leans forward until his mouth is pressed against the barrel, the cool metal pulling at the plush pink of his bottom lip. “Go ahead. Kill me,” he grimaces, looking up at DuPont through his eyelashes. “I’d die before I let you hurt her.”

OMG KILL ME NOW (no pun intended) PROTECTIVE LANDO?? and he's willing to DIE?

He shakes his head, and you can see him fading. “Was a good last mission,” he says quietly, looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Liked being your husband.” His eyes slide shut, and you shake him slightly, but he doesn’t respond. “You can’t die, Lando, please,” you try to speak, but it’s interrupted by the tears that have started to pour down your cheeks. You press your forehead against his, let the warmth of his skin comfort you. “You stupid idiot pain in the ass, I love you. I’m sorry I was scared before, but I love you and you can’t die before I get to tell you that. Please. Just — don’t let me down. One last time. Don’t you dare fucking die.”

i knew he wouldn't but my heart was still pounding. "liked being your husband"?? what if i cried? also "i love you and you can't die before i get to tell you that" and "don't let me down. one last time." GIRL ET TU BRUTUS? sobbing

You let your eyes flit over his face, one you know better than your own reflection. One that became your friend, your partner, your shield. One you nearly lost, that you couldn’t walk away from even when every protocol told you to run.

such beautiful prose it took my breath away 😵‍💫

“Are you gonna kiss me, or what?” you tease, and he doesn’t say another word. Just steps forward, cups your jaw with his good hand, and kisses you like it’s the only order he’ll ever follow again.

SCREAMING AT THE STARS THEY DID IT omg i have so many butterflies right now you don't even understand oh that was such a perfect ending

11/10 beautiful job lily this is an instant fav

if i wanna stay alive (you should never cross my mind) ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring lando norris , spy au , fake dating tw blood , weapons , character injuries , minor character deaths word count 11.8k author’s note LANDO NORRIS MONACO GP WINNER WAOWWWWW !!!!! i have about�� a billion requests in my inbox but idk . something about this artwork of lando by @artist173 made my brain go brrrr and suddenly i had almost 12k words of agent lando norris . this was genuinely a feverish write and i hope everyone enjoys this as much as i enjoyed writing it ! please come tell me what you think or send in a request <3 also hoping to have the birthday build - a - fic up sometime next week ! title is from killshot by magdalena bay .

You’re not surprised he’s already here. In fact, you kind of expected it. There’s something about him that suggests he’s always just arrived before you, just finished charming his way out of a dilemma he created for himself, just smirked like the world is a game and he’s two steps ahead of whoever he’s playing.

You enter the briefing room, and right on cue, Agent Lando Norris spins around in one of the swivel chairs, holding a paper cup of burnt coffee like it’s a martini (shaken, not stirred). “Well, well, well,” he drawls, eyes bright. “If it isn’t my favorite rival.”

You’re not rivals, not really — just trained together, sparred and surveilled each other too many times to count on your way to becoming full-fledged agents. The joke is still funny, though: a reminder that you’ve both made it, as concrete and tangible as the shiny access badges clipped to your clothes. So you just grin and play along, raising an eyebrow as you drop into the seat across the table from him. “This is awkward. I have at least three other rivals I like more.”

He gasps, faux-devastated. “And here I thought I was your number one boy. You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” you tease, checking your watch. You’re right on time, meaning your handler is late. She’s never late, which means something is up. Something big. You’re trying to figure out what it is, what you could possibly be here for, which you could probably do better if Lando wasn’t flirting your ear off.

“Come on. You know you missed me,” he says, chin in hand, leaning against the table with far too much amusement flickering in his eyes for an 8 AM briefing.

“I saw you last Monday at the mass casualty response training,” you respond dryly, leaning in to mirror him across the table.

“Exactly. Last Monday,” he emphasizes, like it proves something. “If I didn’t know any better, Agent, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

You smile, saccharine. “If only I could be so lucky.”

“Good, you’re both here,” Agent Beatrice Hale says as she walks into the room, and you and Lando both straighten up in your seats immediately. You’ve been through eight months of grueling training, nearly two years now in the field executing the most dangerous missions in Europe, and the sight of your handler’s sleek grey bob and crisp pantsuit is still the scariest thing you’ve encountered on the job. “Let’s get started.”

The high-tech glass screen behind her flickers to life with a photo: a man, mid-fifties judging from the salt-and-pepper hair. Heavyset, with a slight paunch that not even his exceptionally tailored suit can hide. His smile is too white, almost wolfish. It’s the kind of face you instinctively don’t trust.

“This is Gabriel DuPont,” she says, dropping two thick dossiers on the table. “Publicly, he’s the billionaire tech CEO of DuPont Industries. Humanitarian. Philanthropist. Privately? He’s running one of the most sophisticated arms smuggling operations we’ve seen in the last decade.”

“We have a team on him, don’t we?” Lando asks before you can open your mouth to say the same thing. He flashes a quick smile at you, like he knows you’re going to be irritated that he beat you to it. “Russell and Hamilton.”

“Had a team,” Hale says matter-of-factly. “They’ve gone dark. Haven’t checked in for forty-eight hours. HQ is assuming they’re compromised.”

George. Compromised. You blink, hard, and the memory’s gone.

It’s part of the job. You all knew it when you signed up. But something about Hale’s businesslike tone makes your heart twist in your chest a little bit.

“Okay. So what’s the new plan?” you say, exhaling through your nose slightly to calm your heartbeat.

Hale just smiles, clicks to the next photo. It’s a sprawling oceanside estate, all floor-to-ceiling windows and smooth white stone. “A softer approach. DuPont is hosting a weekend-long charity gala at his estate in Monaco. The guest list is small — business partners, old-money moguls, politicians with questionable morals. Headquarters has arranged an in: a wealthy couple, invited last-minute after a strategic seven-figure donation.”

You look at Hale. Then the twin dossiers on the table in front of you. “No,” you say. “No, no, no.”

Lando, of course, is beaming, leaning back until his chair nearly tips onto two wheels. You have to fight the urge to kick it out from under him. “Well. This is the best mission I’ve ever been assigned.”

“No arguments,” Hale says, and you groan. “You’re the only pair of agents who fit the profile. We have enough archived photos of you together from training to build a record. You have chemistry —”

“We have history,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

Hale smiles, and it’s ice. “It will read as familiarity, comfort, trust to the outside world. That’s all we need,” she says, voice clipped, and you sink back into your chair.

“You’ll be posing as newlyweds. Wealthy, nauseatingly in love, enough money and clout to catch DuPont’s attention,” she continues, sliding the files across the table to you both. She doesn’t say the words, but all three of you know what’s implied. And enough attractiveness to keep it, should it come to that.

“Newlyweds? Wow,” Lando says. “Should we get matching pajamas, babe? Maybe a couple’s massage?”

“I will strangle you in your sleep,” you say flatly, opening your dossier and pointedly not looking at him.

From the corner of your eye, his grin gets even wider. “That wouldn’t be very wifely of you.”

You flip through the dossier, pages and pages of a life carefully constructed for the two of you. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair. Young heir to a telecommunications empire and his aristocratic wife. Just the right amount of wealth and pedigree. Vacation home on Lake Como. A cocker spaniel named Beckham.

You can’t do this. You’re going to vomit.

“You’ll have twenty-four hours to prepare before you fly to Monaco, and twenty-four hours to prepare there before the gala. Any questions?” Hale asks, and Lando raises his hand like a schoolboy. She gives him a look. “There are three people in this room, Agent. Don’t make me call on you.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “Don’t worry, Norris. I think I’ll manage.”

“Honeymoon?” you say, throwing a stress ball at Lando.

“Oi. Don’t damage the asset!” he laughs, catching it a second before it smacks into his face. “Maldives, two weeks. Cheval Blanc. Waterfront villa, of course,” he says automatically, tossing it back to you. You’re sitting on the floor of a briefing room you commandeered earlier in the day to practice your covers, a sprawl of Chinese takeout boxes between the two of you. “What are my hobbies?”

You grab the ball out of the air with one hand, the other preoccupied with taking a bite of your sesame chicken. You think as you chew, swallowing down the bite before you answer. “Golf. Collecting expensive cars. You’ve recently started playing padel, getting pretty good. Where’d we meet?”

He catches the ball and falters, massaging it between his hands. “It was that bar, um…”

“Lando,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We met at Claridge’s. I was there for an engagement party for my cousin, the earl, and you were there for an after-work drink. I spilled champagne on your leather briefcase and offered to buy you a new one. You said no, but asked if you could have a drink with me anyway. You’ve messed it up three times now. Go read the paragraph on it in the file.”

“I hate us,” Lando says in reply, kicking aimlessly at his dossier. “Like, sorry, but our covers are such wankers. Claridge’s? That place is so posh.”

“Okay, Glastonbury boy,” you snort, and he chucks a pen at your head.

“I mean it! We’d never go there,” he protests as you dodge it, giggling. “I’d take you on a way more memorable date than that.”

“Right. I know you, Norris. You’d take me to Mother Kelly’s pub down the way because it’s close to the office, make me split the check for two pints,” you deadpan as someone knocks on the door.

You stand up, missing the way Lando’s eyes dim slightly at your words. But there’s no one there when you open the door. Just two stupidly expensive pieces of luggage, stuffed to the brim.

“Oh, mint,” Lando says enthusiastically, scrambling past you to pull his inside and unzip it. Clothes practically spill out of the aluminum suitcase, overflowing with silk shirts and brand-name leisurewear. He whistles lowly, pulling a button-up polo out of the bag. It’s a white crocheted thing, red and blue piping on the collar and sleeves. “Look at this.” He strips his standard-issue black tee over his head, unbuttoning the polo and slipping it on.

You’d left your suitcase by the door, completely unexcited to look at whatever trophy-wife designer dresses the costuming department had chosen for you. You’d do every mission in your own beat-up jeans and a tank top if you could. You wish you had it in front of you now, though — wish you had anything to distract from the way your mouth goes dry at the smooth, muscular expanse of Lando’s chest, the white a brilliant contrast against his tanned skin.

He grins at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, the shirt settling around his torso with a lazy flourish. “How do I look?”

You swallow hard. “Like you’ll threaten to call daddy’s lawyer if the caviar on the yacht is lukewarm.”

He does a slow, exaggerated spin on his heels. “Admit it. Your husband is hot.”

“Eat your dinner,” you say fondly, tossing a fortune cookie at him.

He catches it, cracks it in one hand as his eyes flick down to read the message. “Ooh. ‘Romance may be closer than it appears.’” He waggles his eyebrows at you.

“That is not what it says,” you laugh, getting to your feet to try to snatch the paper from him. He’s too quick, though, holding it above your head with one hand and grabbing your wrists with the other.

“Maybe not on paper,” he grins, eyes flashing with amusement, “but definitely in the room.”

You have to admit, being a nepo baby’s wife isn’t so bad.

You knew MI6 had money, but you’d never seen them spend it like this. When the taxi came to pick you and Lando up from headquarters, you thought they’d taken a wrong turn before they got to Heathrow. Instead, they directed you to a small terminal, ushered the two of you onto a literal private jet. Buttery leather seats, personal TVs at every angle, the works. Neither of you are new to the agency anymore, but you couldn’t help your excitement, playing poker and raiding the gourmet snack drawers for the entire flight. When you landed, a shiny silver exotic convertible was waiting for you at the hangar; you know next to nothing about cars, but Lando spent about five minutes circling the thing, telling you every spec, and you could have sworn you heard him squeal like a little girl when he finally settled behind the wheel. Even the clothes they’ve given you for the day aren’t nearly as bad as you expected — a pair of designer jeans, platform sneakers, and the softest sweater you’ve ever felt. Although there is the ring to contend with, a solitaire diamond that must be at least five carats ostentatiously set high on a silver band. It feels weighty on your hand; you keep spinning it around your finger like it’s going to ground you, a real reminder of how unreal all of this is.

But the hotel trumps it all.

When you first pull up to the historic building, you’re mostly just glad to be out of the car. Lando drove like a complete maniac, fast and fearless, and the roads from the private airport in Nice to Monaco weaved through the mountains in a way that made your stomach twist. You step out of the car, catching your breath, and let Lando lead you with a hand on the small of your back into the hotel, where you promptly lose it again.

The lobby is stunning, low-slung red velvet couches scattered around the circular room underneath a chandelier that’s bigger than your apartment hooked to an intricate stained-glass domed ceiling. It feels like you’ve stepped into a bygone age, or a work of art, or maybe the drawing room from Titanic. You clutch Lando’s arm a little tighter as you walk together to the reception desk. This is it. The first test.

“Normally I’d be all about you marking your territory, but your nails are kind of cutting off my circulation right now,” Lando whispers in your ear. You giggle and blush, playing it off as a sweet nothing from your husband, and loosen your grip.

“Bonjour,” the front desk clerk welcomes you. “Name, please?”

“Sinclair. Shouldn’t you already know that?” Lando tosses off casually, with all the unearned arrogance of the idle rich, and you stare. He’s good. Better than you expected him to be, even. “We have the — it was the Diamond Suite, wasn’t it, baby?”

At the pet name, you step on his toes hard, and he somehow manages to turn the grimace into a smile. “I think that’s right,” you drawl poshly, not even looking at the poor desk clerk. “But the butler did the bookings.”

The clerk offers you a polite smile, white-gloved fingers flying over his keyboard. “Ah, oui. I see your reservation here,” he pronounces, Monagesque accent rounding the vowels in an unfamiliar way as he slides two keys across the marble counter. “Here are your room keys. Bienvenue à l’Hermitage.”

“Baby?” you hiss under your breath as you thread Lando’s fingers with yours and make your way to the elevators, pulling your suitcase behind you. “What are you playing at, Norris?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, with the tone of someone who is absolutely not sorry, not even a little bit. “Would you prefer sweetheart? Muffin? Snugglebug?”

The doors slide open with a soft chime, and you yank Lando into the elevator. Lovingly, of course — like a newlywed who can’t keep her hands off her husband, not like a girl trained in six different martial arts styles. “I thought we said no pet names,” you say through a blinding smile as the doors click shut.

“It’s for authenticity,” he says, all innocence. “I’m newly married to my beautiful wife. It would be weird if I didn’t call you something sweet.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you relax against the velvet-tufted wall. “Baby is fine. Maybe love. But if you call me snugglebug during the gala, I will push you off the balcony.”

The soft smile that crosses his face is enough to make you instantly regret what you’ve agreed to. “That’s the spirit, baby.”

The hotel room is, predictably, absurd. Polished wood floors, expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling French doors that frame the harbor like a million-dollar painting leading to a balcony that spans the length of the suite. There’s a fireplace. A grand piano that you know damn well neither of you can play. And in the middle of the room, the biggest, most opulent bed you’ve ever seen, stacked with pillows and enough throw blankets to outfit the entirety of your agent class.

You both stand there in silence for a moment. Then you clear your throat, dropping your bag. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“No way,” Lando says, pouting as he runs a hand through his dark curls. “C’mon. We’re two ridiculously attractive, very emotionally mature adults. We can share.”

You snort, looking at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Lando. What would give you the impression that I’m going to share a bed with you?”

“What if the room’s bugged?” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Or what if DuPont’s got drones outside, or something? Doesn’t exactly sell the cover if you’ve got me curled up by the fireplace like a golden retriever.”

You open your mouth to respond, then pause, because — well, he does have a point.

“It’s for the sake of the mission,” Lando tries like he still needs to convince you, looking at you with wide eyes, and you promptly shut your mouth again. You don’t say anything, technically, but it’s like he can read you like a book, smiling triumphantly in the face of your silence.

“You could at least pretend to be disappointed,” you say evenly. An admission of defeat if you’ve ever heard one.

“That’s it. We’re making a pillow wall tonight.”

The rest of the day is quiet, the kind of day you normally hate on missions. You’re a field agent — every second of inactivity feels torturous, precious time you could be saving the world that just slips through your fingers. You can tell Lando feels the same, if his relentlessly bouncing knee is anything to go by. So the two of you go over the mission plan until the words begin to blur together. Exit options. Likely locations of incriminating evidence. The note on the final page: In the event that any agent is compromised, retreat. Do not attempt rescue.

Lando reads the note, promptly slams his dossier shut, and insists on ordering one of everything on the room service menu just to piss off Hale. You don’t argue, especially not when truffle fries and miniature cheeseburgers start showing up at the door every fifteen minutes. Somewhere in between the lobster and the lava cake, you admit you’d never seen the Mission: Impossible movies, and Lando, eyes bright, declares you have to have a marathon. You end up sitting on the bed for hours, pillows between you as you eat popcorn, mocking the ridiculous CGI and the fact that the movies get absolutely nothing right about your line of work just to annoy Lando. But he’s a good sport about it, even joins in after a while as the TV light flickers off your bare legs and the moon rises over the harbor.

You must have drifted off some time during MI:3, because when you open your eyes next your side is pressed against the pillow wall, there’s a crick in your neck, and your head is resting on Lando’s shoulder. He’s still asleep, curls slightly mussed and lips parted, brows furrowed the way they are when he’s concentrating on a mission briefing. He must have slept that way all night, you realize, just so he didn’t disturb you.

Something about the idea makes your heart ache in your chest.

“Fifteen minutes before we need to leave for the gala,” you call through the door, applying your lipstick with a practiced hand. “Please tell me you’ve at least started to get dressed.”

You’d commandeered the bathroom nearly an hour ago under the pretense of complicated hair and makeup — costuming had left detailed instructions in your suitcase, and you were expected to pull them off effortlessly. Lando, of course, could probably start putting on his suit five minutes in advance and still be fine. It was infuriating sometimes how easy it was for men.

Still, when you catch your reflection in the mirror, you can’t help but feel like the extra time was worth it. Your hair, normally pulled back neatly, tumbles in voluminous waves over your shoulders. The subtle hints of makeup accentuate your face, making your eyes more luminous, your cheekbones sharper. The delicate earrings and necklace catch the light, make you sparkle. And the dress. Oh, the dress — a floor-length, fitted black velvet creation with a shocking slit up the side, tailored to perfection on your curves, equal parts structured and sleek.

You look dangerous. You look like someone else entirely. Or maybe like a version of yourself you don’t let out very often.

“Almost ready. Can you help me with my tie?” Lando calls back through the door, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah, one second,” you reply, grabbing your holster and snapping it around your thigh, just above the top of the slit. The perfect finishing touch. You blot your lips once in the mirror, then push the door open, heels clicking against the floor with a purpose. That is, until you stop short, breath catching in your chest.

Lando’s standing near the window, half-turned towards the setting sun, pulling the bow tie around his collar. The tux fits him too well, all clean lines on broad shoulders and crisp black on white that makes his tan skin glow. He’s freshly shaven, jaw sharp, and his curls are gelled back in a way that makes him look older, more polished.

You’ve always known Lando was attractive. It’s not news, but it’s not something you let yourself dwell on. Not in your line of work, when letting your guard down even for a second can cost more than you’ve ever been willing to give. But this — the tux, the hair, those eyes that can’t quite decide what color they want to be? The effect is striking. You sort of can’t stop looking at him.

“Still need help?” you croak, voice hoarse for some reason, and when he turns at the sound of your voice he straightens so fast you think he might give himself whiplash.

His mouth opens, then closes again. “Whoa.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to look as pleased as you feel. “That all you got?”

“Don’t get sentimental on me now, Norris,” you say, voice as light as you can possibly make it as you cross the room, hands reaching up for his tie. It’s muscle memory at this point — the back-and-forth fold, the loop, the gentle tug. You’ve done it before for other missions, with other partners, but never quite like this. Never with his eyes tracing over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Never when you’re standing so close you can smell his cologne, something spicy and ineffably Lando. It’s intolerable, really. You wish your heartbeat would calm down a little bit.

“There,” you say, straightening the stupid tie slightly as you finally, blessedly pull the knot tight and step back from him. “Now you look somewhat presentable.”

His mouth quirks up at the side, like he can hear your thoughts. “High praise.”

You don’t respond, hands clammy as you turn towards the door. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

You should be nervous. It’s natural. In fifteen minutes, you’re going to walk directly onto the home turf of a very dangerous man, a man who compromised two of the finest agents in Britain.

But you know your pulse is thrumming under your skin for an entirely different reason.

The moment you and Lando step into the place, you kind of want to gag. The mansion is modern, clearly expensive, and a pantheon of bad taste — all ugly pop art and tributes to the genius that is Gabriel DuPont. After the third lifesize ice sculpture of the billionaire in as many rooms, you’re wondering how nobody has investigated him sooner. The place just feels dirty, illicit somehow. Like underneath the shiny exterior, there’s something rotten waiting to be unearthed.

You know what the two of you are looking for: offshore account statements, connections with other known underworld figures, money that disappears in your fingers like invisible ink. Lando’s meant to distract DuPont, keep him talking for long enough for you to make your way to the office and copy as much of the information as you can find.

As you approach the door to the main ballroom, Lando rests his hand on the small of your back. “You ready?” he ducks his head, speaking into your ear, and your skin prickles at the sensation.

You nod. “Let’s do this.”

His grin washes over you like the nicest kind of champagne buzz as he pushes the door open and guides you into the room. The place is teeming with Europe’s elite. You recognize several heads of state and at least three kingpins on the MI6 Most Wanted. Lando laces his fingers with yours, squeezes your hand tightly, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You do your rounds, fake laughs bubbling from your mouths like the golden liquor in your flutes. Lando plays the room like he was born to it, that smooth, relaxed charm of his illuminating every conversation. He brushes your hair out of your face, dances close to you, rests his hand low on your back when you pose for photos. When someone asks how long the two of you have been married, he leans in close again, like it’s gravity. “Feels like forever, doesn’t it, baby?” he says lowly, in a way that makes your breath catch.

It’s easy, pretending like this. Maybe a little bit too easy. You keep catching yourself smiling at him in a way you don’t have to fake at all.

“This isn’t working. We should split up. We’ll cover more ground,” you say quietly after your third turn around the room. After all, a girl can only take so many inane conversations with tech-bro CEOs who think NFTs are a personality trait before she starts to crave a little action.

Lando, to his credit, doesn’t fight you. He just nods, taps his ear lightly, and a burst of static explodes somewhere near your temple. “Comms on, yeah?”

“Comms on,” you reply, tapping your ear back and nearly managing to tamp down your giggle when you see him flinch.

“I’ll get you back for that,” he warns, but he’s grinning.

You smile back, peeling off into the crowd without a backward glance. “I’d like to see you try,” you tease through the comms, making your way to the bar.

You settle there, watching Lando thread his way through the crowd towards the east wing and DuPont’s private rooms. You’re just turning to order a drink when you see him.

Gabriel DuPont is standing on the balcony, overlooking the back garden like he’s surveying his kingdom. His hands press against the railing with force, knuckles white. There’s an anger you recognize there, a rage that unsettles you. The other thing you recognize is that this is the best chance either of you will get.

“Target spotted. I’m going in,” you speak, walking purposefully towards the other side of the room.

Lando’s voice is in your ear almost immediately. “What do you mean you’re going in? Where is he?”

“Balcony. South end, facing the garden. I’m fine. Just — execute Plan B. His office, now,” you whisper through your teeth as you approach DuPont.

“Copy,” Lando mutters. There’s a pause, static echoing in your ear, then: “Be safe, yeah?”

“Always,” you murmur as you step through the double doors. Showtime.

“Excusez-moi. You wouldn’t happen to be the host tonight, would you?”

DuPont turns, and for the briefest moment his eyes drop to your exposed leg. You hold your breath until he smiles, sharklike, and you know you have him fooled. To him, you’re just another bored housewife with a little too much money to spend. If only he knew. “Oui, c’est moi. Enchanté. Sinclair, yes?”

You blink, surprised he knows you enough to recognize you by face. Headquarters have clearly done their job. You laugh politely, stick out your hand to shake. “That is my better half, I suppose.”

“And where is your mysterious husband tonight?” he asks silkily, lifting your hand to his mouth and kissing your knuckles. You try to ignore the way your skin crawls.

You inch closer, touch his chest lightly, fingers brushing over his lapel. “With all his time spent at the office, I stopped asking that question a long time ago.”

Lando’s voice crackles to life in your ear. “You don’t need to remind me. I’m already there. Got some stuff already.” He chuckles. “This shit is too easy.”

DuPont watches your face, cruel eyes darting over your features, and you school your expression into something neutral, presentable. “He is a silly man, to leave you alone looking like such a vision.”

His hand falls heavy on your waist, and you manage not to recoil at the touch. You giggle, instead. “You’re too kind, sir.”

“Tell me,” he purrs, inching closer, “do you dance?”

