#fall in love again and again fall in love again and again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 2 days ago

Text

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew

notes: okay i'm a little nervous about this one, like i hope it's good??? i hope you like it! the start is a little slow, i struggled there, but it picks up! i promise! again, i had no self-control with the word count, and as always, please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, bit of angst, miscommunication (kinda), italics, bob makes a joke about a stutter, some cheesy moments, reader wears a skimpy dress (but detail is vague and there is no detail about body-type), angry bob, dancing with a guy that isn't bob, very horny, a bit of boob commentary, and SMUT (male masturbation, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, and a lil titty worship bob floyd) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

You’ve known Bob Floyd since your second day at the academy.

You were running late to a classroom session on naval aviation history when you ran into him—tall, sweet, with dark blue eyes and the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. As it turned out, you were both late for the same class, and got chewed out in front of twenty or so of your brand-new flight school classmates. At the time, it was mortifying, but now it’s one of your favourite stories—because that was the moment that bonded you for life.

You’ve been in love with Bob Floyd ever since he drunkenly told you at flight school graduation—the boy’s a serious lightweight—that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

Well, okay. Maybe you were already halfway there, but that was the moment that really sealed the deal. He was so flushed and pretty, stumbling over his words, looking at you like you were the sole reason for his existence on planet Earth. How could you not fall in love with that?

But he was really drunk, and he didn’t remember a thing the next morning. So you decided not to bring it up. After all, you would soon be deployed to opposite sides of the world. It never would’ve worked.

Still, over the years and across continents, you managed to stay close. Through separate assignments, long stretches of radio silence, and deployments that kept you off-grid, you never lost touch. You saw each other when you could—once or twice a year, if you were lucky—and every time, it felt like no time had passed at all.

You tried dating—at least as much as anyone in the Navy can—but no one ever stuck. Not the way Bob Floyd did.

Then, as fate would have it, Bob got tapped for a special detachment on North Island—your base. And suddenly, years of loving him from afar turned into months of loving him from a now suffocatingly close distance. Because after that detachment, Bob’s new squad—the Dagger Squad—was commissioned as a full-time elite unit under Maverick’s command.

So here he is, on North Island. And here you are too. Practically living in each other’s pockets, even if you’re not flying on the same team. So what could possibly be stopping you from telling him how you feel?

Oh, right. Just the tiny, humiliating fact that you’re still way too chickenshit to risk the friendship for something more.

“Lieutenant,” Maverick says, stepping up beside you and catching you off guard.

You blink, dragging your eyes away from the squad—his squad—training just outside the hangar up ahead.

“Captain,” you reply, nodding.

He smirks. “Thinking of trading in those shiny fifth-gens for something with a little more grit? Or are you just here to watch Hondo torture my pilots?”

You huff a laugh, adjusting the helmet tucked under your arm. “The Super Hornet’s got plenty of grit, but let’s be honest—she’s no Lightning.”

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly.

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say. “Cyclone wants me to offer a brief training program on the F-35’s latest software package—maybe even get your team some sim time.”

His eyebrows lift. “A training program from the Navy’s golden test pilot? Let me guess—does Simpson know how chummy you are with my squad, or was this more of a personal initiative?”

“It might be a little personal,” you say with s sheepish grin. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my jet. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t kill for a flight.”

“A joyride?” he asks. “I thought you said simulator time.”

“For them, yeah.” You nod toward the squad. “But if a decorated captain, such as yourself, wanted to take her for a spin... well, who am I to stand in the way?”

He laughs again, looking past you at the aircraft you’d just landed.

“She quick?” he asks.

“Today? About six hundred knots. But that was a low-level test profile.” You pause, eyes glinting. “Push her right, she’ll break Mach 1 easy. Mach 2 if you’re feeling brave. And willing to eat the paperwork.”

“Tempting,” he says with a sigh. “But I think I’ve racked up enough disciplinary notes for one career.”

You smile. “Then fly her like a gentleman.”

Maverick’s gaze flicks back to the squad as Hondo shouts for twenty more burpees. Then he narrows his eyes at you. “Who put you up to this?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Phoenix asked me just last week if they’d ever fly anything other than Hornets. Yesterday, Hangman starts asking about Lockheed sim protocols. And now you show up, conveniently volunteering?”