You smile, sultry. “I used to, before I married a man with two left feet.”

“Please, allow me to prove myself,” he smirks, guiding you back into the ballroom. “I promise not to step on any toes.”

“I hope you didn’t intend that double meaning,” you say as he pulls you too tight to his body, waltzing slowly to the string quartet’s music. He merely laughs in response, a hoarse sound, like he’s not quite used to doing it.

There’s a crackle of static in your ear. Then Lando’s voice, tight through the comms unit: “Well. Don’t you two look cozy.”

Your jaw ticks, concentrating on the steps. “I’m sure my husband would know it’s extremely valuable for us to make this connection. So he wouldn’t mind,” you add, like it’s an afterthought to your earlier comment. It’s for Lando’s benefit, of course, but DuPont can’t know that.

He smiles, eyes narrowed. “Well. You may want to keep him on a tighter leash,” he says softly into your ear, turning you so you have a perfect view of Lando at the bar. A gorgeous, leggy blonde in red is smiling a little too brightly at him, touching his arm like he belongs to her. Something hot and ugly coils in your stomach at the sight.

You force a smile. “Oh, she’s just a shiny toy. I’d just hope he’s not too distracted to do what we came here for.” Lando looks up then, hearing your words in his ear, and your eyes lock for a moment over DuPont’s shoulder. The moment feels charged, electric — like you can’t be the first to look away, or something will snap.

“Thank you for the dance,” DuPont murmurs in your ear, smile tight, and you nearly jump. To be honest, you’d half-forgotten he was there. Didn’t even hear the music stop, too busy staring into someone else’s eyes from across the room.

“Of course,” you say, eyes fixed solely on Lando and the blonde. DuPont kisses your hand again and walks you off the dance floor to the bar, offering to get you a drink. You nod, and as soon as he steps away, you hiss into the comms. “Wow, Lan. Red really suits you.”

“You seemed busy,” he snarks back to you. “Practically on top of DuPont. Had to entertain myself somehow.”

“It wasn’t real, Lando. It’s the plan,” you say, voice clipped.

“Yeah. Mine was, too,” he replies, all innocence.

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Whatever. Do you have the drive or not?”

There’s a long pause. “Uh, yeah. But we may have a problem,” Lando says tightly. “Security guards by the main entrance clocked me, I think.” You scan the room, watching the way the guards are speaking low and urgent into their walkie-talkies, and swear under your breath.

“Yeah, you’re burned. DuPont must have said something. Fuck.”

“Thought you had eyes on him?” Lando asks, voice low as he heads towards you. When he glances over his shoulder, the guards begin to follow him, walking slowly like there’s nothing wrong.

You grimace, smoothing your dress. Glance over to the bar, even though you know DuPont won’t be there. “Got distracted.”

“Really? By what?” he says, and even though he’s walking full speed towards you trying very hard not to get noticed by several highly trained security guards, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“You’re insufferable,” you say through a blinding smile when he reaches you, linking your arm around his. “Best exit’s the kitchen, I think. Through the north corridor.”

The two of you make your way there quickly but casually, guards following at a steady distance as if to avoid a scene. You push through the swinging kitchen door, and the second it closes behind you, Lando grabs a frying pan off a rack.

The first guard bursts through the door seconds after you. You take him low, sweeping his leg and smashing the butt of your gun into his temple when he loses his balance. Lando catches the second one in the jaw with the pan, then follows up with a right hook that sends him crashing into the prep table. Another crashes through a side entrance. You turn and kick hard at his chest, stiletto digging into his skin, and he staggers back with a wail.

The guards keep coming, but you’re holding your own. You and Lando move like a well-oiled machine, practiced and precise, backing each other in the carefully choreographed routine of combat. You’re steps from the back stairwell, from freedom, when a guard you’d taken out earlier comes charging forward, something silver glinting in his hands. You’re a second too late realizing it’s a knife.

“Fuck,” you say, running a hand over your face. “We lost it.”

“No time. We’ve got to get out of here,” Lando replies, pulling you down the back stairs and out the door into the quiet night. You run all the way down the moneyed gravel driveway toward the car, breath burning in your chest and ankles twisting beneath you.

You don’t realize anything’s wrong until you round the corner, the silver car gleaming in wait for you, and Lando stumbles against you. You catch him like a reflex, and he exhales sharply. When you pull your hand away, it’s red with blood.

“Yeah,” he grimaces sheepishly at the look on your face, cheeks pale in the moonlight. “I may have gotten a little bit stabbed.”

You limp back into the darkened suite, shutting the door quietly behind you and leaning against it to catch your breath. Lando’s already making his way to the bathroom, shrugging off his jacket as he goes. His dress shirt is sliced open where the security guard’s blade caught him — a clean slash to his right ribs, fresh blood still staining the expensive linen a bright crimson.

“Counter. Shirt off,” you call over your shoulder, kicking off your heels and rummaging through the minifridge, cold fingers closing around one of the tiny bottles of vodka. You slam it shut behind you, follow him into the bathroom where he’s obediently stripped off the shirt. You kneel to inspect the cut, hands tracing delicately over the edges of the wound; thankfully, it’s shallow enough that your extremely limited medical skills can fix it.

“You know, if you wanted to see me shirtless, all you had to do was ask,” he grins down at you, voice thin but cocky as ever. “Didn’t need to nearly blow our covers to do it.”

It’s not funny. You don’t know why he’s smiling. You snatch a cotton pad off the counter, douse it in the vodka, press it to the cut hard. He hisses, jaw clenching, and something about the reaction eases a little of the tension in your shoulders.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say, fixing your eyes on the cut so you don’t have to look at his face, the way his eyes are laughing even now. “Taken the hit for me.”

“Right, next time I’ll let you get stabbed, then,” he replies lightly.

You slap the gauze to the cut more forcefully than necessary, just to make him feel the ache. “He was my guy. I could’ve handled it. You can’t put the mission in danger just to keep me from getting hurt.”

Lando flinches, and you can’t tell whether it’s from the pressure or from your tone of voice. You want to shrink away from it yourself when you hear it — the sharpness, the tender underbelly of it threatening to claw its way to the surface. “I get hit and I’m the one getting yelled at? Not even a thank you for my heroic sacrifice. Chivalry really is dead,” he sniffs.

You look up at him incredulously, tearing the bandage open with your teeth and smoothing it across the gauze. “Do you think this is funny?”

“I mean, a little,” he shrugs, smirking. You get to your feet, backing away from him like the separation will give your lungs the room they need to breathe. “I know we lost the drive, and I’m sorry, but we’ll get it back, and I’m fine. All’s well that ends well, yeah?”

“You don’t get to say that. You could have been killed. What, do you think if you bleed enough for me I’ll be impressed?”

“Dunno. Would you be?” he teases, eyes bright.

“Jesus,” you hiss, cheeks burning, and his smile grows impossibly wide.

“Relax. I’m kidding,” he rattles on, swinging his feet against the counter like he doesn’t feel the way the walls seem to be closing in around you, breath heavy and aching in your chest. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about, it was barely a scratch —”

“Because I thought I was going to lose you!” you snap without thinking, the uncomfortable truth scratching out of your throat like a shard of glass.

The room keeps the words alive, sound echoing over and over off the tiled walls. At least they finally, finally knock the smile off his face. Instead he just stares at you, eyes wide like you’ve sucker punched him. And then, before you do something stupid like cry in front of Lando Norris, you storm out of the bathroom.

You’re in your pajamas under the covers by the time he comes back to the bedroom a few minutes later, joggers slung low on his hips and toothpaste flecking the corner of his mouth. He walks around the bed without a word, grabbing the remnants of the previous night’s pillow wall off the floor.

“It’s okay,” you say too quickly, and Lando just looks at you, something unreadable brewing in those stormy eyes. “We don’t need to. I don’t want it to crowd the cut,” you add, as if it’s purely logistical. “Medical exemption for one night.”

It’s a weak excuse, probably the worst lie you’ve ever told, and both of you know it. Lando drops the pillows in his arms, and you can see his soft smile even in the twilight darkness of the room. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

The adrenaline thrumming through your veins is wearing off, leaving exhaustion in the empty space it abandons. You tell yourself that’s why you don’t have the energy to roll your eyes at him, as he slips underneath the covers carefully, trying not to disturb the bandages. Despite the lack of pillows between you, the bed feels smaller than it did before, warmth radiating off his body. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, not touching him, trying very hard not to unravel the fragile composure you’ve managed to hold on to.

“You know, people typically close their eyes as a prerequisite to going to sleep,” Lando’s voice sounds teasingly from somewhere beside you. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are already on your face. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you say, throat croaking for some reason.

His face softens. “No, you’re not.”

He inches hesitantly toward you, like if he goes too fast you’ll bolt, and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into his chest. You exhale shakily against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He smells like sweat and cologne and the unmistakable coppery scent of blood. You don’t cry, won’t allow it. But you let yourself lean into him a little more, enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest all over your body. Enough to remind yourself he’s still breathing.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair, fingers tracing small circles on your back soothingly. “I’m okay. ‘M not going anywhere, yeah? Gonna keep annoying you for as long as I can.”

You huff out a small sound, half laugh and half breath hitching in your throat. “You say that like it’s something for me to look forward to.”

“Come on. Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he says as his fingers brush over your bare shoulder.

You pull back just enough to see his face, eyes searching over the small, pleased smile you find there. “I could live without the stab wounds.”

“Couldn’t live without me, then?” he says, voice low, tongue pushing against the corners of his mouth the way it always does when he’s being cheeky. You wish your eyes weren’t following the motion.

Your cheeks heat in the darkness, like he’s discovered something you should be embarrassed of. “Don’t push your luck, Norris.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, grinning that ridiculous grin as he rolls back onto his back. You stare back at the ceiling, pretending not to hate the space between you. “Just… glad you’re okay.”

That should be the end of it. You should close your eyes, go to sleep, pretend his ridiculous flirting doesn’t affect you. Pretend you know exactly what’s been for the mission and what’s real. Pretend you never let the tiny part of your heart with his name on it crack open in front of him tonight.

“Lando?”

He turns back to you, and the look in his eyes nearly knocks the breath out of you. “Yeah?”

That’s when you kiss him. It’s hesitant at first, more of a question than anything, like all the uncertainty you’ve been carrying all evening has no place else to go. But then Lando sighs against your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your cheek in a gesture so sweet that it makes your heart ache, and assurance settles in your chest like it wants to make a permanent home there. He tastes like peppermint, mouth warm and soft against yours, tongue pushing at the seam of your lips. As your mouth moves slowly against his, your hand traces gently down his side, and he winces as your fingertips graze over the cut. But then you pull your hand away like an apology, and he fucking whines against your lips like he’ll die if your hands aren’t on his skin.

“Lando,” you breathe into the sliver of space between you, nose brushing against his. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His pupils are blown wide, black bleeding into watercolor irises. “Please,” he whispers back, so reverent that it shatters something inside you. “You can hurt me however you want.”

So you pull him on top of you like it’s something inevitable, like the mission was always leading here: to his hands braced on either side of you, to the low throaty sound he makes when you wrap your legs around his waist, to the way his breath hitches against your mouth as you roll your hips against his. You let him take you apart, all mouth and hands and an impossible sort of tenderness; let yourself fall to pieces underneath the warmth and the weight of him, over and over again.

Afterwards, when the silence settles between the two of you like gunsmoke after a shootout, Lando falls asleep almost immediately, face pressed against your shoulder and arm flung across your waist like it’s second nature. You lie there perfectly still, your chests rising and falling in sync, letting the weight of giving him something you can’t take back settle into your bones.

You’re awake before the sun. Really, you’re not sure you ever fell asleep, hovering fitfully in that twilight zone where everything feels like a dream or maybe just a warped version of reality. You wish that was the case — you keep pressing your eyes shut like if you try hard enough, you can erase the entirety of last night, like you can just take back the biggest liability you can imagine. Like you can go back to a world where you didn’t admit that Lando Norris means something to you.

But when you open your eyes again, you’re still there, pressed to Lando’s side. His breath is warm on your neck, lashes brushing against your shoulder, the sunlight glowing golden on his bare skin. He’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. Suddenly, his arm around your waist feels less like care and more like another restraint you have to work your way out of. You slip out of the bed, extricating yourself from his embrace as delicately as you can. Put on your MI6 t-shirt and make coffee on autopilot. When you take the first sip, you wince at the bitterness. It tastes like punishment, the type you deserve for letting yourself want something you can never, ever have.

The sheets rustle lazily behind you, and when you turn, Lando’s already propped on his elbows looking at you, eyes crinkling at the corners with affection and something that looks a little like triumph. “Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep, and the grin he gives you is blinding. “Just checking — does this mean I get to kiss you without a cover story now, or do I have to call you Mrs. Sinclair to get you to come back to bed?”

You can hear the mattress creak as he shifts, sitting up a little more, and for a moment you picture what it could be like if you were a different girl. You could make him a cup of coffee, crawl back into bed, kiss him and let it mean something without risking his life and yours.

“Funny,” you say instead, voice tight. “Just part of the mission, yeah?”

Confusion flickers over his features, and you force your eyes away. You can’t look at him. Won’t. “What are you talking about?”

You keep your eyes trained on the horizon, grip your mug tighter so he can’t see your hands shake. “I know it’s nothing special, so let’s not make a big deal out of it. You flirt with everyone, Lando. It’s, like, your thing.”

He laughs, sharp and disbelieving. It’s the worst sound you��ve ever heard. “I really, really don’t.”

His voice is heavy with the self-defeat you recognize from a particularly bad score in training, when he’d get in a mood so black he’d swear he wouldn’t make it to the agency. Back then you’d comfort him, help him train, get him out of his head. Anything to keep yourself from hearing the way his voice shattered around the edges.

You don’t know what to do when you’re the one who’s caused it.

The silence between you stretches for another long moment. Lando runs a hand through his messy curls, expression shuttered. “Is that what you really think of me? That I just — shag my way through missions?”

“I think it doesn’t matter what I think,” you say, trying very hard to keep your voice level. “I get it. We made a mistake, got carried away. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not to you,” he mutters, and it lands like a kill shot.

“Lando,” you try, but he interrupts you before you can finish.

“I knew you would do this, you know? Knew the second it felt real you’d fucking — shut down, like you always do.” He laughs helplessly. “Couldn’t stop myself, though, could I? ‘Cos I’m such a fucking flirt that I just fall into bed with everyone who looks my way.”

You step forward, and he flinches away from you. “Lan, I didn’t mean to —”

“Yes, you did,” he snaps, eyes alight. “You freaked out and couldn’t handle whatever this is, so you decided to make it feel small for yourself. Make me feel small, too. Well, congratulations, agent. You fucking nailed it.”

He pulls his shirt over his head, not even bothering to turn it right side out, and gets out of bed.

“Where are you going?” you say, voice small as you watch him move.

“Anywhere but here,” he mutters back, stalking towards the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him so hard it makes the crystal in the chandeliers tremble. You stare at the door frame, listening to the shower run until the coffee goes cold in your hand.

Wonder if when he said you could hurt him however you wanted, if he ever pictured this.

The invitation arrives a few hours later, a personalized summons on heavy ivory cardstock that feels like wealth beneath your fingertips. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, you are cordially invited to an exclusive dinner on the Kickback this evening, hosted by Gabriel DuPont in recognition of your generous support.

And at the bottom, a note, inked in the cruel, thick penstrokes of your target himself: I truly hope to see you both there.

“It’s a test,” you say, pacing back and forth from one edge of the bedroom to the other, bare feet sinking into the rug like quicksand. Lando’s perched on the edge of the bed, running his thumb over the embossed lettering. “He suspects us.”

“Or a trap,” Lando mutters, tossing the card at the nightstand. “Yacht anchored in the middle of the harbor? No one to hear us scream?”

“It doesn’t matter which one of us is right,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “We have to go. It’s our only chance to get the drive back. We don’t have a choice.”

“We never do,” he says quietly. His hair is still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and he looks exhausted. Not in a way that shows, not to anyone else. But you’ve known him long enough to know the tired set of his jaw, the red-rimmed eyes that make your chest ache to look at.

You turn, crossing your arms over your chest. “Are you going to be able to do this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

You look out over the water, not sure you can face him when you ask what is sure to rank as the most pathetic question of your life. “I mean are you still mad at me?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek until you taste copper.

When he answers, it’s completely devoid of emotion. “Why would I be mad at you?”

It’s worse than if he’d shouted. You’ve screamed and bickered and fought over the years enough times to know Lando’s dramatic reactions down to the letter, know the way his moods rage intensely and then dissolve like a summer storm. This — the cool detachment, like you’re a stranger he happened to stumble into a mission with — this is new. It lodges somewhere behind your ribs like a lingering bruise.

“Don’t worry,” he adds, standing up and grabbing his watch off the dresser roughly. You’ve seen him handle a Glock with more tenderness. “I’m not going to let you down.”

The words, unspoken, hang in the air between you two. Not like you did to me.

When you pull up to the harbor, the yacht looms ahead of you, a sparkling vision of teak and chrome. Staff in creamy white jackets hand you champagne flutes the second you step off the dock and direct you to a table at the bow of the boat, where DuPont is holding court with the other couples. It’s a small party, full of people wearing designer labels and icy smiles, sipping expensive wine and pretending to be relatable.

The two of you mingle. Lando kisses your cheek when someone makes a joke about newlywed bliss. You laugh and rest your hand on his chest — if the phrase includes sleeping with the best friend you have and then shutting down emotionally to keep you both safe, then sure, it’s newlywed bliss. Through it all, Lando keeps his hand wrapped together with yours, like he’s trying to remind you he’s not going anywhere. You’re grateful for the kindness, even when it feels like twisting the knife of guilt that’s already stuck in your chest.

You’re introduced to another couple, an American CEO and his third wife, very blonde and very surgically enhanced. She eyes Lando like he’s on the menu, makes a teasing comment about how lucky you are. You laugh and blush as Lando says he’s the lucky one.

“How did you two meet?” the woman asks, and your stomach drops. You’re on thin ice already, DuPont’s security team watching your every move. You’re sure they’ve noticed the tension between the two of you already. If he hesitates, even for a moment —

The women at the table coo, marveling over the sweetness of the story. But you just stare at him dumbstruck, your heart hammering beneath your ribs.

Because that’s not Claridge’s. That’s not Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair’s story.

It’s you and Lando’s.

You remember everything about that day. Lando, scrawnier then, a rush of dark curls and that heart-shaped smile, lounging on the barstool next to you after five minutes like you were the best of friends already. The London rain came down hard just as you were settling your tab, so you ended up staying for another drink — he could talk you into anything, even then. The two of you played darts for hours, and you won every time until the last game, when he suggested a friendly bet and then proceeded to hit six bullseyes in a row. He’d hustled you for hours, just for a tenner and to hear the surprise in your laugh when he beat you.

I’ve been gone for her ever since. Suddenly, you feel dizzy, sick to your stomach at the way he’s steadfastly refusing to meet your eyes.

“Excuse me for a moment, ladies,” Lando murmurs to the women beside him, color high in his cheeks, and you’re too slow to stop him. He slips away with the easy charm of someone who’s been doing it his whole life, like he didn’t just turn your entire idea of him — of the two of you — inside out without a second thought.

You know in your bones what he’s doing. Playing the hero. Finishing the mission himself because he can’t bear to see your face after he bared his soul. You’d do the same, if you were him. Two sides of the same coin, always have been.

You watch the door like a hawk. Ten agonizing minutes pass. Then fifteen. And Lando doesn’t come back.

In the event that any agent is compromised, retreat. Do not attempt rescue.

Fuck that. You’re going in.

You push your chair back, ignoring the way it scrapes against the deck, and walk with purpose towards the cabin without even bothering to excuse yourself. You can hear the shocked whispers behind you, and a thought tugs at the rational part of your brain that it’s not how Mrs. Sinclair would ever leave a room. But if Lando’s been gone for as long as he has, your cover’s certainly been blown, anyway.

You let the sliding door slam shut behind you, press your eyes shut for a moment. The yacht blueprints are still burned in your mind from the night the two of you watched movies together, as clear as the sound of Lando’s laugh. You have to press your hand over your mouth and stifle a gasp at the thought you might never hear it again.

The yacht is labyrinthine, all twisting corridors going down multiple floors. If you were DuPont, and you’d caught Lando, you would put him in the engine room on the bottom floor, deep beneath the waves. You head for the emergency stairs, at the back of the ship. As you walk, you pass a nondescript door. You keep walking, glancing through the porthole as you go, and stop dead.

Clearly, you were wrong about what DuPont would do. Because Lando is inside, tied to a chair, arms behind his back, flanked by two guards. His nose is bleeding, one eye swollen shut and purpling rapidly. The billionaire stands facing him with his back to the door, calmly smoothing something at his breast pocket and swirling a tumbler of amber liquid, with a third guard standing ground behind him.

“Where’s your wife?” he says mildly. Somehow, it’s more frightening than if he was screaming. “Not coming to save you?”

“She’s not involved in this,” Lando lies through his teeth, words slurring together slightly. Protecting you to the bitter end, even after everything you’ve done. “She’s not like me. She doesn’t know what I do.”

DuPont laughs, that strange, raspy sound again, and it sends a chill down your spine. “Agent, I didn’t think you’d lie to me.” He walks closer to Lando, fluidly pulls something out of his pocket. Blind fear envelops you when you realize it’s a gun, aimed at your partner’s head. “Tell me who she is, and I’ll let you walk.”

DuPont cocks the gun, and that’s when you strike.

One guard crumples before the door swings open fully, your shot blasting cleanly through his forehead. You don’t wait to see him hit the ground; you’re already whirling around, a swift kick landing squarely to the chest of the guard backing DuPont. It stuns him enough for you to swing your arm around hard, cracking the butt of your pistol against his temple. He stumbles, back hitting the wall as he begins to slump. You grab for DuPont, but you’re off balance, and you only manage to pull his jacket off as he flees out the door.

Regroup. Two down. One to go. You turn, but the other guard is already waiting for you, hands steady and gun aimed at your heart. You raise your hands, like you’re caught, and he relaxes slightly. Your eyes flick over to Lando, who kicks his legs out hard and knocks the guard to the floor. You don’t hesitate before you put a bullet in the guy’s chest.

The room would be silent, if you couldn’t hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You scan the room, grab a pair of scissors out of a desk drawer and start hacking at the zip ties on Lando’s wrists.

His head lolls towards you, blood spattered at the corner of his mouth. “You weren’t supposed to come back for me.”

You keep trying to cut through the last zip tie, but your hands are shaking too badly. “Don’t be an idiot,” you say, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let you down.”

His smile is soft, trained on you. “You never have.”

You finally cut through the plastic, catching him just before he slumps forward entirely. Immediately, you know he’s worse off than you thought; your arms go around his torso on instinct to hold him up and he yelps, sharp and broken, like you’ve smacked him.

“You okay?” you ask, trying to shift his weight carefully.

He groans anyway, face pale. “No. But thanks for asking,” he grits out, somehow still flirting even with what feels like multiple broken ribs. “Let’s get DuPont.”

You balance him against the desk, pull out your walkie. “HQ, this is beta team. We need extract,” you say clearly, sliding it back into your pocket. Five minutes, and you’ll be on the first helicopter back to London. “We’re not getting DuPont. We’re getting you out of here alive.”

Lando coughs, and there’s something wet behind it. “We can do it,” he insists, stubborn to the end. “Walk me up to the upper deck.”

“Lando,” you sigh. “What’s the point? We need to cut our losses here. We don’t even know where the drive is.”

“Jacket,” he says, eyes catching yours, almost too sharp for someone who looks like death warmed over. “Inside pocket. Saw it when you pulled it off him earlier.”

You blink once, then dive for the crumpled clothing, hands raking over the fabric. Sure enough, there’s a little pocket stitched into the silk lining. You rip it open, pull out the unmistakable sleek black drive, stuff the thing in your bra for safekeeping.

“Okay,” you say, convinced. “Let’s get that son of a bitch.”

He grins back at you, only the slightest bit unfocused. “Help me up, Mrs. Sinclair?”

You drag him back up the stairs one step at a time, his arm slung around your shoulders, your free hand gripping your pistol tight. The harbor air hits your skin like a slap, salty and electric. When you get to the upper deck, DuPont is at the bow, trying to activate the emergency launch controls on the tender. Trying to make a coward’s escape.

You prop Lando against the first railing you can find. “Stay here,” you warn. Then you run at DuPont, tackling him before he can lower the boat into the water.

The fight is messy, brutal. Your gun clatters out of your hand as he backs you into the rail. The poles clatter against your skull, vision flashing white, but you hit back harder. He swings at you, wild, but you’ve been hit worse, by people better trained. You twist, knee him in the ribs, elbow up under his chin. He staggers. You drive him back with everything you’ve got.

And then there’s a pair of hands grabbing his arms from behind — not steady, not strong. But enough to buy you time.

Lando.

You snap the cuffs onto DuPont’s wrists and slam him to the deck, and it’s over. Or at least it would be, if your extraction team was here, and if Lando wasn’t collapsing on the deck in front of you like the effort might well kill him.

“Fuck, did you hear me? Extract extract extract,” you scream into your walkie again, voice hoarse, then toss it aside, turning back to Lando. His skin is paling rapidly, breathing shallow. “Stay with me, Lan.”

“That takedown was pretty hot,” he rasps weakly, head lolling to the side.

“Shut up,” you say, voice cracking in a way you can’t even pretend to control. “You just gotta hold on for a couple more minutes, okay?”

His fingers find yours, grip loose like he doesn’t have the strength left in his hands. “We got him.”

“Yeah,” you nod, sniffling wetly. “Yeah, we got him. And we got the drive. And you’re gonna be okay.”

“You can’t die, Lando, please,” you try to speak, but it’s interrupted by the tears that have started to pour down your cheeks. You press your forehead against his, let the warmth of his skin comfort you. “You stupid idiot pain in the ass, I love you. I’m sorry I was scared before, but I love you and you can’t die before I get to tell you that. Please. Just — don’t let me down. One last time. Don’t you dare fucking die.”

No answer. All you can hear is the soft sound of the waves crashing against the hull, drowned out by your own sobs.

And then finally, finally, the sound of helicopter blades whirring above you.

The fluorescent lights hum like the world’s most annoying hold music.

You’re seated at one end of a long, steel table in a debrief room, a folder full of mission notes and clearance forms spread out in front of you. The same stale coffee is in a cup in front of you. You’ve let it go cold, same as your nerves.

“All in all, despite the... irregularities, the mission was quite the success,” Hale says, looking incredibly pleased with herself. “Gabriel DuPont is in custody. The drive is secure, and the information you collected has helped us pinpoint several other arms dealers in the European market. Only three dead, no civilians injured.” She clears her throat. “We’ll discuss the breaches of protocol another time, given that your quick thinking likely saved each other’s lives.”

Across the table, Lando grins at you with the air of someone who narrowly escaped death and is prepared to make it your problem. The bruise on his eye has faded from brilliant purple to a sickly yellow. There’s stitches across his side and his arm is in a sling, but he looks unfairly good for someone who nearly bled out on a superyacht less than a week ago. “Thank me later.”

“I saved you last,” you counter, raising an eyebrow. “Technically, you owe me.”

“One near-death experience and suddenly she’s keeping score,” he says, shrugging his shoulders and smiling that stupid, ridiculous smile at you.

“I’m thrilled your trauma hasn’t impacted your ability to bicker like twelve-year-olds,” Hale says dryly. “But it will affect your working hours. For now you’re both on administrative leave. Two weeks’ recovery time, minimum. Please try not to cause any international incidents in that time period,” she sighs.

Lando looks at her innocently. “No promises.”

Hale dismisses you, and you focus your eyes on your folder, neatly stacking everything. You haven’t really had the chance to speak to Lando since the mission ended. The ground feels unsteady between you two, tension pulling taut like a trip wire. But he doesn’t seem to be interested in speaking, and you don’t want to push, so you head for the door after your handler.

“So, about what you said earlier,” Lando pipes up, and you turn back.

“About owing me? I’ll take a pint, when you’re healed up,” you say as lightly as you can, eyes tracing over his face.

“Actually, I was talking about on the boat when you said you loved me,” he replies casually, grin on his face, and your stomach drops. “But I’ll go for a pint whenever you want.”

“It was — I was trying to keep you conscious,” you stutter, unprepared and voice hoarse.

His smile grows. “Well, it worked. I’ve been very conscious of it ever since.”

“Oh, shut up,” you groan, but there’s a laugh behind it somewhere.

He stands up, limping towards you until he’s close enough that you can see the raised pink scar by his lip. “So, did you mean it?” His tone is still light, teasing, but you can see the question in his eyes, the way something real hangs in the balance of your answer.

You sigh, looking down. “I failed the mission.”

He scrunches his nose, and you fight the urge to kiss the wrinkle. “What do you mean?”

“You told me you’d accept it as long as I promised not to fall in love with you,” you shrug. “Really messed that one up, didn’t I?”

He beams at you like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “Well, it took you long enough.”

#so so so good #fav fics #comfort fics #joyce's recs

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jennxxe · 2 days ago

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Paco 2.0.

pairing — bobby campbell x fem! reader

summary — you get the golden retriever human a golden retriever puppy

warnings — shortfic, this one is pure happiness aka what bobby deserves<3

a/n — i may bs spamming with fanfics abt bobby BUT thats purely bcs my brain works overtime with ideas when im maladaptive daydreaming while listening to music

The morning started like most others. Bobby stayed over at your place once more (he might as well move in at this point) and ended up sleeping in late, hair a complete mess, mumbling something about pancakes and “why is the sun yelling.” He wandered sleepily into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, shirtless and barefoot, scratching at his abs like a boy who hadn't yet remembered how to function in daylight.

You were waiting. Barely holding it in.

Tea poured. Mug handed. A kiss to his jaw that made him smile against your cheek. And still he didn’t notice the small bundle of chaos hidden just beyond the patio door, tail already wagging so hard it could've powered a turbine.

You waited until he took that first sip. Until he leaned his hip lazily against the counter and grinned at you like you were the only thing in the world worth being awake for.

Then you cleared your throat. “I have a surprise for you.”

His brows raised instantly. He looked like you’d just told him Christmas came early and you were Santa. “Is it food? Is it a nap? Did you make one of those cakes shaped like me again?”

You only smirked, taking his hand and leading him toward the back door. “Better.”

You slid open the glass and let the puppy, tiny, golden, clumsy feet slapping against the deck into the house like a little hurricane of joy. A fluffy golden retriever with floppy ears, soft eyes, and a big pink tongue already hanging out of its mouth.

Bobby froze.

Like, actual full-body pause.

The puppy skidded to a stop in front of him, tail going at light speed, letting out a happy bark before immediately tripping over its own feet and rolling onto its side.

Bobby made a noise that could only be described as a mix between a gasp and a high-pitched “no way.”

“You got me a puppy?” he whispered, looking at you like he couldn't believe you were real.

You nodded. “You always said you wanted one. Someone Paco could mentor.”

As if on cue, Paco—yes, Bobby brings him over to your place with him—peeked out from his tank in the corner like a silent judge, completely unaware his quiet kingdom had just been invaded by zoomies.

Bobby crouched down, scooping the puppy into his arms like he was holding the Holy Grail. “Look at you, buddy,” he whispered, letting the pup lick his jaw and nose. “You’ve got paws the size of dinner rolls. You’re gonna be a unit.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching the way Bobby’s face softened, lit up, melted into pure joy. That kind of unfiltered happiness, the kind that makes your chest ache because it’s just so him.

“What are you gonna name him?” you asked gently.

Bobby blinked down at the dog, then glanced at Paco. Then back to the dog.

“Pico,” he said instantly. “Like Paco... but little. Or spicy. Or both.”

You laughed, and Bobby just beamed, hugging Pico like he was already the best thing that had ever happened to him (next to you, obviously). “He’s gonna sleep in the bed,” Bobby added firmly. “Right between us. Every night.”

“He’s gonna snore.”

“Good. So do I.”

Pico barked again, then licked Bobby’s ear. Bobby giggled—actually giggled—and looked up at you like a boy who just got everything he ever wanted.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said quietly, eyes still shining.

And you knew he meant it.

#final destination 6 #final destination x reader #bobby campbell #bobby campbell x reader #final destination #final destination bloodlines #final destination franchise #the final destination

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camsthisky · 3 days ago

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21. “Oh my god, this is not just a scratch!” + Jason and siblings of your choice?

thank you all for being here with me for seven literal years holy gosh. also, i know you probably were thinking the whump for jason but my brain wanted to whump dick, so here we are. enjoy!

ao3

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Jason Todd. You can leave a message, but since I’ve been dead for years, good luck trying to get me to call back. Unless this is Alfred. Alfred has tea privileges.”

Beeeep.

“Shit,” Dick murmurs, hanging up. His head thumps against the wall of his apartment bathroom, and he closes his eyes against the bright lights. A headache pulses unhappily against his temple. “Why does this only seem to happen to me when Jason is the only one in town?”

He sits there for maybe a minute or two. It’s hard to say how much time passes. Enough that Dick has the thought to get up, get moving.

He doesn’t.

His phone vibrates. He reluctantly peels his eyes open to peer down at his phone.

A text. From Jason.

What

Dick sighs. Texts back, Busy?

He snorts when Jason’s response is, If you ask me to help you build a table I will find you and throw you in the harbor.

That was years ago. Stop bringing it up.

I’d rather die again. And then, The lack of emojis in your messages will not butter me up fyi.

Dick squints, his headache sharpening enough to make looking at his phone screen painful. Ignoring Jason’s last message, he asks, Can I call you?

Jason, of course, beats him to it.

“What?” Jason snaps the moment Dick picks up.

“Hello to you, too,” Dick mutters.

“Hi,” Jason says. “What do you want?”

Dick closes his eyes again and his head thanks him for shielding them from the stupid bathroom lights. Hell, why did his bathroom have to be all white. It made everything ten times worse to look at when stuff like this happened.

“Are you on patrol?”

Jason pauses. “No,” he says carefully. “I thought you were.”

There’s an accusation in Jason’s tone that Dick doesn’t have the energy to address. He doesn’t know if it’s because Dick is supposed to be on patrol and he obviously isn’t, or if it’s for something else.

“I was,” Dick says. “A guy managed to scratch me before I took a dip in the river and I came home to clean it out.”

“Okaaaaay,” Jason drawls. “And that involves me, how?”

“Can you bring me some antibiotics?” Dick asks. “I think one of the kids was here and forgot to tell me to restock after they used the last of mine.”

Jason is quiet for another beat. “Yeah, fine. I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t die from river-based infection until I get there.”

Dick snorts. “Until you get here?”

“If I’m making the trip, I might as well get a spectacle out of it,” Jason says. “Seriously, if you haven’t yet, disinfect it. I know that you like to be dramatic, but I also know that you’re a lazy ass who ignores injuries like they’ll go away if you don’t look at it and we both know that Gotham River is nasty.”

Dick grimaces. The worst part is, Jason isn’t exactly wrong. Dick still hasn’t managed to clean out the wound.

“I’ll unlock the door,” Dick tells him.

“Don’t bother. I’ll come in through the window.”

Click.

“Amazing conversationalist, as always,” Dick murmurs, dropping his phone onto his bath mat.

Somehow, Alfred is the only one who has gotten Jason to actually sit down and have a conversation that didn’t involve sarcastic comments and responses that referenced his death every fifth sentence.

Sighing, Dick musters up the strength and pushes himself to his feet. Time to get his suit off and treat this wound before he actually does die of nasty river water infections.

–

Jason comes in while Dick is sitting in the bathtub with the showerhead running, the top half of his suit bunched around his waist. Unfortunately, he also comes in when Dick is sitting in a puddle of his own blood, diluted by shower water.

Dick only notices Jason’s in the room because Jason explodes into a flurry of dumb insults, ending it all by dropping the antibiotics on the bathroom counter and kneeling by the tub to turn off the water.

“Shit, that is not a scratch, you piece of used tinfoil.”

Dick blinks. “That’s a new one.”

He gets slapped in the back of the head for that. “Will you fucking focus on the gash in your side?!”

“You distracted me,” Dick huffs. He’s feeling a bit dizzy. He’s pretty sure it has something to do with him actively bleeding out in the bathtub.

“Shit,” Jason says. Dick watches dully as his younger brother scoops up some supplies from Dick’s mess of a first aid kit, and thinks he’s probably underreacting if Jason’s so freaked out. “I can’t believe you would–actually, you know what? I can believe you wouldn’t say anything. I don’t know how you’re a functioning human adult.”

“Yeah,” Dick says, faintly. “Me either.”

Jason shoves a few towels at him and presses.

That brings Dick back to reality.

“Fuck!” Dick cries out, arms aborting their movement halfway to where Jason’s probably actively saving his life.

“Shit, that’s a lot of blood,” Jason tells him as they watch the first towel start to soak through. “Why the hell did you turn on the shower, you idiot?”

Dick groans, the initial pain from the pressure starting to fade back into dizziness. He does manage to joke, “I was cold.”

“God, I hope you aren’t concussed,” Jason grumbles. “I do not get paid enough to deal with this.”

“You get paid?”

Jason presses down harder. “How deep is it?”

Dick grunts. “Muscular. I was stupid. My suit was caught in the clot and I was using the water to get it off. I didn’t realize it was this deep.”

“Were you standing up?”

“Yes,” Dick says. “I sat down when I realized what was going on.”

Jason blows out a breath. “Okay, fine. We need to get you on the floor. Do you think you can stand up?”

“Absolutely,” Dick says with far more confidence than he feels.

“So, no,” Jason says. Dick doesn’t move as Jason uses a foot to drag the med kit closer, pulling out a compression bandage once it’s close enough. Once it’s wrapped around Dick’s torso and the towels currently sopping up his blood, Jason gathers him under the armpits. “One, two, three, up.”

Of course, this is when Dick blacks out.

–

“I hate it here,” Dick hears Jason saying as the fuzziness fades from his vision to reveal his white, white bathroom ceiling. He thinks that maybe Jason is stitching him up or something, because there’s a faint tugging on his side. Local anesthetic? “I swear, this always seems to happen when no one else is in town. Next time, Tim can deal with the Dick Grayson drama.”

Dick blinks. “Are you talking to yourself?”

“I’m talking to you, you absolutely useless walking lawn mower.”

“Pretty sure I was just passed out,” Dick says.

“It was subliminal,” Jason bites out. “Maybe I can get through to your subconscious so you’ll stop being such a dumbass. God, I’m angry at you.”

“Sorry,” Dick says tiredly.

“The worst part is that you don’t even mean to do it,” Jason continues. “You’re such a disaster, how do you even function?”

Dick hums. “I was raised by human disaster Bruce Wayne.”

“Yeah, but you also had Alfred.”

“I was the emotionally mature one in the manor and I was eight. Alfred learned that from me, not the other way around.”

Jason huffs an amused breath. “Sure, whatever you need to make yourself feel better. I’m almost done, by the way.”

Dick closes his eyes again. “Not gonna die, then?”

“Unfortunately not,” Jason says. “No dramatics today. Now take these antibiotics and go to sleep.”

#brambleberrycottage #dick grayson #jason todd #dc #cam writes

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dejablonde · 1 year ago

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So I had a big brain thought this morning. One reason (aside from just general profit and greed) that college in the US is so expensive?

So they can use athletic scholarships as leverage to maintain the enterprise that is college football. If just anybody can get into college, you can't lure your show ponies in with the promise of an education and the idea that they're special.

#maybe someone else has said this before #and probably in better words #but it was scratching at the door of my brain to get out #college football #college #college debt #us colleges #debt forgiveness #student debt #student loans #DejaBlonde

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romythorne · 3 days ago

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Romy blinked at him, once, then again, like she was buffering — not because she didn’t follow, but because somewhere between landmarks and whole damn pack,something in her short-circuited a little. Not in a bad way. Just in that oh no, this is sincere and my brain is full of raccoons in trench coats pretending to be a functioning adult kind of way.

She cleared her throat, scratched the back of her neck. “Okay, damn. You really are coming in here with the poet hands and the full emotional thesis, huh?” Her smile quirked, soft at the edges. “You realize that was, like, triple-A rated vulnerability with bonus content. Deluxe edition. Comes with a hand-stitched map and three bonus side quests. I'm impressed. And also a little mad that I didn’t bring popcorn.”

Her voice gentled a bit, the way it did when she let down some of the scaffolding: “But yeah. That’s it. All of it. Especially the costume changes. I’ve lived through, like, twelve different versions of myself and most of them were held together with eyeliner, duct tape, and denial. Anyone who bails at version thirteen probably doesn’t deserve the director’s cut, you know?”

At his question, her face went a little still. Not guarded—just quiet, like she was setting the words out carefully so none of them snapped under their own weight.

“What’s something love can’t ask me to give up?” she echoed, gaze flicking toward the sky like maybe it was hiding a cheat sheet up there. “My voice,” she said finally. “That thing I use to make sense of the world, even when it’s sharp or messy or too loud for a room. The jokes, yeah, but also the rage. The stubborn. The part of me that doesn’t shrink to make other people feel taller.”

She glanced at him sidelong, something wry flickering through the warmth. “Also, obviously, my right to choose dramatic exits when necessary. If I don’t get at least one good door-slam monologue in my life, I want a refund.”

A beat. Then, a smile.

“And listen —if I’m alpha wolf of this glittering emotional forest, I demand at least one biopic. Preferably starring someone who looks nothing like me and can’t do a convincing New Jersey accent. I want it to be terrible. Cult classic bad. The kind people throw themed parties for.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly. “Thanks, by the way. For getting it. That’s rare.” Then, a beat longer than usual. “And for not laughing at the wrong parts.”

A breath. “You’re alright, Jasper. Don’t let it go to your head. But if you ever trademark that whole weirdness and wounds are landmarks thing, I want 15% and a glitter wolf of my own. Preferably one with a tiny, cursed saxophone and an air of vague superiority.”

She smiled — not the razored kind, not the performative kind, just the real thing. Small. Earned. Honest.

Jasper doesn’t answer right away. He just stands there for a beat too long, blinking like he’s watching the sky do something it’s not supposed to—like a solar eclipse that shows up on a Tuesday. His usual spark is still there, but it quiets, softens, stretches into something more deliberate. Thoughtful. Like maybe her words pluck a string in him he didn’t know was tuned that way. He rocks back on his heels, mouth parted slightly like the reply is still catching up to his heart.

“Okay, wow. That’s like being hit in the face with a poem and thanking it afterward,” he says, finally, voice still bright but edged with something a little trembly. “Breathing room. That’s—that’s it, isn’t it? Not just space to exist but space to be, and still be held. Not coddled or tiptoed around, but just… understood. Like, you don’t have to hand someone a printed manual and a fire extinguisher just to be loved. Like your weirdness and your wounds aren’t liabilities, they’re landmarks. That’s huge.”

He draws a little invisible circle in the air with his finger, as if trying to make her vision tangible. “And jokes as armor? Relatable. You ever meet someone who laughs too loudly at your deflections and it makes your skin crawl, like they know you’re hiding something and they’re clapping anyway? That’s the worst. But you—” he grins, sudden and sincere, “—you deserve snort-laughs. The kind that derail conversations and fog up glasses. Full body joy.”

Then, gentler, with a little shrug of his shoulders that almost looks like vulnerability dressed in a hoodie: “I think my version used to be ‘don’t leave.’ Just that. Real simple. But now… now it’s more like, ‘don’t leave me behind while I’m still figuring out who I am.’ Y’know? Stay through the weird phases. The costume changes. The self-rewrites.”

He pauses, brows lifting slightly. “So tell me—if love is breathing room, what’s something it’s never allowed to ask you to give up?”

Jasper smiles, slow and soft, like her words unzip something in him he hadn’t meant to open tonight but isn’t sorry to have shared. “And that was beyond emotionally vulnerable,” he says, voice warm as a hearth. “That was the kind of honest people spend whole lifetimes trying to name and still fall short. You didn’t just earn another glitter wolf—you earned a whole damn pack. One’s got eyeliner smudged like it’s been crying in a bathroom at a house party. One’s holding a tiny cassette player blasting sad indie girl ballads. And the alpha?” He taps his temple, like it’s already fully designed in his mind. “The alpha’s wearing a crown made of old diary entries and spite. Her name is Romy. She runs the forest now.”

#━━━ threads.#━━━ jasper felix #ofharfords #gfbhjfgbjk CUTE

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unexpectedbrickattack · 2 years ago

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Does Peppino actively enjoy using himself as a subject or does he just use it for marketing? What other things does he usually like to draw or make? Is he a wood carver? I can see him as a wood carver

Oh this is interesting; ive been stuck on this for a little bit. The needle swings between yes and no mid response lol. I think he enjoys being able to use his likeness for marketing, but less so for personal, artistic use. It feels obvious to use ur own face and/or name for ur business (one that u put so much blood sweat n tears in) but he doesnt feel compelled to draw himself. There is a level of self awareness(?) i think u have to have to even desire depicting oneself in art and i think he would be too focused on his failing business to start that process. He has more important things to do. But on the flipside; i think he would look at his own creations (for his business) and regard them as reminders of his failures. So he wouldnt have the best opinion of himself.

But! i think he would enjoy others depictions of his likeness. Despite his awkwardness, he enjoys putting on a show, he enjoys performing to some degree, he likes entertaining a crowd. He feeds off of positive attention (like most people do) even if it leaves him a little flustered. People take pictures of him and he smiles earnestly. He doesnt have the words for it, but it is grounding to see himself outside of his business and existing outside of his failures.

This obv gets better postgame as he gets more support for his business. But also, as Pepperman starts to take genuine interest in his form to use as a muse. It is the perfect balance of him enjoying being an art subject, without him having to Make the art. And tying his visage to a now profitable, successful shop, makes him feel a bit better about seeing his own caricature on the storefront. I can see him in Peppermans studio being convinced to draw himself on canvas, and instead of his usual caricature style, it is an attempt at realism with him waving hi towards the ‘camera’, which is a nice contrast to Peppermans first picture of Peppino looking very blue and very sad. Pepperman is delighted lol look at his muse branching out !!!! Pepperman does not do this for anyone but he lets Peppino take the picture home with him (‘But you must promise to give me a copy of this to hang in my studio 😊 PROMISE ME-‘)

And yes, Peppino wood carves bc Peshino is a wood carved toy!! Hes got some bits in him to let him move around w a simple wind up mechanism. I dont think Peppino would do this in his free time prior to postgame, but as he gets more (positive) time to himself, he starts to take up some easy crafts. Wood carving when hes home and watching tv, and sculpting/painting when hes at Peppermans studio.

#chattin #answered #peppino #heehee thank u so much for this; it really scratched a good itch on my brain #i am sorry but if u ask about Art and Depiction of the Self #well u are simply opening the doors for the autsim to crawl out #i did not add this bc i felt like it was already too lengthy #but the reason he even does the logo and peshino design is bc i hc him as a bit of an artist in his youth!!#so it was something that was nutured and encouraged #but at some point it shifted and it was no longer a form of expression #and simply a Skill he had to make life easier (why hire an artist if i can just do it myself?)#but he gets some of that love back postgame :)

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gender-euphowrya · 1 month ago

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blue prince is gonna make me set up a conspiracy theory corkboard with red string wall

#going into this game knowing it's a deep puzzle game where every little detail could matter : i gotta write Everything down #2 hours later : maybe i'm overthinking this maybe not everything is super relevant i'll just see #2 more hours later : i gotta write everything down and make a spreadsheet and draw a map and hire benoit blanc #christ how compelling this fucking thing is. i don't even know what specifically makes it scratch my brain so well but #ourgh #i don't want to say anything that could be a spoiler because it really is a game you must go in with 0 knowledge of it #but god... realizing that One element that's in basically every room had a common pattern #and having to solve a fucking riddle every time to find what the pattern is leading to #AND STILL NOT KNOWING WTF I'M MEANT TO DO WITH THE ANSWERS I GET OUT OF THEM GKFJFJDJD #i'm gonna gnaw my skin off #so anyway. it's a puzzle escape room-ish roguelike #you're in a mansion where YOU get to pick which room is behind every door you open #so it's your job to create the layout of the mansion and make sure you avoid being stuck with dead ends everywhere #you've got a limited amount of energy to explore. the rooms you can pick from when you reach a door are random.#you're gonna need to find keys you're gonna need to find coins you're gonna need to find gems #there's special rooms that have specific roles there's nothingburger hallways there's little minigames #there's items you can find that help you like a shovel or a hammer you can break chests open with #but anyway when you're out of energy or when you've nowhere left to go your run ends and everything in the mansion is reset #(except for very specific things you unlock which i won't detail)#so you basically start over Except with all the knowledge that you've gathered on your previous attempts #so maybe you found a password for something and then in the new run you find the thing the password unlocks #your main goal is to reach a very specific room at the other end of the mansion AND EVEN THEN #i haven't reached it myself but i imagine even if you manage to get there there's probably Something you need to do/have done #to really succeed like there is A LOT GOING ON #you're dropped in there no tutorial except little notes you find around the mansion no NPCs just you and your map #it's fucking brilliant if you're into puzzle games and mysteries and don't mind “slow” gameplay try it ouuuuut #it's still a bit RNG based what with being a roguelike but that's the thing innit #you keep going because you hope you'll eventually find all the right things in the right place for you to put together

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lovieku · 5 months ago

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INTRO ⋆ 정국

you’re jeongguk’s secret santa this year, so you give him the best gift he’ll ever receive.

⋆⁺₊❅. 1/6 from christmas & chill

pairing virgin!jk x fem reader

genre smut, fluff, friends to lovers, first time

warnings painfully oblivious jk, even more painfully oblivious oc, mutual pining unlike anything you’ve seen, jk being a hot nerd ceo who’s loaded rich and unaware of his potential, please imagine him as nam joohyuk in start up, oc just creaming her pants for jk, hand job, lowk strip tease, dry humping, nipple play (m&f), unprotected p in v sex, creampie, jk is so needy and impatient but also very polite, smut is kinda rushed because well… it’s his first time! sawrry! also i open gifts on xmas eve please don’t come for me and my traditions (it’s lich just because i’m impatient)

word count 8.3k

author’s note hello hello hello!!! i’m so nervy to post this because it’s what finally inaugurates c&c!!!! i hope it can be a pleasing (intro)duction to the series hehe… either way you’ll get something totally better from miss lyssa tomorrow so stay tuned Wink 🩷 luv u always

banner by the talented @awrkive ⟡ ݁₊ .

Secret Santas have become the only way you’ve been able to deal with Christmas. When it comes to gift-giving, you’re embarrassed to admit that creativity in that department doesn’t exactly come naturally to you.

You try your best, truly. But you either end up going over budget, striving to please all your loved ones with unnecessarily expensive gifts which will only leave you with empty hands and an empty wallet, or having your brain completely stop working, if not to come up with the most basic and useless options that will get you forced smiles and polite nods in fake recognition.

It’s exhausting, demoralizing, and frankly, a recipe for holiday burnout.

So when two years ago, on the brink of giving up entirely and seriously contemplating hibernating through winter, your dear friend Jimin swooped in and suggested Secret Santa, it completely reshaped your next Christmases.

Exactly a month before Christmas Eve, you reunite over drinks and food at Jeongguk’s house to draw names. His place always ends up as the default spot for dinners, movie nights, or even football matches. Those don’t usually get the attention of everybody, especially of some of the girls, and it wouldn’t get yours either.

But you never skip game night. Correction, you never miss an excuse to be in Jeongguk’s space, even if it means sitting through 90 minutes of men chasing a ball on a screen. After all, you’re never truly paying attention, always stealing glances at the boy who seems almost even more uninterested than you.

It’s about witnessing him in his house— which, truthfully, is more of a mansion. The spacious, cozy interiors mirror a part of him that’s hard to miss: his perfectionist side, the one that likes to keep things understated but can’t help leaving subtle, telling marks of his presence on everything he touches, is woven into every corner.

Over time, you’ve naturally come to associate the place with holidays, laughter, and celebrations that fill you with a sense of belonging. Being here, surrounded by your closest friend, makes you feel profoundly grateful.

And there’s so many traces of you all, too. The faint wine stain on Jeongguk’s carpet that is only still noticeable if you squint, the one that spilled from your glass when Hoseok’s jokes had you laughing too hard; the long, slim scratch on the kitchen door, courtesy of Eunbi, who thought learning how to balance glasses on her forehead would get one of her coworkers to finally fall for her; the wobbly vase on the coffee table that was knocked over during one of Jimin’s overly enthusiastic attempts to kick a water bottle open.

Watching Jeongguk deal with the chaos you all force into his space might be another big reason why you love being here. It seems to squeeze out his most genuine reactions and quirks, and you can’t help biting your lips at those, almost pornographically so.

For someone who works so hard to appear composed, and who’s also extremely shy and reserved, Jeongguk is hilariously transparent when things don’t go his way. Brows furrowed, as if that’s where he keeps all his control. Although, no matter how flustered he gets, Jeongguk almost never gets choleric. His instinct is never to lash out but to scramble, a picture of barely contained stress insisting that everything is fine.

And the more he insists, the more you find yourself wishing it wasn’t fine. Sometimes, you want to see him lose it— especially at you.

You’ve tried, too. You’ve pushed boundaries, done little things to test the limits of his patience, all for the slim possibility of seeing him crack, just for you. But it never works. The best you get is an awkward smile, maybe a quiet laugh. It’s not nothing, but it’s not what you want, either.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this crazy about someone before. Not in the way where everything he does sends your brain spinning with possibilities. It’s maddening. His obliviousness is maddening.

Chiefly tonight, when you’re trying extra hard to keep it under control, the whole group gathering in a circle around the bowl that holds all your names, each one carefully folded into a little square, waiting to be drawn.

But when your slim fingers brush against one of the many crumpled pieces of paper and decide your fate, you send a small prayer to whoever might be listening. Please, don’t let it be Jeongguk.

It doesn’t really come off as a coherent request, especially considering how much your body has betrayed you tonight. Your thighs have been pressing together most of the evening, a subconscious reaction every time your gaze wandered — lingered — on Jeongguk’s lower half. Those low, slouchy grey sweatpants, hanging effortlessly off his narrow hips, have been the source of many inappropriate thoughts that you wish would make you grow some shame within yourself. Instead, they only make you grow hotter in your seat.

No, you would love to be Jeongguk’s Secret Santa with the blatant, embarrassingly huge crush you have on him. You think you’d be happy about it in any other universe, except this one.

Jeongguk is difficult. And not because he’s ever been argumentative, looking to start quarrels, never willing to agree or see past his nose. He’s far from those. He’s one of the easiest people to be around, rarely judgmental, even when you were drunk off your mind and you jokingly grinded on very-gay Jimin to make up for your lack of sexual activity. On those occasions, you didn't exactly see judgement in his eyes. Just reticence. Maybe. It wasn’t clear.

What is clear is that Jeongguk is incredibly particular. He’s picky about what he likes and even more so about what he doesn’t, though dislike might be too soft a word. When he hates something, it’s impossible not to know. He doesn’t even try to mask his disappointment.

It’s not malicious, of course. He’s not the type to be spiteful. It’s just how he is, an open book, his expressions giving him away without fail.

It’s one of the many reasons you love watching him, other than hoping your eyes would telepathically convey your undying desire to fuck him and cuddle him close to your chest afterwards. But most of the time, studying the shifts in his features is a way for you to decipher what he’s thinking.

And that’s why this moment feels so high-stakes. The last thing you want is to be on the receiving end of one of Jeongguk’s polite smiles or barely-there nods of acknowledgment, the kind he gives when he’s unimpressed. It would crush you, the ultimate failure in your short-lived career as a gift-giver.

It’s not just that he’s hard to please. Jeongguk is also the last person who seems to need anything. He’s loaded, his success as a game developer has afforded him a life where anything he wants is within reach. And yet, despite his wealth, there’s no arrogance about him. If you didn’t know him so well, you might think he was just another college student scraping by.

Who else but Jeon Jeongguk could walk around in a hoodie and square glasses, looking like he just rolled out of bed, while being the CEO of his own company?

But, of course, none of this is important. Because as you unfold the piece of paper in your hand, it’s there. Jeongguk.

You don’t think you enjoy Secret Santa as much anymore.

With the bowl continuing its journey around the circle, you spend the rest of the game staring holes into the back of Jeongguk’s head, desperately trying to figure out what in the world you could possibly get him. Your monthly budget feels laughable in comparison to his lifestyle, but you’re already prepared to go way over it if that’s what it takes to impress him.

You wonder if he’s as insecure as you are when he quietly unfolds the small, paper square he picked up and scans the name. His bug eyed expression doesn’t hide an evident surprise, the twitch of his eyebrows managing to conceal a possible disappointment.

For someone who’s usually so easy to read, Jeongguk seems uncharacteristically guarded in this moment, and it drives you crazy. You squint at him, frowning as you try to decipher any small detail on his face. Is he annoyed? Or worse, completely indifferent?

Either way, it doesn’t look like a positive reaction. If it ends up being you, you’ll rethink back to this moment and cry yourself to sleep.

With the first step out of the way, the night goes on following its usual rhythm. Only by the end of it, Jeongguk’s space starting to empty, you quietly help him put some order to the mess left behind by a too drunk Hoseok paired with his too drunk best friend Taehyung.

You keep yourself busy with storing some leftover food, managing to keep your tone unbothered when you ask, “Hey, Gguk. Wanna help me with the party planning this year?”

Always obliging to your every request, he only stutters slightly in his movements, the glasses he was cleaning clinking together. He clears his throat, “S—sure. I’ll help you, goldie.” The stammer doesn’t seem to be caused by any kind of hesitation, just an usual consequence to his nature. Reserved, quiet.

You nod, gulping way too loudly at the special nickname he has for you, and both of you keep your focus on your doings instead of witnessing the faint blush dusting your cheeks, “Cool. I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

Details texted, your efforts to divert the conversation into something remotely playful failed miserably. Jeongguk is painfully formal, methodical as ever, hyper-focused on the party. When you sent him a TikTok you deemed adorable enough to nudge him toward a different matter, maybe hint at the dog being the cutest thing he’s ever seen and that you two should definitely adopt three of them and move in together, he still doesn’t get it.

gguk🤍: Oh… I asked my brother to keep Bam for Christmas Eve. I thought he would be too much of a hassle, especially with Iseul not being fond of dogs.

You had stared at the ceiling for a long moment after reading that text. Jeongguk is endearingly dense, and you don’t mind it most of the time. But it’s starting to cause quiet bursts of frustration when it comes to whatever undefined thing you two have, and what is clearly simmering for the eyes of everybody to see, except his.

You’d thought giving him his first handjob when he quietly confessed he’s never been touched, his voice a tremble in the calm aftermath of a chaotic group sleepover, would be enough to make him see. His quiet whimpers were hypnotizing calls that only you were meant to hear, and your fist pumping his girthy length with intent was speaking all you were afraid to voice.

Jeongguk came hard and unannounced all over your hand, pleasured sounds muffled in the side of your neck, and you’d assured him it was okay; he did good; that you would get something to clean him up. You didn’t sleep that night, and he didn’t either, spending the rest of it next to each other on his couch talking pointless conversation.

If that hadn’t opened his eyes, you were beginning to wonder what would.

“So… Do you have any idea what to gift your person?”

Jeongguk stirs his latte for the fourth time. You’d decided to meet at a café halfway between your cramped flat and his mansion, because it was the easiest way you managed to make your busy schedules merge.

“No, Gguk,” you acknowledge his question without meeting his eyes, focusing on the grocery list on your laptop instead.

What would? You’re starting to think subtlety isn’t cutting it. Maybe it never has. Perhaps the only way to break through that frustratingly thick skull of his is to go full throttle, strip naked right here in the middle of this café and spell it out for him.

Your eye involuntary twitches at the thought in relation to his question. Crazy Christmas gift, you reason as you stare maniacally at your bright screen. Yeah. Totally crazy.

Shaking your head, you can’t resist glancing up at him. The idea doesn’t seem so irrational anymore, not when your insides twist at the sight of his absorbed expression, his brows furrowed as he scribbles out unheard-of maths on a piece of paper to figure out group expenses.

With your chin resting in the palm of your hand, you abandon your pretense of being productive and let yourself watch him work. A teasing lilt slips into your voice as you prod him in your usual way, “Why should I believe you already don’t know who it is?”

He blinks up at you, promptly, like he always does when you speak to him, and he stumbles, “Huh— I don’t—”

“You so do. You probably already guessed it all with your nerdy brain.”

Despite looking mildly offended, his ears turn red anyway, “Nerdy brain—”

“Glasses look cute on you,” that shuts him up; his mouth, his brain. Completely unable to cater to any of their functions.

You smirk at the way he diverts his gaze, pointer finger unconsciously fixing the specs on the bridge of his nose, and you wonder how much longer it’ll take for him to notice that you don’t just go around calling everyone’s glasses cute.

Sighing, you continue, “Anyways. It’s not you.”

“W—what? Is it really not?” When he looks up at you with even wider eyes, you feel bad for lying to him but you still shake your head. He mutters, “Shoot. I was so sure I had it.”

A playful scoff escapes you, “See! You did sit in your nerdy room and tried to guess!”

“Stop calling me a nerd,” it’s a request grumbled in the most adorable way you’ve heard, and there’s no real heat behind it. Especially when he goes back to be exactly what he doesn’t want you to refer to him as, “Well, if it’s not me, it must be Taehyung.”

You pretend to busy yourself with your touchpad as you ponder on his eagerness. Then, you voice the result, “What’s the fun in knowing right now?”

Jeongguk hesitates for a moment too long before admitting, “I don’t know. I guess it makes me less anxious.”

It’s a raw kind of honesty, much like what he was painted all over with when he came from your touch, and it has you shifting your gaze back on him, now absorbed in doodling stylized portraits of Bam right next to numbers and additions.

You don’t know if it’s the hot chocolate still simmering in your tummy, the warmth from the coat laying on your legs, the café’s natural heat or Jeongguk’s proximity, but you buzz with something homely.

Ariana Grande’s version of Last Christmas replays for the third time in a row, and at this point you’re starting to believe it’s a conscious choice, but you don’t mind it.

Jeongguk belongs to the world the soft melody is building, hugged by a woolen white sweater, the wide glass window behind him giving the perfect view to a classic winter scenery, snow softly resting on any surface it finds and unconsciously bringing magic to dullness. Or maybe it’s just him adding that last bit.

You smile at his small confession, reassuring with your tone, almost drowning in the lively chatter of the place surrounding you, “You don’t have to be.”

Jeongguk only nods, tapping the pencil on his temple as he studies what he has so far with sudden doubt. He looks at your laptop, scanning the long forgotten visual board on your Pinterest, then back to his calculations.

Giving one more glance at the screen, he concludes, “By the way, I really don’t think that color would look good in my living room.”

Ugh.

You think you want to strangle him when he deflects so easily from these moments. And mostly, the burgundy he’s so easily refusing happens to be one of your favorite shades. Do your tastes ever match?

God, as much as you want him, you hope he’s not your Secret Santa.

────⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆────

Jeongguk is your Secret Santa.

And on Christmas Eve, he’s pacing the length of his living room back and forth, his socks brushing against the polished wooden floor with each step. You’re supposed to arrive any minute now to help him with the final touches before the others come for dinner, and the idea of having you here alone is enough to make his hands clammy and his thoughts stumble.

The neatly wrapped gift with its shiny red paper sits tucked under the towering Christmas tree, the one adorned in messy decor that his friends jumbled up together. The item hidden inside the bag doesn’t share his anxieties, though he suspects his downstairs neighbour might have caught on to it with the incessant pacing.

When you ring the doorbell he’s jolted out of it and, practically tripping over his own feet, he rushes to the door and yanks it open. He would have let you in just as rapidly if his brain didn’t stop short at seeing you standing there.

You’re cladded in a soft sweater that looks two sizes larger, its beige tones complimenting the warm brown of his own jumper, and your short skirt peeks out beneath its hem, edged with lace ruffles. At your feet, a pair of chestnut Uggs that he can only hope are enough to make up for the cold shivers on your bare legs. Not that he’s staring, so intently he has to gulp down an impulsive thought. No, he’s just a naturally observing guy.

And that brings him to notice that your hands are empty, save for a small purse and a bottle of wine. No bag, no box, no sign of a gift.

When his gaze flickers back to your face, your eyes are wide and darting nervously between his own, narrowed by the frown that he can’t quite hide but bug sized the moment he catches a trace of insecurity in your shaky voice, “Hi.”

It could be the cold causing the brief greeting to tremble, small snowflakes laying on your neatly styled hair, shimmering for a brief moment before melting away. It pulls him out from his unabashed study of you, and he steps aside to let you into his much warmer space.

Your vanilla scent inebriating his senses has him forgetting all about your seemingly non existent gift, and how he suddenly finds himself wishing he truly did get something messed up in his calculations, that you’re not his Secret Santa.

But you are.

Many drinks later, filling up everyone’s stomachs along with shared food and belly laughter, it’s time to exchange gifts and the expression on your face is unlikely anything he’s caught on so far.

A huge contrast to the mellow Christmas tunes indistinctly playing in the background, your eyes are impassive as you word your excuses, “I’m sorry, Gguk. I forgot your gift at home.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” he says quickly, the words spilling out with genuine ease. And it really is okay. He’s not upset— far from it. The thought of you giving him anything at all, even belatedly, is enough to make him feel content.

But now, as the group’s attention turns toward him, his heart races for an entirely different reason. His gift for you, a lavish, over-the-top gesture that far exceeds the modest budget they all agreed on, sits waiting on his lap.

When it finds a new home atop your own crossed legs, you’re eager as you rip the paper, but your eyes don’t follow your movements. Instead, you focus on the nervous boy sitting across from you, your very own Secret Santa who’s monitoring your hands for you while subtly rocking from one side to the other.

His anxiety is endearingly soft, but you can see something more to it, almost an irrational fear of tripping on the wrong step, messing up something that’s supposed to be simple.

You hear it before you see it. The whole room inhales sharply in a collective surprise, with some gasps muffled behind hands pressed to mouths. You scramble for an explanation in their expressions, jumping from one face to the other, stopping on Jeongguk’s own, gaze glued to his fidgeting fingers, head bowed down to his lap.

When you slowly look down at what’s resting on yours, you almost wheeze. If they could, your eyes would leap out of their sockets.

Your palm instinctively presses on your lips as you look between the gift and the gifter in a frantic attempt to catch any sign that this is not what it is. With the music being the only sound eerily filling the sudden silence, you add to it, even if barely, with your voice a whisper, “What is this?”

Jeongguk gulps and finally meets you, “It’s m—my gift for you.”

It’s not like you even opened it yet. But the simple sight of the box had you grasping for support. On the pale, textured surface of the square box, the unmistakable gold lettering is what’s making your orbs shake in confusion: Dior.

You trace the sign with your pointed finger, tilting your head up to look at Jeongguk through your lashes, and you don’t know how else to put it, “Ggukkie… Were you there when we set the budget?”

Jimin butts in with a scoff, “Yeah, that’s like fifteen thousand won multiplied by another fifty thousand.”

Jeongguk doesn’t know what he should say. He’s scared of the deafening silence that follows, the way Jimin’s comment seems to linger in the air, the way you seem to struggle with finding something to say in response.

He begins, tries to, “I—”

“Fuck, Gguk,” the simple sound of your words has his mind spiralling, palms clammy with doubts that question his every choice leading up to this moment, feeling foolish for even thinking this could be right, a shot worth trying. What if you think he’s showing off? Or worse, overcompensating?

But what he fails to notice is the toothy grin that follows your shameless surprise, your fingers gingerly lifting the lid of the box, and really, if only he had the courage to look up at you he’d have avoided the worries.

He misses your reaction at the reveal: the prettiest earrings sit on a soft cushion, gleaming gold with delicate CD initials and cream pearls dangling gracefully beneath them.

“These are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I love them. You didn’t have to.”

Jeongguk’s head snaps up. He meets your face painted with the most beautiful grin he’s ever seen you wear, your cheeks burning with red and your nose scrunching as you carefully slip the earrings to take a better look at them. With you, everybody else around him seems in awe, too. Their soft, endeared whispers begin to fill the earlier suffocating silence, melting into a sweetness reserved entirely for Jeongguk.

He exhales quietly, the welcomed warmth in his chest replacing the cold. He admits, no stutter, no fear, just a sheepish smile, “I wanted to.”

Jeongguk really did want to. It felt like his one shot. A desperate, last-ditch attempt at making you see him the way he’s always seen you; a declaration wrapped in gold and pearls.

He wants you to see him as more than the shy, awkward boy who stumbles over his words and blushes too easily. More than the nerd who spends too much time working on equations and codes half the world doesn’t know about. More, just to have you look at him a bit closer.

He wants to be a man, one who badly wants you, in your eyes.

They’re gleaming with adorable excitement as they flicker back to his, sheepishly accompanying your quiet request, “Can you… put them on for me?”

Jeongguk is at your side in no time, handling the earrings with care while trying to keep his usual clumsiness at bay as he fastens the dainty jewels in place. He begins to understand why it’s hard to see him as anything else but gawky when he feels his heartbeat speed up from the simple way his skin is brushing against yours.

Namjoon’s voice cuts through the spell, playful, “Oh, what a pretty princess. Jeongguk truly has an eye for this stuff.”

With the group following with chuckles and mindless banter, Jeongguk feels uncharacteristically bold, gaze fixated entirely on you as he lets himself spill something meant for you only to hear, “I think it’s just you. You’re beautiful.”

You’re clearly caught off guard, and it stings a little when he realizes the only reason he doesn’t get to see you this flustered often is because he’s usually busy being the flustered one. Blinking up at him through your lashes, your laugh comes out a little breathless, and the sweet way you let your cheek rest on your shoulder has him daring to hope.

“Nerd.”

But no. There it is again.

That’s all he’ll ever be in your eyes.

He forces a smile that barely reaches his eyes, but you’re too engrossed with having your pearls admired by the rest of the group to notice. Those weren’t a waste; he would do it all the same. You deserve everything that makes your eyes shine, that brings the corners of your lips into that grin that shakes him, that can ever bring you joy. He just wishes it could bring you more than that; bring you to a bigger sentiment, a bigger realization.

Perhaps that’s why he can’t shake off the awful mood that pervades his senses throughout the rest of the night, the earrings hanging from your ears catching the twinkly, warm lights and mocking him with delighted amusement. There’s nothing else you can do, you nerdy boy.

Perhaps that’s also why, when the house starts to empty and you’re in his kitchen making yourself helpful with dishes, he slips on composure when you accidentally let a glass slide from your dainty hands.

It breaks the moment it meets the ground, and the sound penetrates his ears, both of you jumping at the impact. He hisses, “What— what the heck, ___!”

You’re startled, blinking up at him. It’s not the chaos from the glass, not its tiny pieces covering the floor and reaching your feet. It’s the deliberate frustration of his tone, one he’s never let free, especially with you.

You pant for apologies, but they can’t seem to be let out. Wide eyes jumping between his own bug ones, your brows draw up in shame. It has never been this easy to get him bothered. Hell, you’ve even struggled to.

Jeongguk only sighs, dragging a hand across his nape, and he regrets the quiet sharpness in his voice the second he lets it out, “God. Be more careful next time.”

He’s still quicker than you on his feet, moving to sweep the mess you’ve created before you can even react. You seem to move in slow, infinite motions, kneeling down to pick up the bigger pieces, all while keeping an unusual silence.

He steals a glance up at you, biting his lower pierced lip in sudden guilt, “Are you okay?”

Your hands pause, clutching a fragment of glass as your eyes flicker up to meet his. You nod, distant, and it does nothing to convince him.

He doesn’t even seem to be paying attention to your hesitant confirmation, rather he’s hyper-focused on your fingers, and before you realize the shift in his expression, he alarmedly blurts out, “Goldie. You’re bleeding.”

The sting barely registers for you until his words bring it to your attention. Looking down, you see a sharp, red line running across your finger, small but enough to make Jeongguk spring into action.

You’re lifted off the floor and ushered to the bathroom in fractions of seconds, letting yourself be handled like you don’t own your body. The only thing you want to be aware of is the switch in his behaviour. He’s back to normal once he’s in his quiet bubble of concentration, movements precise as he cleans the barely visible wound and carefully places a band aid over it.

All while he can’t stop apologizing, “I’m sorry for yelling at you. That was not your fault. But, this. This is my fa—”

“Jeongguk, it’s just a scratch.”

The way he meets your eyes with his face drawn tight and brows furrowed makes you rethink your statement. Maybe it’s more than a scratch. Maybe it’s the only thing that snapped him out of his frustrated daze.

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t deserve that.”

Your first instinct is to giggle; it’s a resonance of the butterflies childishly swarming in your belly from the proximity and his careful words. Both your gazes soften as you accept each other, even the faulted versions of tonight, and a timid smile stretches over his lips.

You hesitate before speaking again, your mouth opening only to close, reconsidering your words; but then you finally let out what you had foolishly planned as your next desperate attempt to cling to him.

“Can you… My car is… Can you take me home?”

What you’re now sure you like the most about Jeongguk is how he caters to your needs before you even have to voice them. The soft kindness in his eyes, the way his body instinctively shifts to act before his mind even fully processes the request. He’s already nodding, ready to make it happen for you.

“Yeah. Of course.”

The heat in his car fans over your cheeks, dusting them with a soft red that has his Adam’s apple bobbing every time he turns to steal glances at you at stoplights. You keep talking, filling the air with contentment about the night’s events, and it’s like that subtle slip of his never happened.

It’s almost too easy to surrender and pretend that everything is fine, that he doesn’t feel the ache of wanting more. If staying a nerd in your eyes means getting to be this close, to hear your laughter, to see the slight curve of your lips as you speak, then maybe it’s enough.

His subtle gestures — adjusting the temperature so you’re comfortable, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter when your giggles spill into the cabin — don’t go unnoticed. They settle into you and have your heart beating anticipatedly.

God, you won’t regret what you’re about to do.

By the time he pulls up in front of your place, you promptly turn to him before he can offer anything else, voice a bit too eager, “Would you like to come inside?”

“Huh—”

“I’ll show you my gift.”

Jeongguk sits on your couch, because you tell him to wait there. And of course, he’s a great listener. Very obedient, willing to follow your every order.

His fingertips drum restlessly on his thighs and he can only busy himself with his surroundings, every detail speaking for you. What’s definitely more prominent is the intoxicating scent of vanilla that clings in the air, of which he hopes his lungs inhale the entirety of, never getting enough of everything that is you.

When you come into his vision again, walking down the stairs in quiet steps, you’re tightly hugged in a trench coat, the textured belt cinched snugly around you and accentuating the small of your waist. Under it, your legs are bare. It has his mouth drying and his legs spreading stiffly on the couch.

He thought he got better at hiding his concerning infatuation. He hopes he did.

That’s why he initially manages to chuckle and attempt a joke, “Are you going somew—”

“Ta-da.”

Jeongguk doesn’t think he’s breathing. He doesn’t think he can even breathe anymore. His blinking fastens, brain stumbling over itself as it tries to make sense of what he’s sitting in front of.

You’ve loosened the coat just enough for the fabric to fall and reveal what you’ve carefully wrapped for him. You’re a gift coming in a red lingerie set clinging to your perfect curves, your boobs deliciously spilling out from the sides of your lace top and the line of your panties thin enough to leave little to the imagination.

He pants, scanning over your body once, twice, three times, questioning if the wine was perhaps laced with stronger substances, “What— What is this—”

“It’s my gift for you. Merry Christmas, Gguk.”

Meeting your face again, he nearly groans. You’re almost bare before him, yet you still sport a crimson blush and your teeth graze your bottom lip in a sheepish smile, in a way that is so achingly you. He can feel himself throbbing painfully in his pants. Thinks he could cum just from this view, tip over the edge without a single touch, no matter how bad he needs it.

“Fuck.”

You’ve barely ever heard Jeongguk curse throughout the time you’ve known him for. He only sometimes reserves that for his monitor, Overwatch games causing his composure to slip in adorable loud whispers.

But it’s like you’ve broken his dam, and he only lets more slip as you walk slowly but certainly closer to him, coat discarded on the floor, “Oh my, fuck. Holy shit. Thank you. Thank you. I— I don’t know what to do.”

It’s a quiet plea, the one that’s hidden in his strained words but clear in his full eyes glazed over with anticipation, his hands hovering uncertainly over his thighs, chest still heaving and struggling with manual breathing. He’s begging to feel deserving of this, to have you prove to him that it’s what you truly want for the both of you, to have you touching him and to be touching you.

He can’t help the moan that escapes him when you position yourself in between his spread legs, bodies close yet not touching, but he’s dying to feel you.

Now your turn to bend at his every request, your head tilts and your smile widens the more he’s forced to crane his neck up to keep your gazes connected, pending off your every syllable, “You don’t have to do anything. Will you let me take care of you?

“Yes, please,” the confirmation is immediate and empty of hesitance. Under you, Jeongguk nods promptly with his lips agape, watering with want when you straddle his lap to sit yourself on him.

He wails, throwing his head back and searching for all the strength it takes from holding back his instinct to snap up against your core, snuggled atop his raging hardness. At his shameless desperation, your giggles fill his ears, and when they’re followed by your cold hand on his cheek redirecting his gaze on yours, he feels feverish.

Delirious, eyes barely keeping from rolling back, his brain reduced to senseless blabbering, “My God. Thank you for this.”

With his brows adorably drawn up, he focuses on your dilated pupils now that your faces are mere centimetres apart, and you close the distance with small pecks that trace his jaw, up to his ear lobe, whispering against the skin, “Are you seriously thanking God while I’m about to take your virginity?

Jeongguk hisses in a frenzied surge, his hands still unsurely keeping from touching you, and your sarcastic pun has him full on rambling, “Shit, sorry. I don’t even believe in God. This just feels too good to be true. You look like a fucking angel.”

“Ggukkie, language!” Your seductive tone along with your chuckle reverberates right against his chest, your hands moving to lead your own palms up and down his broad front, and when you subtly roll your hips against his clothed length, he breaks into a cry.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ll come so soon,” you don’t know if it’s the adrenaline of the moment, but you’ve never witnessed such a bold Jeongguk. It only spurs you further, your hand traveling down, and down, until it sneaks under his sweater.

When you find his nipple, you playfully roll it between your pointer and thumb, his trembling body bucking up in an unstoppable urge, quiet whimpers working to keep his tone down. But you want to hear him scream under you, just as loud as you can feel his heart beating.

You bite your lip as your eyes drift downward, watching where your bodies meet in slow, teasing drags. His wide palms press into the cushions on either side of you, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip, and when you lift your gaze to meet his face again the delicious buzz pooling low in your stomach intensifies, your lips parting instinctively. A pretty blush creeps up his neck, painting his sharp jaw and cheekbones in shades of red, and his eyes, clouded, desperate, and burning with unfiltered need, lock onto you with a gaze that makes your knees weak even as you straddle him.

The simple grinding through the layers of clothing you still have on has you releasing whiny gasps in the air, his cock sliding torturously between your folds, and if you’re so affected by every shift you can hardly fathom what he must be feeling under you.

So you wonder out loud, voice rough the more you feel his stiff nipple under your fingertips, “How long since you’ve been touched properly, hm?”

His body hiccups, shaking with the barely contained lust, “Since— Since you last did, goldie.”

You coo, slowing down your movements and bringing your fingers to the hem of his jumper only to lift it and toss it behind you carelessly, “You’re so sensitive, aren't you?” At the view of his exposed chest, you can’t help roaming the expanse of it and feeling the tensing muscles under your skin, and by now you’re sure your panties must be ruined.

“Puh— please,” the plea is barely coherent, whispered out messily through high-pitched moans, but he begs again, “I wanna touch you too.”

“Then…” You let your hands speak for you, moving them to lead his own big ones to rest at your thighs, letting them drag up the curve of your ass. You’re impossibly close to his lips now, fanning against them, “Feel me, Gguk.”

Unable to resist, you fall forward and catch his mouth with yours in a kiss that struggles to find a rhythm, that has your tongues tangled in an uncoordinated dance, but that inevitably has you both humming loudly in an effort to almost devour each other, and his hands digging in your bare skin only force a gasp out of you.

In an impatient rush, you urge him to unclasp your bra, his unpractised and shaky fingers being joined by your experienced ones to finally free you from the tight confines, and as much as he wants to make kissing you a sport just to win every gold medal and break record after record, he can’t help separating from your lips with a wet sound to look down at your exposed breasts.

Jeongguk groans, and this time he doesn’t need you guiding him. It’s his own palms moving to cup you, and the innocent, light feather touch causes you to throw your head back and resume your slow grinding on top of him.

Both of you are panting messes, his moans significantly louder the more he gets to knead at your softness only to slice his thumb over your hardened nipples, the contrast making his brows furrow in hazed need, and when you arch your back into him he squeezes your tit to his mouth, eliciting a surprised wail from you.

Even when he gets closer, your sensitive nub engulfed by his swollen lips, he keeps looking up at you for approval with wide, teary eyes that beg for you to praise him. And with a hand gripping his wavy locks, you nod repeatedly for him to keep going, “Fuck, baby. Just like that, oh my God.”

He hums lowly with his mouth stuffed, his fingers digging in your flesh the more you drag your cunt mercilessly over the outline of his thickness, and he has to release you with a pop and rest his head on the couch behind him, palms keeping you somewhat still by the waist, panting out a desperate request when he feels himself throb dangerously close to his high, “G—Goldie, I can’t. Don’t— Don’t wanna cum like this.”

You lift your hips just enough for the both of you to whimper at the loss of friction, and you murmur through a string of kisses along his exposed neck, “How do you want to cum then, huh?”

He only whines, cheeks flushed with want and eyes glossy, forehead creasing with the way his brows are stressing, “Please.”

You show no mercy, flashing him with a wicked smirk and a teasing tilt of your head, “Ah-ah. Say it.”

Gulping with effort, his waist twitches up unconsciously to seek for your touch once again, and with his face turned to the side he admits in the smallest voice, “‘Nside of you.”

“Good boy. Gonna give you exactly what you want.”

He voices a loud cry just from the sound of your promise, only echoing more intensely when you hastily work at his zipper. It’s messy, uncertain, and it elicits breathy giggles from the two of you, drunk on adoration and high on desire.

Eventually, he’s stripped free from his confines, and his cock stands proud and hard, veins pumping the blood that has it throbbing against his toned stomach.

Jeongguk can feel your hooded eyes on him, can sense his tip wettening with the simple way you seem starved and eager to taste him, your hand coming too close to where he needs you the most before he gently grabs your wrist to stop it.

Automatically, your head snaps up, and the look on his face is one of nervous desperation, “Wan’ you to kiss me, please.”

You’re ready to comply to his every demand, and this one is as easy as it gets. You want to give him everything— whatever he wants, however he wants it.

Your lips mold with his in worldless acceptance, absorbing all you were afraid to voice to each other, making up for all the time you wasted, devoting to a sealed promise, the one that dances between your connected tongues, saliva making it wet and breathless.

Even more when your slim fingers trail down his torso before wrapping around his length, your wrist expertly flicking in a teasing touch, and his moan is unrestrained as it tears through the kiss. You swallow the sound greedily, steadying you against his chest rising and falling in frantic pants.

Before he can protest, his own hips bucking up in a silent beg for more, you steal the air from his lungs when you move your panties to the side and align your entrance with his tip, just to sink down on it.

The drag is slow and it has both of your eyes rolling back, pleased groans filling the air and straining against your throat when you fully sit yourself wrapped around his dick. You search for him, “You okay?”

“Shit,” Jeongguk seems hypnotised by the view of his thickness wrecking you in half, and his palms come to rest at your waist where his fingers dig into the skin. Your own playing with the hair on his nape only seem to make him more vulnerable, “This is perfect. You feel so good and warm, fuck.”

You’re not used to hearing him curse so openly and so often, and it naturally makes you giggle, the sound tickling his ears and leading his dilated pupils to look up at you through his lashes. Your sweet laughter fades into a lasting smile, one he can’t help but kiss, even if it’s all teeth, the contagious sight of your happiness getting to him too.

The moment is sickeningly sweet, bodies connected in more ways than one. With your kiss only deepening and your chest melting against his, you pull him impossibly closer by the back of his neck and start attempting slow motions on top of him.

You hear him through his thundering heartbeat, “Goldie… I— I don’t think I can last any longer, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Oh, shit, baby,” one particular shift has his length, deeply stuffed in your tight walls, finding your spot and teasing it with an electric buzz that travels through your body, “It’s okay. I’m so close too.”

The moment you try a firmier bounce and feel him find you again, you can’t help the way your movements fasten, your moans thick and low against your throat, his own louder and ricocheting through the walls.

You steady yourself with one of you palms on his thigh, leaning your weight back and finding a new angle to fuck yourself on him. He watches in awe as you work your fingers on your clit, rapid circling movements causing his mouth to hang open at the squelching sounds.

He pants, his wide hands guiding your riding, pushing you up and down, “Can— Can I touch you?”

You hum, but it sounds more like a whine, “Hm, of course, pretty boy,” the hand that was stimulating your sensitive nub now comes behind you to help support yourself on both of his muscular thighs, flexing under every shift.

Jeongguk is unpracticed as he leads his thumb to rest at your clit, applying a soft pressure and mimicking the same pattern he observed from you. He only seems to be focusing on his doing for the first few moments before he searches up for the reaction on your face, and he whimpers when he finds your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, your brows drawn up in pleasure.

You smile at the unconscious twitch of his chin, and give him just what you know he wants, “Always seeking my approval. You’re so good.”

The simple praise only has him working on you with more confidence, collecting some of your wetness and sliding it up along your lips. He learns fast, listening to your every sound and centering on your pleasure, as best as he can with his own knot getting closer to bursting.

You’re clearly affected by the simulations, your hips stuttering and riding around him, but you still make sure to concentrate on him first, “I’ll tell you when to cum, hm? You’ll listen to me, right?”

Jeongguk nods before he even knows what he’s agreeing to, “Y—yes. Yes, yes, fuck. I’ll be good. Wanna be so, so good for you. Wanna c—cum for you.”

“You’re so filthy, baby. Naughty boy. Fuck me.”

His hips meet you up with harsh thrusts that have you lose your balance on him, and you can only throw yourself with your arms around his broad shoulders, face hidden in the crook of his neck as he lets his desire take over, fucking up into you with a desperate need for release.

You think you see stars with the way he relentlessly pounds your hole, wet folds sliding along his length and causing a mess between you, his own slickness mixed with yours trailing down and pooling at the base. The sounds are inglorious, and they merge perfectly with your wails.

Breathing in his scent, you know he’s close from the way his thrusts are stammering sloppily, and his moans are closer to strained whines. You concede, “F—Fucking cum, Gguk. Cum inside me, fuck.”

He nods, slamming you down to meet his movements, desperate to feel you before he can stop himself, “Cum with me, pleas— Oh.”

When your walls spasm around him with your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave, causing you to shake in his embrace around you, he feels himself cum unannounced, hard and thick, sprouts of white liquid relentlessly pumping inside your warmth.

You milk him dry, both your wails drained with the effort and fading into breathless gasps, his arms around you falling limply at his sides. You’re sprawled on his chest, emptied from any energy, and he is just as spent with his head lolling against the back of the couch.

But you feel it in your heartbeats syncing, the realization of what happened, what finally happened. You feel it in his face moving down to find your lips and catch them in a sweet peck, his fingers trailing up again to trace lazy patterns on your back before tangling in your hair, grounding himself in you.

It’s your own smiles breaking through the kiss, lashes tickling, and both of you laugh senselessly as you come down from the moment.

“Fuck,” Jeongguk breathes out, voice raspy, “This was the best Christmas gift ever.”

You snicker, biting your lip to hold back your amusement, “Oh, baby. It was just an excuse to fuck you. I actually did forget your gift at home.”

“W—What?” His brows shoot up, his post-orgasm haze momentarily replaced with incredulity as his cheeks redden even more.

When Jeongguk straightens on the couch, so do you, steadying your weak frame with your hands splayed against his chest. Sheepishly, you confess, “Yeah. Bought you that Mario game yo—“

“Princess Peach: Showtime?”

“Yea—”

Jeongguk gasps dramatically, his excitement so pure it’s almost jarring considering what just transpired, and that he’s no longer a virgin, “God, I fucking love— that game. That is the best Christmas gift ever.”

You can’t hold back your laughter this time, shaking your head at how easily he slips back into his usual self, the one that had you buying a Victoria’s Secret set in that shade of burgundy he said he didn’t like just to attempt a crazy chance at having him.

Leaning forward, you press a lingering kiss to his lips that brings you back to the realization that you finally did get to have him, before murmuring against them, “Well, that and a second round. What do you say?”

“Please.”

2K notes · View notes

imaginedisish · 9 months ago

Text

Everlong (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: This was not a request, just a thought I had and had to get out. "Everlong" by Foo Fighters just scratches my brain in a way very few songs can, and it fits perfectly for this fic. Hope you guys enjoy.

Summary: Logan offers you his bed as a friend, knowing how hard it is for you to fall asleep alone. But after months of sleeping next to him platonically, things finally take a turn...

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!! SMUT! Thigh riding, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), Cockwarming, praise kink, breeding kink (if you squint), cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan, non-sexual intimacy to sexual intimacy, friends to lovers, man-handling, rough sex, afab!reader/f!reader, feelings, fluff, cursing, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,619 jeeeeeeezzzzz this is DEPRAVED

Sleep was hard—that is, until you started sleeping in Logan’s bed.

It had all started out so innocent. You were sitting on a couch in the study, flicking through the pages of your favorite book. You had just finished your fourth lap around the grounds of the mansion, and you decided you needed a break. The clock on the wall read 2:22 AM, mocking you, reminding you that of all the gifts you have, sleeping would never be one of them.

“What’re you doing awake?” You jumped at the voice breaking up the silence, but quickly recognized its bassy, deep tone. You turned to face Logan in the doorway.

“Just can’t sleep,” you answered, shrugging your shoulders. He wore a beater and gray sweatpants, and you struggled against the urge to trail your eyes up and down his body. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him—you’ve wanted him for months.

Logan crossed his arms against his chest and smiled softly. “Can’t sleep either,” he said, taking a step closer. “You can come up to my room, if you want” he offered. “Next time you can’t sleep, or you have a nightmare, or you just can’t think of anything to do, come find me.”

You smiled at his words, at his kindness, at his willingness to help you. “Thank you, Logan,” you whispered.

“No problem, princess.” And then he turned to leave, walking back through the hallway and up the stairs to his room.

You’re still not sure what came over you in those following moments—still don’t understand where your confidence came from—but you forced yourself up from the couch and down the hall, following Logan’s path to his room.

He was already inside, already had the door closed, so you knocked. And the door immediately swung open. You swallowed, parting your lips nervously. “Lo, do you think I could take you up—”

But he didn’t even let you finish. He grabbed your arm and tugged you into the darkness of his room, navigating you carefully to his bed. He laid you down and walked to the other side, climbing in next to you. He brought the covers over your bodies, shuffling under the sheets, settling in, and then everything was silent.

You tried to get comfortable. You rolled onto your stomach and waited, eyes shut tight, hoping that sleep would take you under its current. But it didn’t. You rolled back onto your side, away from Logan, opening and closing your eyes frustratedly.

“You okay?” He asked. You could hear Logan inching towards you, his front suddenly pressing against your back.

You hummed in affirmation, leaning your back into him. He reached a tentative arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest. “Is this okay?” He husked, his lips at the shell of your ear.

“Yeah,” you panted into the darkness of his room, taking shallow breaths, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. You could smell him everywhere—on the sheets, the pillowcase, in the air of the room. It was all leather and musk and pine and denim. And there he was, holding you, his thumb drawing soft circles into your slightly exposed midriff. Something about it was overwhelming, but also comforting, as though all your senses were being cradled by him.

He could hear your heart beating, could hear your breath catching in your throat. “Relax,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Go to sleep.” Your eyes fluttered closed, and you focused on Logan’s breathing. It was constant, stable, steadfast. He was so warm, so solid. And soon enough, you found yourself giving in to sleep.

You woke up a few hours later, the pale light of the moon still pushing through the curtains. Logan’s legs were tangled with yours, your face pressed into the center of his chest, his arm wrapped around your back, holding you tight. You tried to lift your head to read the clock behind you on the nightstand.

But Logan pulled you back down. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured against the crown of your head. “Too early.”

That’s how most nights have been since then—climbing into his bed, completely innocently, just to be able to sleep. He holds you all night, keeping you close. And when the sun finally rises, you both get up and head down to the kitchen, watching as Logan brews you a pot of coffee.

It’s shockingly domestic and incredibly intimate. And yet, the two of you have never talked about it. It’s a silent agreement, one based on pattern, convention, and repetition. These very events have played out more times than you can count—for months now. It has become so normalized that you don’t question it, don’t even think about it when you crawl into his bed, and he pulls you into his chest.

So, tonight starts out like any other. Your feet pad along the dark, mahogany wood floors, down the dim, quiet hallway, towards Logan’s room. You’re only wearing a pair of panties and one of Logan’s old t-shirts, the hem falling to the middle of your thighs.

You stand in front of his door and knock. You aren’t nervous anymore—aren’t anxious as he opens the door. He’s already shirtless, wearing just his boxers—which, however, is something you will never get used to. He smiles, his eyes trailing up and down your body as he steps to the side, inviting you in.

You know the drill by now—you walk to your side of the bed, lying down and pulling the covers up to your chin. Logan follows suit. You move in silence, but it’s a comfortable silence. It’s a silence shared by two people who don’t have to say a word, don’t have to communicate to feel connection. His arms wrap around your body, and he tugs you into his chest.

“Didn’t see you today,” he mumbles, his lips brushing your forehead. “Wish I could’ve.” His fingertips graze up and down your back, your t-shirt hitching up as you get comfortable, revealing your bare legs.

“I’m here now,” you whisper, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, smelling him, letting him overtake your senses. He tangles your legs with his.

“Is this my shirt, by the way?” he asks, his hands sliding down to the hem, which is now bunched up above the waistband of your panties.

You smile into his neck. “Maybe,” you answer, giggling softly.

His fingertips slip just under the t-shirt, tentative and hesitant, waiting for you to push him away, to tell him no. But you don’t. “Looks better on you than it does on me,” he husks, his thigh settling between your legs so that you’re straddling it.

“Th-thanks,” you stutter, trying to ignore the way he bumps against your core, the way his words make your heart race. You shut your eyes and wrap your arms around his center, letting him engulf you in his warmth. You swallow your feelings down and close your eyes. “Night, Lo,” you mutter.

“Night, princess,” he says, his lips against the crown of your head.

You listen carefully to his breathing, like you always do, and after a few moments, you find yourself falling asleep.

When you wake up a few hours later, your back is against Logan’s front. His arm keeps you pressed tightly to his chest, his nose nudging against the crook of your neck—you can feel his breath, warm on your skin. Your legs are intertwined, his knee just inches away from your core.

Logan moves in his sleep, his knee bumping against your core now, his nose nuzzling into your neck, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just under your ear. You take a deep breath, pleasure pulsing between your thighs as Logan moves again, his thigh dragging against you. You can’t help the moan that falls from your lips.

He moves again, and that’s when you feel it—his erection stiff against the curve of your ass. Heat spreads across your chest, up to your neck, your stomach somersaulting as his hips press harder into your ass.

“L-Lo,” you stutter into the darkness of his room. But he doesn’t answer. His thigh slides against your core again. You can feel the wetness pooling between your legs, soaking your panties. “Logan,” you choke, moaning louder this time.

He hums in response, nuzzling his nose deeper into your neck, his lips pressing against your skin—the ghost of a kiss. It’s too much—you want to grind down on his thigh, want to feel his cock pressing against your ass, want to feel his hips rutting against yours. You thought maybe this would happen, hoped that one night would lead to something like this, but you never dreamed it would actually come to pass.

Logan’s thigh rubs against your heat again, and you mumble his name, your breathing quickening. “Fuck,” you groan, involuntarily bucking your hips against Logan’s. His erection drags along your ass.

You force yourself to be still as Logan grunts into your neck. “You awake, pretty girl?” He whispers against your ear.

“Mhm,” you murmur, trying to play half-asleep. You don’t want to let on that you can feel him hard against you, and you pray you aren’t soaking through your panties and onto his thigh.

You swear you can hear him mumble a soft fuck under his breath. Your thoughts race around your head. Maybe he was awake the whole time. Maybe he felt your hips roll against him. Maybe he can smell the arousal growing between your thighs. You know he can hear your heart hammering against your ribcage.

But his arm tightens its grip around your waist, and he pulls you closer, holding you down against his thigh. “What were you doing, sweetheart?” He rasps, pressing a true, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. You gasp, a shiver running down your spine.

“Wh-what do you mean?” You stutter, stumbling around your words as he kisses your neck again, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just under your ear.

He moves his knee, pressing harder into your core, dragging his thigh against your aching heat. You stifle a moan as he repeats the motion. “Felt you riding me, pretty girl,” he huffs, his hands gripping your waist, guiding your hips along his thigh. “Smelt you, too,” he whispers, his lips still at your neck. “Can feel that pretty, wet pussy dripping on me, darlin’.”

“Logan,” you whine, letting him move your hips back and forth. The pressure feels so good. You need more. “Please…” You trail off, grinding down onto him.

“Making a fucking mess of me, aren’t you?” He teases, his fingers gripping your hips like iron, so tight he might bruise. “Love watching you get off on me.” His voice is dark and honeyed, smooth like expensive liquor. Your walls clench around nothing as your clit drags along Logan’s thigh and you moan, throwing your head back against his shoulder. “So sensitive, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you pant, letting him pull you back and forth. You’ll take anything you can get—anything he’s willing to give to you. “D-don’t stop,” you beg.

“Fuck,” Logan grunts. “Need me that bad, huh?”

“Y-you have no idea,” you stammer. He bites your pulse point as one of his hands wraps around your front, slipping inside your panties and finding your clit. “Oh fuck, Lo,” you whine, the pads of his fingers drawing tight, rapid circles around the bud.

“That feels good, pretty girl?” You can hear the smirk in his voice. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and he’s getting off on it. You can feel his erection hard against your ass every time his hips buck into yours. “Bet it does, the way you’re soaking my thigh.”

“So fucking good,” you whimper. But you know you need more. You need him. “Logan, please…” You trail off, the words escaping you as pleasure pulses through your body.

“Please what, darlin’?” He teases, his fingers pulling out of your panties, his hands gripping your hips again, rolling you against his thigh. It’s not enough, and you groan at the loss of contact. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“N-need more,” you croak, dragging yourself along him.

“More what, beautiful?” But you know he knows. You know he wants to hear you beg for it, wants to hear you beg for him.

“More of you,” you choke out.

“Yeah?” He chides, slowing the roll of your hips with his iron grip. “More of me how?” He’s so goddamn cocky, so unfair.

“I-I…” your eyes roll back into your head as he slowly, teasingly drags you up his thigh, pulling you against his erection and holding you there. “However you want me,” you whisper, pushing against his cock. “Just want you.”

He suddenly pulls away, his grip on your hips forcing you into the mattress as he rolls on top of you, caging you in, his hands on either side of your head.

Logan’s lips crash down onto yours, swallowing you hungrily, his teeth grazing your lower lip and licking away the pain. You part your lips, inviting him inside, tasting his tongue against yours. He slides a hand down your body, stopping at the hem of your shirt and yanking it up. He breaks the kiss to slip the shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor. He sits up on his knees, his eyes trailing your body, settling on your bare breasts.

“So fucking beautiful,” Logan praises, lowering down over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand glides up your side and to your breasts. He palms your flesh, rolling his thumb over your pebbled nipple, pinching lightly. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” He traces across the valley of your breasts, his hand massaging the other side.

He grinds his hips into yours, his erection nudging against your core. “Wanted you so bad, pretty girl,” he pants, pressing another kiss to your lips. His fingertips drag down your body, gripping your hip tightly again. “Dreamed of fucking you, of tasting you.” He buries his face into the crook of your neck as he pushes you into the mattress, biting down on your pulse point. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

You moan as he sucks at your sensitive skin. “Want you, Lo. Need you,” you whine, your arms wrapping around his back, nails digging into his skin. “Always wanted you.”

He kisses a trail down your neck, to your collarbone, between the valley of your breasts. He slides down your body, peppering light kisses across your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He looks up at you, his face illuminated by the pale, blue moonlight. You can see the desperation in his eyes, the need. He licks his lips—a man starved—as his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.

He tugs them down your legs, throwing them to the floor, and settles between your thighs. His face is just inches from your aching heat. Your chest heaves as he brings himself closer, his breath fanning across your cunt. You look down at him and find him staring up at you, watching your every move.

“Wanna know what you taste like, darlin’,” he huffs, his palms splaying on your inner thighs, spreading your legs wide open for him. “Want me to make you feel good?” His nails dig into the flesh of your thighs possessively.

“Y-yes,” you stammer, already arching your back off the mattress. “Please, Logan.”

He smiles, his eyes still trained on yours as his tongue swipes through your folds, long and slow, all the way up to your clit. “Fuck,” he mumbles against your core, flicking your clit, lapping at it twice before starting all over again. He licks another teasing stripe through your folds, landing on your clit and taking the bud between his lips this time. He sucks roughly, releasing your clit and swirling soothing circles around it. “You taste so perfect. Better than I ever imagined.”

He laves at you, devouring you, his head buried against your cunt. His right hand climbs up your inner thigh, nearing your folds as his teeth graze your clit. Your hips jolt back at the sudden feeling, and Logan is quick to slide his left hand under your thigh. He grips tightly, yanking you back to him, and pressing his face deeper into your cunt. “Don’t even think about it, pretty girl. You’re not going anywhere until I’m finished with you.”

You moan at his words, his right hand finally working its way up to your folds. His fingertips find your entrance, spreading your slick. “So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, prodding your slit. “Want my fingers, darlin’?”

“Yes, Lo, please. Want all of—” He thrusts two long, thick fingers deep inside you, down to his knuckles. “Oh, fuck,” you cry out as he pulls out and slams back in.

His tongue swirls around your clit, his teeth grazing the bud every time he takes it between his lips to suck. It’s overwhelming, overstimulating, the way he laps at you, drinking you in, consuming you. If he could find a way to keep your taste on his tongue all day, he would. If he could slip under your skin to be one with you, to feel your warmth, he would. You know this isn’t want. This isn’t lust. This isn’t some one-off thing. This is need. This is longing.

Your eyes roll back into your head as he breathes you in, his tongue working at your clit as his fingers thrust in and out, dragging along your walls, scissoring inside you. “Doing so good for me, sweetheart,” Logan praises, and you clench down around him at the words. He smiles against your cunt. “You like that, don’t you? Like when I tell you just how good of a girl you are.”

Your walls flutter around him again. “I-I do,” you admit, your voice shaky as he fucks into you, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every pump of his fingers.

Logan chuckles darkly, the reverberation pulsing against your clit. “That’s my good girl, giving me what I’ve been waiting for,” he huffs, lapping at you, sucking on your clit like it’s candy. “Would’ve waited forever for you.”

Your muscles contract and release at his words, at the intimate confession. “Would’ve waited forever for y-you too,” you whimper, his fingers still working you open. You’re so close. Fire burns at the base of your spine, your walls clenching around Logan’s fingers again as his tongue draws tight, rapid circles into your bud.

“No more waiting, beautiful,” Logan grunts, and you know what he means—he knows you’re close. “Wanna feel you come around my fingers, wanna taste it.” It isn’t a request; it’s a command. His fingers plunge deeper, his tongue laving at your clit roughly between sentences. “Know you’re ready to let go, sweetheart. Don’t hold back. Come for me.”

You’re crashing down, falling, but not into nothingness—into Logan, into his warmth, into his touch. Your chest heaves and the room spins. Heat pours from deep at the bottom of your belly, fire spreading up your spine. Nothing has ever felt like this. His name is the only thing you can think, the only thing you can say: Logan Logan Logan Logan.

His pumps slow down, his fingers dragging gently along your inner walls until he stills inside you and carefully pulls out. His tongue is still lapping at you, still working your overstimulated clit.

“Logan,” you whine, your hands finding his head, digging your nails into his scalp. “Want you.”

He smirks against you, knowing full well what he’s doing. “You have me, darlin’.”

You groan, half in frustration, half in pleasure—the tension building back up between your thighs with every flit of Logan’s tongue. “Please,” you beg, tugging on Logan’s hair. He grunts at the feeling, smiling against your cunt again. “I want you, Logan.”

“Gotta be more specific, pretty girl,” he huffs, his face finally separating from your cunt. Your release glistens on his chin, his lower lip. He brings his fingers to his mouth as he waits, wrapping his lips around his fingers and sucking, savoring the taste of you.

“Want you inside me…” You trail off, watching as his fingers pop out of his mouth, his tongue darting out along his lower lip, rationing every drop of you he can find. “Want your cock,” you finally choke out.

The corner of Logan’s mouth turns up, his fingers hooking into his boxers and tugging them down. “Wanna fuck you so bad, beautiful,” he grunts, his cock springing free, bouncing against his stomach. He’s so much bigger than you had anticipated. You swallow nervously as he lowers himself down over you, resting on his forearm. “Thought about this for so long.”

His hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding himself to your folds. He swipes through you, spreading your slick, notching against your clit. You moan at the contact, your chest coming flush with Logan’s as your back arches off the mattress. “Logan, please,” you beg. “Just want you. Only ever gonna—”

He plunges deep inside you, down to the hilt with one thrust. You’ve never felt so full—his cock thick and long, splitting you open. His presses a kiss to your lips, swallowing your moans as his tongue darts out, tangling with yours. He’s still inside you, stretching you out, allowing you to adjust to the size of him. “You okay, pretty girl?” He asks as his lips part from yours.

“Y-yes,” you stammer, your arms wrapping around his back. “Feels good. So big.”

Logan pulls out and thrusts back in, splitting you open again. “Fuck,” he groans, his forehead resting against yours. “So fucking perfect. So tight, so warm. Made for me, darlin’.” Your eyes flutter open and closed as his free hand slips between your bodies, quickly finding your clit.

“Lo,” you whine as his fingers draw tight, rapid circles into the bud. He sets his pace, pumping in and out of your cunt with reckless abandon. His hips rock against yours, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing along the walls of the room.

“Knew you’d feel like this,” Logan soothes, flicking your clit as he fucks into you. “Knew you’d feel this good. Wanna be inside you forever, princess.”

His lips find yours again, his teeth tugging on your lower lip and then sucking the pain away. It’s rushed and frantic, like he’s dying for more, searching for a way to reach deeper inside you, to feel all of you at once.

He ruts into you, his hips snapping, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust. He pinches your clit roughly, and your back arches off the mattress, your chest pressing against his.

“No idea how much I wanted you…” You trail off as his cock pounds into you. He’s still stretching you out, still working you open.

Logan moans your name, his cock throbbing at your words. “Wanted to fuck you that first night you came in here,” he whispers at the shell of your ear. “Wanted you before that too. Knew I needed you the second I saw you.”

The confession rocks through you. You think of all those nights spent next to Logan, all those stolen moments. He wanted you—needed you the whole time.

“Lo,” you hiccup, his fingertips swirling your clit, his hips rocking against yours. He sinks deep inside, again and again, pumping in and out. Your walls flutter around his cock, dragging him in deeper.

“Fuck, pretty girl,” he groans, sliding out and plunging back in. “Squeezing me so good, taking me so well.”

Tears brim in the corners of your eyes at the pure pleasure drumming through your bones. You know you’re close, know you’re almost unraveling underneath him. Logan flicks your clit, drawing hard, rough strokes around the bud. You’re on fire, and you’re burning for him.

“Logan I-I…” You stumble around your words, unable to form a coherent sentence as he pounds into you. Your walls flutter around him again, and his cock twitches inside you at the feeling.

He groans, your name on his tongue like a prayer. “I know you’re close, pretty girl.” He throbs inside you, and you know he’s almost there too. “Wanna make you come again,” he grunts, pulling out and pumping back in. “Know you have another one in you, sweetheart.”

He’s right. You can’t hold on much longer, but you want this moment to last. You want to feel his cock dragging along your walls, filling you up, splitting you open. You want his chest flush against yours. You want to feel the way he bites your lip and sucks away the sting he leaves behind. You want it all—all of him—and you don’t just want it right now. You don’t want this to be a fleeting moment. You want it to be forever.

“Come on, beautiful,” Logan pants, his pace faltering, his hips stuttering. He twitches inside you again. “Fuck, you feel so good.” He strokes your clit, drawing those quick circles into the bud. “Let go for me. Know you want to,” he breathes, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words overwhelm you, and you let go. It’s all more forceful this time, more powerful, your body trembling, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as wave after wave of pleasure tears through your body. It feels like blinding, searing heat, spreading like a forest fire.

Logan is right behind you, moaning your name, his cock throbbing against your walls. “Gonna fill you up, pretty girl,” he husks, his chest heaving. You whisper a soft, pleading yes. “Fuck, gonna make you mine,” he moans. His cock throbs again, and then he’s spilling inside you, filling you with his release.

His fingers rub gentle strokes into your clit, his cock slowly pumping in and out before stilling inside you. His fingers slip away from your clit, his hand traveling up your body, and rolling you over so that you’re side by side, facing each other. He pulls you into his chest, his cock still deep inside you.

Logan’s arms wrap around your back, caressing your bare skin, tracing patterns and shapes with his fingertips. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head as you bury your face into his chest.

“Wanna stay inside you,” he mumbles against your hair. “Wanna keep you close.”

“You can,” you whisper, your heart hammering. “Wanna stay close, too.”

He presses another kiss to your head. “I’m not going anywhere,” Logan soothes, his fingers running up and down your spine. “Gonna want you forever.”

You lift your head to look up at him, his eyes immediately meeting yours. “Forever?” You ask, but you know it’s a dumb question. You know he’s telling the truth.

He smiles and nods. “Would’ve waited for you forever,” he says, pausing, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Never felt this way before, pretty girl. Never felt this real, this perfect. Don’t wanna let you go.”

“Don’t,” you whisper into the darkness of his room. “Please.”

“I won’t,” he coos, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I won’t.”

His breathing steadies, and you listen to him like you do every night. Your eyes flutter shut, and you drift off to sleep with Logan’s cock deep inside you.

Forever. You think as your mind goes quiet and sleep drags you under. Forever.

Everlong.

tags: @ricefordays-blog1 @galacticglitterglue @silversprings-mp3 @alsoprettyinpink @figsnpassionfruits @spiderset @prettyseaveins @ilysmdovie12 @starrdustss @wittyjasontodd @pedrohoe04 @fanfic-writing-barbie @evasmlp @derbygracie @cosmiccandydreamer @honeyfewr @movhoney @manipulatour @rammakela *I am so sorry if I forgot to tag you*

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evie-sturns · 4 months ago

Text

suit - Chris Sturniolo

summary: Chris has a wedding he has to get to, but he just looks too good in his suit that you just need to take him before he leaves.

contains: smut, soft dom!chris, stomach bulge, fluff, quick sex, bathroom sex.

-----------------------------------------------------------

5:47pm

chris walks into the living room with a giddy smile on his face, adjusting his tie as he gives you a little spin.

"wooww, somebody looks dapper!" you grin teasingly, standing up off the couch and walking over to him.

he laughs, "matt had to help me tie this stupid thing." he scoffs, adjusting the black silk tie around his neck.

"you look so good though! i didn't know you even owned a damn suit." i giggle, adjusting the fabric around his shoulders.

"thank you thank you." he smiles, giving you a stupid wink as he tries to act proper.

"when do you have to head off?" i ask, my tone slightly quieter now as i drag my nails down his blazer, the fabric loosely hanging over his waist.

"like, 12 minutes." he says, checking his phone,

i give him a small smirk, the room going quiet.

he stares at me in silence, his arms folded over his chest.

"what do you want?" he asks, chuckling softly as i just continue to smile up at him.

"mmm, you knoww.." i shrug,

i can see it click in brain what i really want, how couldn't i? he just looks so good in his suit.

"when i'm home yeah? we don't have enough time." he whispers, pecking a kiss to my lips.

i shake my head, crossing my leg as i clench my thighs together, trying to soothe the ever-growing ache between my legs.

"please chris, i need it now." i whisper, staring up at him through my lashes with my big round eyes.

"i cant- matt and nick are waiting for me.." chris says, scratching the nape of his neck.

"just- just come." i whisper, grabbing his hand.

i silently pull him down the hallway to the bathroom, opening the door quietly before locking it.

"baby- seriously.." he whispers, hes trying to deny it, but i can see the hunger in his eyes as his eyes travel down my body, looking at the tight tanktop which hugs my curves just perfectly.

i drop down to my knees, fiddling with his belt buckle as i gently slide it off.

"please chris..?" i smile up at him, my tongue darting out to lick my lips.

"fine.. fine- we gotta be real quick though." he sighs,

my grin only grows as i unbutton his pants and slide them down his legs,

he's left standing in his black calvin klein boxers, an obvious tent forming.

i tug them down his legs aswell, his semi-hard erection springing out.

i take him in my hand, my fingers barely able to close around his girth,

he shakes his head, grabbing my hand and pulling me up off my knees.

"don't have enough time for that baby." he whispers, his voice hoarse and croaky.

he lifts me up and sits me on the counter, his hands instantly going for the waistband of my shorts and tugging them off.

he tuts, "no panties f'me?" he grins,

my cheeks heat up as i nod, "sorry.."

"'nah, don't gotta apologise for that sweetheart." he mutters, dragging a finger through my folds.

i let out a sharp gasp,

on a normal day, chris would tease me until im on the verge of tears, but today, he has to be quick.

"gonna be real quiet for me?" he asks softly, positioning his tip with my leaking hole.

i nod frantically, "yes- yes chris, promise." i mumble,

he suddenly slams his cock into me, i feel every single inch enter me at an ungodly pace.

he doesn't waste time to start thrusting, hard.

despite my earlier promise about being quiet, its pratically impossible now, i let out loud moans. his tip is abusing my cervix, his cock showing through my belly.

"oh baby, feel me right there?" he whispers, dragging his cold fingers over my tummy.

i nod with a strangled cross between a whine and a moan,

chris instantly shoves two fingers in my mouth.

thats hot.

my moans are muffled and almost silenced by his long fingers resting on my tongue, i close my eyes as i grip the counter top for dear life, the force of his thrusts nearly making me shift off.

"hurry up baby, gotta cum for me." he mutters under his breath, shifting his spare hand down to my clit,

he rubs quick circles on my clit, i feel my whole abdomen tightening as my orgasm rapidly approaches.

my head falls forward onto chris's shoulder, biting down on the fabric in a weak attempt to silence myself.

"good girll.. so good." he whispers into my ear,

i finally tip over the edge, my stomach dropping as i clench around his cock, i bite down on his shoulder hard as i orgasm, hard.

he thrusts into me a few more times before burying his cock deep, his release spilling out inside of me.

he quickly slides out of me, both of us panting as we lock eyes.

his cheeks are now flushed and his hair is messy, but he still looks somewhat presentable.

"you- you okay?" he asks, dragging his middle finger through my folds and pushing his cum back inside of me.

i gasp with a nod,

he reaches down and checks his phone,

"shit baby, matt and nick are waiting for me in the car, i gotta go." he mumbles, tugging up his boxers and suit pants, fastening the belt around his hips.

i let out a small groan in response,

"im sorry sweetie- dont wanna have to leave you here all messy but i literally cannot be any more late." he sighs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

he goes to turn away but i stop him.

"wait-" i giggle,

he turns back to look at me,

i call him over as i stare at his shoulder,

his blazer shoulder his completely damp from my pathetic attempts to muffle them on it,

i reach out and wipe the fabric free of my spit, "sorry." i grin

chris laughs, "you're good, it was better than you screaming out into the house and alerting matt and nick that im indeed not taking a shit."

i giggle loudly, "youre grossss."

"youre gross!! you've got my 'fuckin cum leaking down your legs."

------

@sturnsdoll @obvisturns @stupid4sturniolo @meerkatzthings @witchofthehour @rosalierenee43 @gabrielle-brun1 @ilovemymannnnnnnn @sturnioloxlver @buckys-goodgirl @sturniol0s @ilovemymannnnnnn n @chr1sgirl4life @luanetaluenta @sturnsssbow w @mattfangirl girl @luvr4miya @luvtay111 @lolasturniolo @freshloveforthefit @ruedowney @lovingchrissposts @333michelle e @h3arts4harry @jamiesturniolo o @chrisstopherfilmed @ @daddyslilchickenfingers2 @ev3rgreenxtrees @certifiednatelover er @solarsturniolo larsturniolo lo @mattsenthusiast t @yomamaslays4lyfe @peachmels @alinaa131 @pepsiluvr0209 @creamoncreamoncream2 @szobofc @mattscoquette e @blahbell668 @sturniolo04 @bitchydragonparadise @sturni0l0tripletzz @ratatioulle @sturnsfav @mattsonlybitch @justalittle47 @sunsetsturniolos @sturniolo04 @similartokayyz @sturnsintrouble @ilovemattsturn @raysmayhem-72 @75sturn @sturniol0s @secret-sturniolo @hfkeclnendmwodne @sturniolosass @gxldenlush @stonermattsgf @101saroona a @beccaluvschris @oliviasturniolo21 1 @imwetforyourmom @tylerstacobell @sunsetsturniolos @aliceloveschris @jayz4dayz 4 @sassysturniolo2008 @nyktoxs-lover r @nathandoesgf @starsturns234 @chrissturnsss s @joemamaaa42069 @sturnthepot @zayyluvz @realuvrrr @livialifesblog @sturnioloblogs @riowritesitall john @raysmayhem-72

#sturniolo #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #nick sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturiolo fanfic #the sturniolo triplets #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo

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bi-writes · 10 months ago

Note

simon being protective of his mail order bride scratches all the right spots in my brain.

mail-order bride

you're almost relieved when you hear the knock at the door. you've been a holding a tree pose for a few minutes too long, and the girl hosting the online yoga class is starting to fry your eardrums with her too-perky voice.

you're sweating bullets, and her hair hasn't moved a fucking inch out of her ponytail.

you mute the television, wiping your forehead before making your way to the front door. you open it with a sigh, not really knowing what you expected to see, but it certainly wasn't the average-dressed man standing on the steps there.

you blink, raising a brow when his eyes roam over you, and you realize suddenly that you're wearing workout clothes, which is showing off a little more than you'd like to some rando standing on your doorstep.

"uh..." you look around a little. "i'm sorry, can i help you?"

he smiles. it's a little unnerving.

"right, yeah, i'm starting a business around here, and i wanted to ask if you've been needing any help with any fixtures around the house. i'm giving a 50% discount if you give me a rating on google."

you open your mouth for a moment, frowning.

"uhm..." you shake your head, "sorry. we don't need any help right now."

"you live here alone? sometimes it's hard to spot when the electric's on the piss, y'know? need a keen eye," he laughs, coming up one of the steps. you shake your head again.

"no, thanks."

he's a wiry man, but he's tall (not taller than your husband, but taller than you). you step back a little and start to close the door. he comes up the steps. out of the corner of your eye, you see the cat slip out between your legs, hissing a little as the distance closes between you and the man.

"wait! can i give you my contact info? i don't have a card, but i can leave you my--"

the sound of simon's truck pulling into the garage gets both of you to look behind. simon doesn't even park all the way inside. he throws the truck door open, stepping out of it, and the man on your steps moves back away from you immediately, making his way off the little porch.

simon looks huge, more so than ever. his steps are heavy, boots hitting the ground like a warning bell, and he's wearing just a short-sleeved shirt that's showing off those glorious fucking arms. you have never doubted simon's strength, but he looks like he could flip a car with the anger that's leaving him in heavy waves. you're surprised that you are not afraid; you just know somehow that simon won't touch you.

"oi!" simon yells, and the man definitely understands he picked the wrong fucking house to be a creepy salesman at when his knees nearly buckle as he tries to walk away. "where the fuck do y'think y'r goin', you twat?"

you sigh deeply, not realizing how much you were shaking until you notice your hands trembling around the doorknob. you watch as simon catches the guy by his dirty jean jacket, nearly lifting him completely off his feet as he drags him towards the fence gate.

"hey! hey! i didn't do anything!"

"i saw ya, ya fuckin' arse, know exactly wot the fuck y'were doin'," simon growls, tossing him onto the sidewalk. he hits the pavement with a cry, holding onto his arm, and simon slams the fence gate closed before pointing at him accusingly. "'f i ever see ya anywhere near m'fuckin' house or even askin' m'wife for so much as fuckin' directions, i'll cut y'r bloody prick off, y'hear?"

you blink as simon comes closer, the cat retreating back into the house once they see him. he keeps walking, crowding you back into the house before he shuts and locks the front door. his chest is heaving, black t-shirt doing nothing to hide the puff of his chest and how large he makes himself when he stands up to other men. he doesn't even need to make himself larger; simon takes up enough space for two men combined.

"he touch you?" simon asks, his voice low. you see his fists clench, and you have no doubt that if you said yes, simon would go outside and paint the pavement a new color with the man's face.

you shake your head frantically, and he lets out a deep breath, reaching up and wrapping a hand around the back of your head and pulling you close.

he bends, pressing his masked forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he breathes in slowly. he rubs at the nape of your neck, soothing you, and you smile when he pulls away, giving him those big eyes that say thank you, thank you, thank you.

simon cocks his head, staring behind you, and you turn with him to see the cat blinking slowly at the two of you from it's place on the windowsill.

"should get you a fucking guard dog instead," simon mutters, pulling his mask off and kicking his boots into the corner. you smile as he walks away, trying to cool your warm cheeks with the backs of your hands.

doesn't he know you already have one?

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #order up

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fushigurosluvr · 3 months ago

Text

“shh, baby. you can take it, i know you can.” your hands are desperately clawing at the sheets, knuckles turning white as you clutched the soft fabric beneath them. your throat was hoarse from all the sounds katsuki had pulled from you since you walked in the door.

“katsuuu…s’too much.” this only seemed to spur your husband on even more, tongue messily circling your clit before dropping down to softly poke at your sopping hole. if anybody could see him now, pro-hero dynamight, on his knees for his pretty little wife, they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. “c’mon, sweets, i had a rough day. you wanna make me happy don’t you?” you nodded, whines being tugged from your throat as his fingers began to poke at your entrance.

“my pretty wife. always so good for me.”

katsuki always spouted pussydrunk nonsense when he was eating you out. something about wrapping his lips around your puffy little clit always made his brain short-circuit. “you’re getting tighter, sweets. y’gonna cum?” your hands weaved themselves into his hair, perfectly manicured nails scratching at his scalp and pulling him further into your pussy. “p-please, sukiii.”

he chuckled, the vibration sending a shock straight to your core, pushing you over the edge right as his lips wrapped around your clit, tongue flicking over the bud in both the best and the worst way. your body began convulsing, fingers tightening in his blonde locks, keeping his face pressed desperately in your heat as you rode out your orgasm.

“c’mere, baby. come gimme a kiss.” you lifted your head slightly for his lips to capture yours, letting out a moan as his tongue slipped into your mouth. he always made you taste yourself, no matter if it was a quickie or an all nighter.

you gasped as you felt the head of his cock slowly drag itself through your sopping folds, before tapping seductively on your little bud. “y’didnt think we were done, did ya?” your eyes widened, finding yourself transfixed on the cocky smirk spread across his face. “just lay back and look pretty, sweets. let me take care of my gorgeous wife.”

#x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo mha #katsuki x you #katsuki x y/n #mha #mha x reader #mha bakugou #mha fanfiction #smut #katsuki bakugo smut

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geminiwritten · 3 months ago

Text

could be me ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you've been in love with rooster since you were a kid, but a few years ago your father threatened to ruin rooster's career if you didn't get over your stupid crush and find an honourable man - so you date assholes to protect rooster, but it's getting harder to stay away from the boy you're in love with (loosely inspired by this song)

notes: okay, i admit defeat!!! i am in love with this man and it is consuming my life! i was so excited to write this, but i rewrote it and rewrote it, and it still doesn't feel right :( i hope it isn't too awful, but i promise i'm going to write something perfect for this boy, because wow, i love him... please let me know what you think! good or bad, i love feedback!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship/s (nothing detailed or major), negative father / daughter relationship, one brief mention of 'offing oneself', very little and most likely incorrect knowledge about the us navy, and some generally poor writing i'm sorry

word count: 10597

“That guy sucks,” Mickey mutters into the mouth of his beer bottle.

The whole squad is jammed into a booth on the beach-side of The Hard Deck bar, their necks craned and eyes fixed on the large blond man towering over their best friend at one of the tall tables beside the jukebox.

“He’s so rude,” Natasha states, “and cold.”

The only one not blatantly staring across the bar is Bradley. He’s too busy picking at the soggy label on his half-drunk beer and sulking. The corners of his mouth have been turned down from the moment you walked through the door with that hulking mass of man muscle by your side.

“Rooster,” Reuben says, nudging his friend’s side and knocking him out of his imaginary pity party.

Bradley glances up, “Hm?”

“Move, I need to get another drink.”

Realising why he had been feeling pressure on his right side, Bradley sighs and slides out of the booth, allowing his friend to shuffle across to freedom.

“Do you want a drink?” Reuben asks.

Bradley shakes his head and slumps back into the booth, returning his attention to the beer bottle’s label.

“Why is she with him?” Mickey asks, his brows furrowed.

“He’s got money,” Bradley replies dryly, “and rank.”

Natasha shoots him a scowl. “Come on, Rooster. Y/N’s not that shallow.”

Bradley scoffs, “You want to bet?”

Her brown eyes glance toward you, watching as your hand grips the thick forearm of the blond boy toy standing over you. She grimaces and shakes her head. “No, not really.”

“Exactly,” Bradley sighs, leaning back in the booth and finally dragging his eyes up to look at his friends. “Her dad has high standards and apparently dating some stupid commander with more bicep than brain and more money than manhood is her idea of being the perfect daughter.”

“You sound jealous,” Jake states, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

Bradley snorts a laugh, though there’s no amusement behind it. It’s dry. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Hangman?”

Before Jake can answer the rhetorical question, Mickey pipes up. “Who’s her dad, again?”

Natasha sighs, turning her head to face him. “The admiral,” she replies, “you know, Cyclone’s superior.”

“Shit, that’s right,” Mickey says. “He’s terrifying.”

Reuben returns to the table with wide eyes, gingerly setting four beers on the table before ushering at Bradley to scootch further into the booth. “Oh, my God,” he says as he sits down. “I just asked Y/N if she wanted to join us, and that dude basically growled at me.”

“Gross,” Natasha mutters, before taking a generous swig of her fresh beer.

“I did catch his name, though,” Reuben adds. “Johnny.”

Bradley scoffs, “Johnny.”

The squad spend the better part of the next hour making fun of the man whose arm is draped across your shoulders, all but Bradley. He’s too busy scratching the label off his beer bottle and shoving all thoughts of you and your newest Ken Doll out of his mind.

Across the bar, you pinch the stem of your wine glass between your thumb and forefinger and start moving it in small circles, making the yellowish liquid swirl. You hate white wine, but Johnny doesn’t seem to recall you mentioning that on your date last week. His arm is heavy on your shoulders, compressing your spine and making your neck ache as you try to maintain a decent posture on the uncomfortably high stool. You’ve never liked sitting at the tall bar tables, you prefer a booth.

It takes all your self-control not to gaze across the bar to where you’d rather be. It wasn’t that you hadn’t expected your friends to be in their usual booth at The Hard Deck on a Saturday afternoon, but when Johnny asked you to get drinks with him and meet his friends, you’d still hoped they wouldn’t be here. Especially Bradley.

You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since you were ten years old. He was the first boy to ever make your heart skip a beat, and the only one you’ve ever truly fallen in love with. Not that you’ll willingly admit that last part to anyone but your own reflection, and even then, you need a considerable amount of liquid courage to do so.

When your father, the admiral, was assigned to assist in overseeing the TOPGUN programme at MCAS Miramar, he moved your family to San Diego, right next door to the Bradshaws. Your mother and Carole Bradshaw became quick and close friends, and you soon learnt all about Bradley’s late father and the man who had since stepped in to help raise Bradley.

Your father wasn’t subtle about disliking the Bradshaws, or more specifically, Pete Mitchell, but your mother couldn’t have cared less. You spent most of your weekends and summer days with Bradley, since your mothers were practically inseparable, and the same was soon said for the two of you. It didn’t matter that Bradley was a few years older, you simply matchedeach other’s energies. Soulmates, Carole would say.

Years passed and you both grew, but your crush never wavered. You were there the day his mother passed away, and the day he sent his application in to the Naval Academy. You were also there the day he found out that it was Pete who pulled his papers, and if you close your eyes and think back hard enough, you can still hear the screaming and shouting.

It got a little complicated after that. Bradley decided that he was going to study at UVA for the four years before he could reapply to the academy, and despite your heart’s protests, you helped him pack and promised to look after his family’s home while he was gone. Without the honey-eyed boy next door to spend all your time with, you focused on school and growing up. Bradley would call every now and then, mostly to let your mom know that he was doing okay, but he didn’t visit for two whole years.

It was the year you turned eighteenth that everything changed. You were in your front yard, wearing your favourite red bathing suit and trying to water the poor, sunburnt flowers back to life. When Bradley turned the Bronco into his driveway, he nearly drove right through the garage door, slamming the brakes on just in time. His jaw popped open and his eyes almost fell out of his head as he stared at you bopping along to whatever music was playing in your headphones.

It took you more than a minute to notice the car in the driveway next door, but once you did you dropped the hose and ran across the lawn, jumping over the short fence that divided your yards. Bradley didn’t move until you wrenched the driver’s side door open and asked if he was okay, and he certainly was not okay when you wrapped your arms around him and pressed your scantily clad body against his.

After that, he visited a lot more. Every break he could, he would fly across the country to see you, and if he couldn’t come to San Diego, you would fly to him. The two of you gave ‘inseparable’ a whole new meaning. You spoke every day, sent each other letters and packages containing thoughtful presents or silly gifts, and whenever you could, you would video chat for hours on end. There wasn’t a single day that went by that you didn’t feel a tug in your gut toward the boy across the country who you were head over heels in love with.

Eventually, he reapplied and was accepted into the Naval Academy. You were happy for him, of course, but the bubble in which you were living had to pop at some point. It was harder to see him while he was in the academy, and even harder when graduated and got deployed, but the hardest part was not knowing where he was.

One morning, when you were on your way out the door to work, your father stopped you. He told you that Bradley had been accepted into the TOPGUN programme and would be moving back to San Diego for a while, but the look on his face was a stark contrast to the excitement on yours. It was that morning that really burst your bubble. You’d created this imaginary little world where Bradley would eventually come home to you, kiss you, and tell you that it’s always been you, but your father wasn't going to let that happen.

He lectured you for twenty minutes about the fact that Bradley Bradshaw is not good enough for you. He told you that he’s been holding it in for long enough, because your mother had begged him not to interfere with your life and your choices, but he can’t take it anymore. He said that Bradley is a flighty boy from a mixed-up family, raised by a dishonourable man, and he isn’t wealthy or worthy enough for you. He told you to let go of your stupid crush and find an honourable who could make you happy, or else he would ruin Bradley’s career.

Any sane person would have told him to fuck off, but you were too young and too scared, and you loved Bradley too damn much to risk something he’s worked so hard for. So you simply nodded and slipped out the door, spending the next few weeks avoiding your father and mourning the loss of a relationship that never was.

It was about that time that you started dating assholes. You couldn’t live in a world without Bradley, but you had to protect him, so you always had an honourable commander or captain on your arm to distract your father. You stayed close with Bradley, even when he flew off around the world again. When he was called back to TOPGUN for a special detachment, you were over the moon, and everything seemed to fall into place after the uranium mission. The dagger squadron became a permanent unit based on North Island, and you quickly became friends with the whole group.

After years of distance and uncertainty, everything feels good. That is, except for your shitshow of a love life that is getting harder to maintain as you juggle keeping your father happy while also trying to assure your friends that you’re not a clinical masochist who enjoys toxic relationships.

“Babe,” Johnny’s voice knocks you back into reality. “You good?”

You blink a few times, trying to refocus on the man sitting beside you instead of the waves out the window. “Sorry,” you say. “Just daydreaming.”

He chuckles. “What could you possibly have to daydream about when I’m sitting right here.”

Your eyes betray you, casting their gaze across the bar toward your friends, landing on the boy with the golden-brown hair. Johnny sighs, as if exasperated by you. “If you want to go see your little friends so badly, then go.”

You force yourself to shake your head. “Don’t be silly. I’m here with you, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Except squished into that booth beside Bradley, breathing in his scent and feeling his thigh pressed firmly against your own.

Johnny smirks before leaning forward with puckered lips. You try not to seem awkward as you lean forward and give him a kiss, but you can’t help feeling uncomfortable under the hard stares of his friends.

“I’m just going to get another drink,” you say, slipping off the high bar stool. You hurry away from the table before he can point out that you haven’t touched your wine, beelining for the bathrooms.

Once safely in the fluorescent lit lavatory, you plant both hands on the vanity and stare at your red cheeks in the mirror. You’re not sure why, but it’s getting harder being with men like Johnny. It used to be easy to pretend, to flip your hair and bite your lip, and flirt until they believed that you were into them, but lately, all you can think about is Bradley.

His soft hair and tan skin. The way his mouth curls into a smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His broad shoulders, long legs, and the way that every move he makes is so sure. When you close your eyes, all you can see are his honey-brown irises staring back at you, making you blush even when you’re miles apart. It’s like there’s a rope anchored in your gut and the other end is tied to Bradley. It used to be loose and languid, giving and taking as needed, but now its taut. One end of the rope is being wound up, pulling you into his orbit whether you like it or not. You worry that one day you’re going to wake up unable to breathe without him near you.

“Fuck,” you sigh, smacking your left hand on the vanity. “This is ridiculous.” You look up at your reflection, raising your right hand to point at the mirror. “Pull yourself together.”

You wash your hands and fix your hair before exiting the bathroom. You keep your eyes trained on your destination as you walk toward the bar, finding a vacant space to lean your forearms against the dark wood.

“Hey gorgeous,” Penny says with a soft smile.

“Hey Penny, could I just get the usual, please?”

She laughs lightly. “Of course. I was a bit worried when I saw that commander hand you a white wine.”

You breathe a half-assed laugh through your nose. “He’s still in training.”

She grabs a beer from the fridge behind the bar before turning back to you with a knowing smirk. “Well, I don’t see why you keep fostering these disobedient dogs when you have a perfectly well-trained puppy at home.”

You frown, tilting your head as your mind races to decode the metaphor. Only when she glances over at the booth of your friends and back to you does it click.

Your eyes widen. “Penny!”

She laughs again before adding, “And that is a cute puppy, if I don't say so myself.”

You roll your lips to stop yourself from grinning, because yes, Bradley is an adorable puppy and you would love nothing more than to take him home with you. “Thanks for the beer, Penny,” you say before she turns away to serve another patron.

You take a long swig from the bottle before weaving your way back through the bar to Johnny and his friends. The night wears on, and you try as hard as you can to remember how to pretend but you just can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Bradley every few minutes. You know Johnny is getting annoyed too, you’re just glad that he can discern exactly which one of your friends it is who’s stealing your attention.

"Alright,” Johnny says, pushing off his stool. “Let’s get out of here.”

Your eyes snap back to him and you nod. “I just want to say hi to my friends first.”

“Whatever,” he sighs. “I’m going to take a leak.”

You watch him walk across the bar and wait until the bathroom door closes behind him to roll your eyes. You slip off the stool and quickly squeeze through the groups of people standing between you and your friends, the grin on your face growing the closer you get.

“Hey!” Natasha greets you first, her face lighting up.

Your eyes scan the familiar faces of your friends. “Hi.”

The last to look up at you is Bradley, but the moment his honey-brown eyes meet yours, the corners of his lips start to curl up. You could never get tired of seeing that smile.

Mickey gasps dramatically. “Rooster, is that a smile?”

Reuben snorts a laugh. “I didn’t know your face made that expression.”

“Shut up,” Bradley mutters, flipping his friends the bird from where his hand is resting on the tabletop.

“Anyway,” Natasha says, turning from the boys to you. “How are you?”

You drag your eyes away from Bradley. “I’m good. Sorry I didn’t come over earlier. I was meeting some of Johnny’s friends for the first time and it was a bit awkward.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “We’re kind of glad you didn’t bring your new Ken doll over here.”

“Which model is this?” Mickey asks with a cheeky grin.

Reuben chuckles. “Ken on Steroids, comes with his own syringe.”

Laughter rumbles through your friends, and once again you roll and rub your lips together to stop yourself from joining in. You can’t let them know that you intentionally date douchebags, because then there will be more questions than you’re willing to answer and you're already struggling to keep those skeletons inside their closet.

“Very funny,” you sigh, before glancing over your shoulder. “I should go, but I’ll see you guys-”

“Babe!” Johnny hollers across the bar, earning a lot of confused looks. “Hurry up!”

You want to close your eyes and sink into the floor, totally embarrassed and utterly fed up with this stupid, disobedient dog. But when you glance back at your friends and your eyes easily find Bradley’s, you remember why you’re doing it.

You plaster on a smile. “Sorry, guys. I’ll see you later.”

You barely hear their goodbyes as you turn and hurry through the bar toward the door. You can’t help your body from recoiling when Johnny wraps an arm around you, but you play it off by pretending to be cold. The walk to his car is silent, as is the first half of the drive, until he takes two wrong turns in a row and you realise that he isn’t driving toward your house.

“Which way are you going?” you ask.

His Cartier bracelet twinkles under the passing streetlights. “What do you mean?”

“My place is back that way.”

He sighs and shifts a little in his seat, reaching out the Cartier arm to place a hand on your thigh. “I thought you could stay at mine tonight.”

“Oh.” Your stomach swirls nauseously. “I’m actually not feeling too well, I think I should-”

“Again?” he snaps.

You take a deep breath, your hand itching to find the door handle. “Yeah, again. I probably need to go to the doctors.”

The car screeches to a halt and your body strains against the seatbelt. “Good idea,” he says. “Why don’t you go right now?”

You frown. “Now?”

He nods at the door, and only then do you realise that your hand is gripping the handle. His face is cast in shadow and streetlight, making him look more menacing than he really is. You know he only acts tough, but you’re still not willing to push it given his significant size advantage over you.

You pop the door open. “Fine.”

You’ve barely got two feet on the asphalt before he hits the gas and takes off again, speeding down the dark street and leaving you behind.

“Fuck.”

You glance around and try to find something familiar. You might have grown up here, but you definitely don’t know the area as well as you should. You know your usual places and the direct routes to and from those places, but right now you’re standing on a street you’re fairly sure you’ve never been on before. It also doesn’t help that it’s dark, because everything is different in the dark.

You pull your phone out and open your maps, using two fingers to twist and turn the map on the screen until you can figure out how far off your usual route Johnny had driven. He lives further from the base and the bar than you do, in some schmancy mansion he inherited from his parents that you hope never to see in person.

“Fuck,” you groan again. The little blue dot showing your location is a good ten miles from either the bar or your house, and you’re definitely not doing a trek like that in the middle of the night.

You flick away the maps app and pull up Uber, your thumb hovering over the location box where you should type your home address and hit enter, but you can’t stop thinking about Bradley. Even the thought of him has an effect on you now, making your insides mushy and your brain foggy. The tug in your gut has you wandering across the street in the general direction that The Hard Deck would be, and you switch from the Uber app to your contacts list. You scroll to the top where your favourites are pinned and tap on Bradley’s name without a second thought.

It only rings once. “Hello?”

“Bradley,” you say, relief washing through you.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you guys still at the bar?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “What happened?”

You lean against the nearest streetlight, guilt and anticipation warring inside of you. “You can say no, but I’m kind of lost.”

“Hang on,” he mutters. You can hear shuffling and distant voices, then the squeak of a door and the background noise dies down. “What do you mean you’re lost?”

“It’s a long story,” you sigh, “but like I said, you can say no-”

“Where are you?” he demands. “I’m coming to get you.”

Your chest aches. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, and then the background noise returns. There’s music and chatter, and you can hear the jingle of keys while Bradley quickly explains himself to the squad.

Then there’s Mickey’s voice, loud and clear. “Go, Prince Charming! Go!”

“Fuck off,” Bradley mutters, and you can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up your throat.

There’s another few seconds of music and chatter before you hear a car door slam, and then it’s so quiet you can hear Bradley’s heavy breathing. “You still there?” he asks.

“Haven’t been kidnapped yet.”

He sighs. “Please don’t joke about that.”

You shift your shoulder against the light pole, trying to ignore the excitement in your stomach. “Don’t worry, they’d bring me back pretty quickly.”

Bradley chuckles dryly. “Not before I found you and killed them.”

Your heart thumps heavily in your chest, feeling swollen and ready to burst. “Why would you kill them?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

Maybe you are a masochist.

“Because I don’t like it when people take what’s mine,” he replies.

Your stomach does a somersault, and you wait for a laugh or a chuckle, but it doesn’t come. Bradley is dead serious right now, and somehow, he's managed to make you horny from ten miles away.

You clear your throat. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It looks like you’re near the old fire station.”

You pull the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker before flicking out of the call screen and tapping on the ‘Find My’ app. Bradley’s contact photo is floating on the map a small distance from your little blue dot, moving closer. You shared your locations with each other a few years ago, mostly because you wanted to see where Bradley was in the world, but it’s come in handy more than a few times. Like right now, for example.

“Thanks for doing this, by the way.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “But you do have to tell me why.”

You frown, still watching his location. “Why what?”

“Why you’re suddenly stranded when I saw you leave with your boyf-” He hesitates and clears his throat. “Your boy toy.”

You sigh and roll your head back, staring up at the dark sky for a moment before looking back down at Bradley’s slowly moving contact photo. “We had a bit of an argument and-”

“And he kicked you out of his car and left you?”

“No, no, he-” Now you hesitate. “Well, yes, technically, but putting it like that sounds bad.”

“Because it is bad!” Bradley exclaims.

You take a deep breath of cold night air before sighing it out. “I know.”

A moment of silence stretches into a couple of minutes, but neither of you hang up the phone. You know it’s for safety, in case the worst were to happen, but you also like to hear Bradley’s soft breathing. As creepy as that might sound. It’s comforting to know that he’s there and he’s on his way. He might even be mad at you for being stupid and dating an asshole, but he could never let his anger get in the way of your safety.

“Are you speeding?” you ask him.

“Um, no?”

You scoff. “Okay, that was convincing.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? My best friend stranded in the middle of nowhere at midnight.”

Friend. You roll your eyes. “You’re supposed to make sure you get to her safely.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

You frown. “How did you know?”

He chuckles. “Because I know you.”

Your pulse thrums harder, filling your ears and making your breath come and go in quick gasps. You don’t know what to say, because it's true. He knows you, better than you know yourself sometimes, and that makes you wonder if he knows exactly what you’re hiding from him.

“I think I see you,” he says.

Your eyes snap up toward the headlights that appear half a mile down the street. “I think I see you too.”

Your heart beats faster the closer he gets, and you wait until you can clearly recognise the front of the Bronco before hanging up your call. The car rolls to a stop in front of you, and Bradley ducks his head to look at you from the driver’s side. “Need a ride?”

He is fucking breathtaking. All golden-brown tousles and soft eyes, his lips perfectly kissable and his cheeks a little flushed.

“Mom told me not to get in strangers’ cars.”

His face breaks into a grin, and you’re pretty sure your heart stops altogether. “I have candy,” he says.

A giggle bubbles from your lips. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

You pull the door open and fall into the seat, his scent wrapping around you like a blanket. For the first time tonight, you feel safe.

“Hey,” you breathe out, staring at the boy beside you like he hung the moon. You’ve been looking at Bradley this way since you were ten years old, and sometimes you try to hide it, but after the night you’ve had, you can’t find the strength to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. “I’m a lot better now.”

The light inside the car is dim and his face is partially obscured by shadow, but you’re pretty sure you can see the colour in his cheeks deepen. You search each other’s eyes for a few too many seconds before he looks away, focusing on the street ahead as the car begins to roll forward.

The drive is silent, but not in the same way it had been with Johnny. This silence is thick with something unsaid, tangible and heavy as it hangs between the two of you. His right hand is resting on the gear stick out of habit, and your fingers itch to slide between his, feel his hot skin against yours in any way possible.

He clears his throat. “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

You sigh. “Do I have to?”

He glances at you and shrugs a shoulder. “No, but it might feel good to talk to a friend.”

Friend. You turn your gaze out the windscreen, focusing hard on the road ahead to avoid rolling your eyes. Maybe you should talk to someone about the shit you’re dealing with. It might be self-inflicted shit but at least complaining to someone about it might relieve some of the frustration.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you begin. “After about ten minutes of driving, I noticed that he’d taken a couple of wrong turns, so I asked where he was going, and he said I should spend the night at his house tonight.”

The steering wheel squeaks in Bradley’s tight grip.

“Are you sure you want me to tell you this?”

“Yes,” he replies, using a tone of voice that leaves no room for argument.

“Okay,” you sigh, turning back toward the road before continuing. “I told him that I didn’t feel well and just wanted to go home, but he got a little annoyed because I’ve been sick for the past couple of weeks.”

“You haven’t been sick,” Bradley states, brows furrowed.

"Well, not really, but-”

“So, you’ve been lying to him?”

Your stomach twists nervously. “I guess.”

Bradley nods slowly, his expression unreadable.

“Well, anyway,” you continue, “I said that maybe I need to go to see a doctor, so he stopped the car and told me to go right now.”

Silence envelopes you both again. The only indication you have that Bradley actually heard you is the way his knuckles are turning white as he grips the steering wheel. His face is stoic, his eyes fixed on the road but still distant. You know this look, it's the look he gets when he’s stuck in his thoughts.

You don’t want to interrupt him for the fear of being scolded. You know Bradley would never belittle you or tell you that you're stupid because of the decisions you make, but there’s no doubt that he’s mad at you for putting your own safety at risk.

He doesn’t speak until the car stops in the garage beneath his apartment block, and only then do you realise that he hadn’t driven you to your place. He moved here when the dagger squad got their permanent placements on North Island, after finally deciding to sell his family home.

“I’ll sleep on the lounge,” he says, pulling the key from the ignition. “You can have my bed.”

You hate the way your stomach squeezes at the idea of being in his bed. “Don’t be stupid, I’ll take the lounge.”

“No, you won’t.”

Before you can argue, he pops the door and steps out of the car. You quickly fall out of the passenger’s side and hurry after him, almost bumping into his broad back when he stops abruptly at the elevator.

“Bradley,” you sigh, standing at his side. “Please don’t give me the silent treatment.”

“I just spoke to you, didn’t I?”

You huff. “Well, yes, but I don’t like how you’re talking to me.”

He scoffs, his brows shooting up toward his hairline. “Oh! You don’t like how I’m talking to you?”

The elevator doors open and you both step inside. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He crosses his arms and leans against the back wall of the cabin. “I just think it’s funny how you let those men treat you like shit and talk to you like crap, but as soon as I don’t feel like being playful, then you’ve got a problem.”

You frown at him, your breath coming and going much faster than before as anger bubbles in your stomach. You’re not sure what to say, because how can you defend yourself against fact. Silence stretches until the elevator dings and the doors part.

“I’m just not like those other guys, am I?” he says, brushing past you as he steps out of the cabin.

You follow him, doubling his steps to keep up. “No, you’re not like them. You’re better.”

He jams the key into his apartment door and laughs bitterly. “Better but not good enough, right?”

He shoves the door open and stalks inside, leaving you to catch the heavy door for yourself. You follow him in, quickly kicking your shoes off in the hall before stepping into the kitchen after him. He stands on one side of the island, both large hands planted on the countertop. You stop on the opposite side, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Bradley, what the fuck?”

He stares down at the bench. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’re with them!” he exclaims, head snapping up. “Why do you deal with that? Why do you choose those guys when you could have anyone you fucking want?”

Your chest aches as your heart starts slowly tearing itself apart. “Bradley, please don’t-”

“You date these assholes that don’t give a fuck about you, but then when you need someone, when you’re scared or alone, you call me.” He pauses, his shoulders rising and falling with laboured breath. “Why?”

You close your eyes, wishing once again that the floor would open up and swallow you whole. But it doesn’t, so you open your eyes to meet his intense honey-brown gaze. “Because I know you’ve got me.”

“No, I don’t,” he snaps. “I thought I did once, but I know now that I never will.”

“Bradley-”

“I’m not mad,” he quickly adds, his features softening slightly. “I could never be mad at you, and I will always be there for you, but I need you to know that it kills me to see you with these guys.”

You want to ask why, because you’re a masochist and you want to hear him say it, but you can’t speak. Your throat is too thick and your emotions too wired. You knew this argument was inevitable, but you hadn’t expected it tonight. Maybe it’s not just yourself that you’ve pushed too far, maybe you’ve pushed the limits of your friendship too.

“I need sleep,” he mutters, dropping his gaze before turning toward the short hallway.

You watch him disappear into his room, feet anchored to the floor despite how hard that rope in your gut is trying to pull you toward him. You’ve never wanted to touch him more in your life, hold him and kiss him and tell him that you’ve only ever loved him, but you can’t. Your father might be busier these days and less of a threat to you, but he’s still a threat to Bradley’s career.

After a couple of minutes, he reemerges in a pair of grey sweats. Only grey sweats. You’ve seen Bradley shirtless more times than you can count, but you’re never ready for effect that it has on you.

“Bed’s all yours,” he says, throwing a pillow and a blanket onto the lounge.

You want to argue. You want to stomp your feet and tell him everything you’ve held back for years, and then you want him to kiss you and take you to bed where the two of you will stay for the next month. But you can’t, and you’re about to burst into tears.

You nod once before shuffling into his bedroom, shutting the door most of the way before turning to face the bed. When you see a pair of boxers and an old shirt laid out for you, the floodgates burst and tears stream down your cheeks despite your efforts to choke them back. Your throat aches and your nose stings, your vision blurred as you slowly peel your clothes off and wrap yourself in the comfort of Bradley’s.

You wonder if Bradley can hear you crying quietly as you crawl into his bed. The apartment isn’t very big, but you’ve done your best to suppress your sniffles as you washed your face in the ensuite bathroom. Your head hits the pillow and his scent overwhelms you, filling you with the most conflicting mix of sadness and horniness. You’ve been in Bradley’s bed plenty of times before, but not often sober and never after he just almost confessed to being in love with you.

Eventually, you fall asleep and have the best sleep you’ve had in years. You wake to the sound of your phone vibrating on the bedside table and startle when you see the time in the top left corner of the screen; it’s almost midday. You hang up on Johnny’s call, only to see ten missed calls from earlier in the morning and a ridiculous number of texts. You roll your eyes and throw the covers back, rushing out the bedroom door and into the lounge room.

Your heart sinks when you see the lounge is empty and the blankets are folded neatly on one end. There are no missed calls or messages on your phone from Bradley, but you can vaguely recall him making plans with the squad earlier in the week to go to the beach today. You go back into the bedroom and change into your own clothes, dropping your borrowed pyjamas in the hamper by the ensuite door before walking back into the main space.

You’re about to leave the apartment when a folded piece of paper on the kitchen island catches your eye. You snatch it and open it up, quickly reading Bradley’s scrawl.

Had to go. Coffee is fresh.

I’m sorry about last night, I overstepped.

You’ve always got me. I love you.

Breath catches in your throat and tears fill your eyes. You thought you’d cried yourself dry last night, but apparently not. It isn’t as if Bradley has never told you that he loves you. He’s said it before deploying and he’s said it to save himself after some particularly snarky jokes, and you’ve said it back, but this feels different. This feels like a confession.

“Fuck,” you mutter, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You shove the note into your pocket and continue toward the door, making sure it’s locked before it falls closed behind you.

It’s only a ten-minute walk to your place, and you quietly wonder if Bradley intentionally chose an apartment not far from yours. You wait impatiently as the elevator ascends to your floor, slipping through the doors the second they part and half jogging toward your apartment door. Once inside, you shower and pull on some clean clothes before running right back out the door.

Your mind races as you drive to the beach, trying to come up with the right words to say to Bradley. You don’t want to make it awkward, but you know you can’t leave last night unresolved. You would have to act normally in front of the squad, maybe pull him aside and tell him that you’re the one who's sorry. Or perhaps you should act like nothing has happened and text him later tonight.

You bounce back and forth between different ideas the entire drive. The only thing you do know is that you’re not going to take those last three words too seriously. Bradley loves you and he’s told you that before, this note is no different.

You slide your sunnies up your nose and scan the beach, easily spotting Javy’s broad frame and Jake bouncing around like an energetic border collie.

Mickey sees you first as you jog toward them. “Hey!” he calls, waving his arms like a maniac.

“Hey.” You’re a little breathless by the time you reach them, your eyes searching for Bradley amongst the bodies playing volleyball. “Where’s Rooster?”

“It’s nice to see you too,” Mickey chuckles. “He’s not here.”

You frown. “What?”

“Hey!” Natasha jogs up to you, abandoning the game. “Are you okay? Rooster told us you were stranded last night.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You push your sunnies to the top of your head. “It’s a long story but Rooster helped me out. Do you know where he is?”

She cocks her head, confusion written across her face. “He messaged the group chat this morning saying he couldn't come because he had to see Mav.”

“Mav,” you echo. “He’s at Maverick’s?”

Mickey nods. “As far as we know.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you quickly pull it out, letting out a sigh when you see Johnny’s name across the screen. You look back up at your friends. “I’ve got to go see him, so I’ll see you guys later.”

“Everything okay?” Natasha asks.

You nod. “Of course, I just need Bradley.”

You turn and start jogging back toward your car, your legs burning as your feet sink into the soft sand. The drive to Maverick’s isn’t long, but you have to remind yourself several times to slow down and not be stupid. Your stomach sinks when you can’t spot the Bronco parked anywhere nearby, but you still climb the front porch and knock on the door.

Only a few seconds pass before Maverick answers. “Y/N?”

“Hey Mav, I’m sorry to bug you but-”

“Are you okay?” he interrupts, concern painting his face.

“Yeah, why?”

He leans a shoulder against the door frame. “Well, Rooster told me what happened last night and you’re looking a little flustered right now. That Johnny guy isn’t giving you a hard time, is he?”

“Oh, no,” you reply. “I mean, he’s been calling, but I haven’t answered. I was actually just looking for Bra- uh, Rooster.”

Maverick hesitates for a moment, his eyes reading you like you’re an open book with size forty-eight print. Every emotion on your face so easily distinguishable.

“He’s not here,” he finally says. “He left a little while ago. Not sure where he was headed, though,”

You take a deep breath to try and wrangle your nerves. You need to calm the fuck down. “Did he say anything to you?”

“About what?”

“Last night.”

The tiniest of smirks lifts the corner of Mav’s mouth. “He said that asshole you’re dating kicked you out of the car and left you stranded.”

You nod once, brows raised as if asking for more.

“He also said that he might have overstepped a little.”

You lift your hands to your face and groan into them, frustration and anxiety seeping from every pore in your body.

“I’m going to ask again,” Maverick says. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head, face still hidden in your hands. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You hesitate, trying to think of all the consequences that could possibly come from telling Maverick your problems. When you finally pull your hands away, they’re wet with tears.

You sniffle, looking up at the captain. “Yes please.”

He steps aside and ushers you in, offering you drinks and snacks as he guides you through to the back patio. You take a seat in the most comfortable looking wicker chair and catch a whiff of Bradley’s cologne, which only causes more tears to fill your eyes.

Maverick quickly joins you with a pitcher of water and two cups, and a box of tissues. “I’m going to start charging you kids for these therapy sessions,” he sighs.

A wet laugh leaves your lips as you press a few tissues to your face. “Sorry Mav.”

He chuckles. “Don’t be.”

After a minute, you manage to calm down enough to tell Maverick everything, even though he already knows a lot of it. You tell him about the first time you saw Bradley, the first time you realised why you felt a certain way around him, and the first time you had a feeling Bradley might feel the same. You fill in all the gaps about your family that Maverick missed when he was flying in and out on assignments, and you tell him all about the years that he and Bradley didn’t speak. You even tell him about your father, how he never liked Maverick and later threatened you with ruining Bradley’s career.

By the time you finish, you feel so light you could float. You’ve stopped crying, and you realise now that all the weight on your chest had been put there by your father. The same father who hasn’t given you more than a minute of his attention since the day he told you not to go near Bradley Bradshaw.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Maverick sighs at the ground. He has his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands as he stares at the deck beneath his feet.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “My dad is a dick.”

He looks up, frowning. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because he had no reason not to like you, but he did anyway.”

He chuckles. “I’m not a stranger to being disliked, especially by admirals.”

You laugh softly before taking a long swig of water.

“You’re right about him being a dick, though,” he says. “The fact that he ever thought he could tell you who to date is the worst example of parenting I’ve ever heard.”

You laugh again, but it’s more of a snort.

“Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?” Mav asks. “What about your mum?”

You shrug. “I was scared, and I loved Bradley too damn much to risk anything.”

His lip lifts into a smirk. “Be that as it may, your father has no right to threaten Bradley’s career.”

“What do you mean?”

Maverick chuckles now, elbows still leaning on his knees as he clasps his hands together. “Do you think that I would still be here if one admiral was able to do completely derail someone’s career?”

“Well, no,” you reply.

“Exactly.” He sits back now. “I don’t blame you for believing him, because that isn’t a threat that anyone would take lightly, but you really don’t need to worry. Bradley is a big boy now, he can stick up for himself, and if all else fails, he has a lot of other people on his side.”

You stare down at the empty cup in your hand, processing his words and letting them sink in, letting yourself believe them. “So, you’re saying-”

“You can love Bradley if you want to,” he says. “There might be other consequences for your relationship with your father, but as far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t deserve a relationship with his daughter unless he changes his attitude.”

Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs. “Thanks Mav, for everything.”

He nods. “Any time."

“Just one more thing?”

He quirks a brow, waiting for your question.

“What else did Bradley tell you this morning?”

The laugh that escapes his lips startles you, a wide grin stretched across his face as he pushes to stand. “Well, sweetheart, I think you should just go talk to Bradley yourself.”

You roll your eyes and stand too. “Fine.”

You thank Mav again as he walks you out. He gives you a hug and promises not to tell anyone what you’ve told him, but assures you again that whatever happens, Bradley’s career is safe. You walk off his porch feeling a lot lighter than when you had walked in, and when you get in your car, you pull your phone out and type a text to Johnny.

‘Fuck off.’

Then you block his number and drive home. You decide to give Bradley a little space, because you need to school your own thoughts before you go letting the skeletons dance their way out of the closet. You need to figure out how you’re going to explain yourself, and you need to decide if you actually want to risk the friendship and tell him you’re in love with him.

Just because Maverick got all giddy when you told him you were head over heels for Bradley doesn’t mean he’s definitely in love with you. You were hoping Mav might give you a hint, but he was stubborn, focusing on you and your feelings instead of divulging anything about Bradley’s feelings.

You busy yourself for most of the day with random chores and errands. When the sun starts to set, you settle onto your sofa and take your phone out, typing out a text to Bradley that you’ve been workshopping all afternoon.

‘Thanks again for last night. I appreciate you. What are you doing after work tomorrow?’

You put your phone on silent and toss it across the lounge, nerves creeping across every inch of your skin as you sink into the cushions. You’ve never been nervous to talk to Bradley. In fact, he’s the number one recipient of your usual word vomiting, but right now, you feel like you’re standing on the ledge of a skyscraper wondering if he’ll be there to catch you when you jump. If you jump.

Five days. It’s been five fucking days since you messaged Bradley, and nothing. You’ve only ever gone this long without speaking when he was deployed without access to his phone or reception. To say you were nervous five days ago feels like a joke now. You’ve barely slept, you’ve barely eaten, and you’re pretty sure you’re starting to see things that aren’t there. Had you imagined Bradley this whole time?

“You look tired,” Natasha says the second you open your apartment door.

“Thanks.”

You step aside and allow her to walk in, which she does with a scrunched-up nose. “Do you not have any windows in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you here again?”

She spins on her heel and flashes you a smirk. “To make you feel better, obviously.”

“Doing a bang-up job so far,” you mumble sarcastically.

You move some of the blankets off the lounge to make room for her. You’ve been sleeping there the past few nights, falling in and out of consciousness while the TV plays reruns of old 90s sitcoms. You’re lucky you have the option to work from home, because you're not sure you’d have been able to drag yourself to work at all this week. Instead, you’ve been doing half-assed days at your desk while resisting the urge to put your phone in the blender.

Natasha sits on the lounge while you open your balcony door, letting in the brisk autumn air. “So,” she says, still smirking, “are you ready to feel better?”

You sit down beside her, curling your knees up to your chest. “I feel fine, actually.”

She raises her brows. “You do? Because the last time you missed pool night at The Hard Deck, someone had literally died.”

Shit. You’d completely forgotten about Wednesday night pool. In fact, you’ve forgotten about everything except Bradley, who has apparently forgotten about you.

“Did Rooster go?”

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“See,” she says, her smile widening, “you already feel better.”

You roll your eyes. “Again, I’m totally fine, just-”

“Cut the bullshit,” she interrupts you, her expression turning serious. “I’m not here because I think you’re going to off yourself. I know you’re a big girl who can deal with heartbreak when she has to, but the thing is, you don’t have to.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Ugh,” she groans, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Do you know how painful it is to deal with the two of you when the answer is to all this tension is so simple?”

You wait a beat, letting her have her moment that she has clearly been waiting to have.

“I’m not going to tell you something that I don’t know for sure, but I am going to tell you that Rooster is miserable,” she says. “He’s obviously not sleeping, he’s barely eating, and he hasn't strung more than four words together all week. Now, I know something went down, we all do, but I also know that now you’re both just being stubborn.”

You frown and open your mouth, but she holds a hand up to stop you.

“I’m not done.”

You roll your lips and nod once.

“I know I haven’t known either of you nearly as long as you’ve known each other,” she continues, “but I think I know you both well enough to know that you’re better together than you are apart. Whether or not that means marriage and babies, I don’t care. All I care about is that two of the most important people in the world to me don’t lose each other, because it’s kind of fucking obvious that you two are soulmates… or whatever.” She tacks on that last part with a wave of her hand, clearly becoming uncomfortable with the mushy stuff.

You push your bottom lip into a pout. “Aw, Nat,” you coo. “Bob was wrong, you do have a heart.”

Her brows dip into a scowl. “What did that fucker say about my heart?”

You roll your eyes and ignore her question, leaning across the couch to wrap your arms around her. She hesitates but hugs you back, rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. Natasha isn’t the most affectionate person, but she knows how to be there for her friends.

“Wait.” You pull back. “It’s Friday, why aren’t you at work?”

“They needed someone to cover a weekend, so Mav gave me today off.”

“Oh,” you nod before falling back into the couch.

“What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “Bradley might be miserable and all, but he’s still avoiding me. I’ve messaged him and called him, but he keeps ignoring me.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. “I thought he might be. He’s been avoiding every conversation where your name comes up.”

You roll your eyes. Not that you blame him. From his point of view, you look like a pretty big idiot. You’ve been best friends for over a decade, flirting nonstop for half of that, and yet you keep dating assholes despite giving him all the signals that you’re actually into him.

“I have a plan,” Natasha says, her lips pulling back into a smirk. “You still have security clearance because of your dad, right?”

Twenty minutes and one hot shower later, you’re following Natasha out the door of your apartment and into the elevator. Your stomach flips nervously as the cabin descends, and you start to gnaw at your bottom on the way to her parked car. You haven’t been on the base in years. In fact, you try to avoid it, because you know that your father is there somewhere.

“Don’t be nervous,” Natasha says, glancing at you from behind her sunglasses.

Your eyes are fixed on the road ahead. “Bit hard not to be.”

You don’t live far from the base, and after barely ten minutes of Natasha’s questionable pep talking, the car rolls up to the main gate of North Island Naval Air Station. You both show your identification cards to the security guard in the booth while other guards inspect her vehicle. The butterflies in your stomach haven’t settled from the moment you stepped out of the shower, and now you’re starting to worry that the banana you managed to eat for breakfast isn’t going to stay down.

Natasha cruises through the familiar base, parking in one of the expansive staff lots before turning to you with an uncharacteristically wide grin. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good, let’s go.”

You force yourself to open the door and plant your feet on the tarmac. Step by step, you make it around the vehicle to where Natasha is impatiently waiting.

“Come on,” she sighs. “We have to get to there before they’re called in for the weekly debrief.”

You take a deep breath and force some confidence into your voice. “Okay, okay. Just a little anxious about doing the one thing I’ve spent a good chunk of my life specifically not doing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, very big deal. Now hurry up!”

Another deep breath has you feeling a little more human, more confident and grounded. You walk beside Natasha with a little more courage, gazing around at the huge buildings and looping roads. You haven’t been on the base in years because of your father. You’ve dated assholes for years because of your father. You’ve hurt the only boy you’ve ever loved because of your father.

Anger starts to bubble in your stomach as Natasha raises her wrist to check her watch. “Can you run?” she asks.

You nod. “Let’s run.”

The two of you break out into a sprint, shoes smacking against the concrete as Natasha leads the way. You don’t recognise much, not that you ever took special notice of the buildings when you visited with your father, but you do spot the Ford Bronco parked in one of the lots along the way.

“This way,” Natasha says.

You both slow to a jog as you approach one of the hangars. Natasha waves to a couple of the officers, greeting them with a vague explanation for her visit while you zone out and gaze up at the huge structure.

Through the hangar and on the other side where there are long stretches of tarmac and a line up of fighter jets, you find a familiar group. You have to squint to see them properly, all appearing in various states of exhaustion and one still on the ground doing push ups while Hondo counts beside him. The golden-brown head of hair makes your heart skip, and you trip on your own feet as you continue to approach the group.

Mickey notices the two of you first. He grins and waves before nodding once and walking up to each of the others, whispering something in their ears. They each give you a smile and a nod before slowly walking away from the boy doing push ups.

Hondo tips his head when you get closer, and winks. “194… 195… 195.”

“What?” Bradley gasps. “You just-”

“Quiet lieutenant,” Hondo snaps. “You’re going to make me lose count.”

Natasha gives you a subtle thumbs up before skipping off in the same direction as the rest of the squad.

Hondo inches away too, raising his voice to continue counting. “197… 198… 199.”

Your heart thunders within your chest, trying it’s hardest to break free as you watch Bradley sink into his final push up.

“200,” you say.

His arms wobble and his knees hit the concrete just in time to stop himself from falling on his face. When he glances up, sweaty and on all fours, you feel like you could faint.

“Hey,” he mutters. “What are you doing here?”

He sits back on his haunches and dusts his hands together, his eyes honey eyes sparkling under the setting sun.

“What do you think I’m doing here, Bradley?”

He glances around, noticing the absence of his squad. “Trespassing?”

You cross your arms and pop your hip. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” He pushes up and rises to his full height. “Last I checked, you were the one with a penchant for self-destructive behaviours.”

You narrow your eyes. “Define such behaviours.”

“Dating assholes for their money and rank.”

Anger sizzles through your veins, heating your skin and making your fists ball. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, before walking past you.

It takes you a moment to catch up, to find your voice and stamp down the angry monster rearing its horns. Bradley has a right to be angry. You expected him to be angry.

“Bradley,” you call after him.

He keeps walking.

“Rooster!”

He keeps walking.

“Bradshaw!”

His steps falter but he doesn’t stop.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw!” you exclaim. “For fuck’s sake!”

He halts and turns on his heel, his eyes stormy beneath furrowed brows. “You have no authority to pull rank. In fact, it’s kind of illegal and could get your father in some serious trouble.”

“Good!” You cover the ground between the two of you, stopping barely inches from him. “I hope he gets in shit, I hope he gets court martialled, or whatever the fuck it is that happens to you lot when you misbehave.”

His frown softens, curiosity taking over his expression. “What?”

You have to take a deep breath, because standing this close to him has your head spinning. “My dad is an asshole.”

Bradley tips his head. “Well, yeah, but why does that matter right now?”

“Because”– you take half a step back so you don’t hurt your neck looking up at him –“when we were younger, when you got accepted into the TOPGUN programme, he told me that you weren’t good enough for me.”

The muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.

“I didn’t believe him,” you continue quickly, “but he threatened me. Well, he threatened you, your career. He said that if I didn’t get over my stupid crush, he would ruin your career, and I was young and stupid enough to believe that he could.”

His jaw relaxes and his expression softens. “He said he would ruin my career?”

You nod. “I couldn’t let him do that, but I couldn’t lose you either, so I did the only thing I could think of. I started dating assholes that dad would like, so I could stay friends with you. If he thought I was with these other guys, he wouldn’t question how much time I spent with you.”

His eyes go a little glassy. “You dated all those assholes so you could stay friends with me and protect me?”

You nod again, the bridge of your nose stinging as you stare up at the most beautiful man you’ve ever met. “I couldn’t risk him finding out that I’m in love with you.”

Despite the distant sounds of the ocean, the birds chirping, and the hum of machinery, you feel like the world has stopped spinning. You hold your breath, waiting for him to react, to say something.

“In love,” he whispers, “with me?”

You nod for the third time, your voice stuck in your throat with the last breath you’d captured.

“Fuck.” He rubs a hand up his jaw and through his hair, his eyes bouncing around the hangar before returning to yours. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You feel like the elephant sitting on your chest has finally moved, and you let out a long breath.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters. “Because I am so in love with you, it-” He doesn’t finish his sentence before he dips his head and presses his mouth against yours, his hands holding your head.

His lips are as soft as you’d always imagined. They taste like mint and something sweet, and they move against yours in the most perfect way. Your fingers find the material of his flight suit and pull him closer, that rope in your gut demanding his body be against yours as you mouths move together. When he fits against you like he was made to be there, everything finally feels perfect.

“Hurts,” he whispers against your lips. “So in love with you, it hurts.”

“Does it still hurt?” you murmur into his mouth, not letting him more than an inch away from you.

You feel his lips curl into a smile. “A little less now, but you should keep kissing it better.”

He tilts your head back and deepens the kiss, making you gasp against his mouth. Your head spins and your knees give, but Bradley’s hands quickly fall to your waist and keep your body pressed to his.

He chuckles. “I’ve got you.”

“Always have,” you say.

He presses his forehead against yours as you both breathe. You know Bradley, you’ve known him since you were ten, and you know that he is doing exactly what you’re doing right now. He’s telling himself that this is real.

“Do you- um, do you want to come over tonight?” you ask.

In one swift move, his hands drop to the backs of your thighs and he crouches a little before hoisting you up off the ground. You yelp and wrap your legs around his waist, now looking down at his big, beautiful smile.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” he says. “Do we have to wait until then or do you just want to do it in the Bronco?”

You giggle, your cheeks burning. “It’s really weird to hear you say shit like that.”

He chuckles. “Oh, baby, you better get used to it. You’re going to hear a whole lot more come out of my mouth tonight.”

END.

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