You press your lips together, wondering how long you might be able to stall—but really, what’s the point? It’s Maverick. He’ll figure it out sooner or later.

“Okay, fine,” you admit. “They’ve been on my ass about it for weeks. I knew I could get Cyclone on board—and yeah, they said the only way you’d bite was if I offered you stick time.” You smile, just a little. “But to be fair, the F-35’s part of the Navy inventory now. Could be relevant training. And... I wouldn’t mind a few weeks of hanging out with my friends at work. Or their legendary captain, for that matter.”

Maverick exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s like raising teenagers.”

“So,” you say, lifting a brow, “that’s a yes?”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a playful spark behind them. “Yeah, fine.”

You grin. “Excellent. We’ll start Monday. Can’t wait to teach alongside you, Captain.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters.

“Oh, please,” you say. “I know you’re at least a little excited about flying my jet.”

His gaze flicks back to the F-35 on the flight line, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I better go break the news to the squad.”

You laugh. “Good luck with that. Fanboy said he’d kiss you if you said yes.”

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.”

Then he flashes you that signature smirk, gives a quick nod, and walks off across the tarmac. You watch for a few minutes as he approaches his squad, stepping up beside Hondo first and—quietly—telling the CWO what he just agreed to. Hondo nods before calling the squad in with a bark, and you stay put, watching with amusement as Maverick delivers the news.

The reaction is immediate—grins, high-fives, celebratory shouting. You see Natasha step forward to ask a question, and when Maverick gestures in your direction, Mickey turns and yells, “I fucking love you, Lucky!”

You laugh softly, giving them a lazy salute before turning toward your own building. You’re looking forward to it too—not just the flying, or the teaching, or the excuse to hang out with your friends. But the chance to spend a few weeks working a little closer to Bob.

And maybe—just maybe—you can figure out what the hell you’re going to do about him.

“I still can’t believe you got Cyclone and Mav to sign off on the training,” Reuben says, shaking his head despite the smile tugging at his lips.

You lift your beer, shrugging as you sip. “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.”

Mickey squints, tilting his head. “Wait, do you have a history of charming your superiors?”

Natasha snorts into her drink. “No. That’s not how she got her callsign.”

Your eyes snap to her, brows raised. “Wait—Bob told you?”

She presses her lips together, rocking her head side to side. “Not exactly. I saw your contact name in his phone and kind of... figured it out.”

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.”

“Hold on,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “Bob gave you your callsign?”

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.”

That’s all it takes for the three of them to dissolve into laughter.

“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?”

You roll your eyes and jab an elbow into his ribs. “You’re such an ass.”

“No, but seriously,” Reuben says, still grinning. “Why is it just... Bob?”

You shrug, rolling your beer bottle between your palms. “Because he didn’t like any of the others. There were a bunch of nicknames being thrown around—some dumb, some mean. He told me one day he wished people would just call him Bob. So I made sure they did.”

“Oh,” Mickey mutters. “That’s kind of boring.”

Natasha shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s sweet.”

Reuben gestures toward you. “Okay, fine. Then how’d he come up with Lucky?”

You hesitate, trying not to squirm under the weight of their attention. “Because I’m his lucky charm.”

Reuben blinks. “Seriously? It’s that personal?”

You nod. “Yeah. Back at the FRS, every time we were paired up—sims, training hops, even written exams—he’d ace it. Said he never did that well without me.” You shrug a little, smiling. “Eventually he started joking that I was his lucky charm. Then it got shortened to Lucky, and everyone assumed it was about good fortune or gambling or whatever. But it was always just… him.”

Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.”

Mickey leans forward, brows drawing together. “Wait… have you guys ever—”

“Evening, misfits,” Jake drawls, cutting in with impeccable timing. “Lucky, did I hear you landed yourself a job bossing us around?”

Bradley, Javy, and Bob fall in behind him, all wearing the same mildly pained expression—no doubt from enduring a ten-minute car ride with Weekend Jake. That’s what the squad have started—affectionately—calling him when he’s at his worst, all smug smiles, cocky one-liners, and shameless flirting. Which, of course, tends to happen every weekend.

“Just part-time,” you say, matching his smirk. “Try to contain your excitement.”

Jake’s gaze drops, then climbs back up—slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m containin’ a lot right now. But you in a flight suit, telling me what to do? That might push me over the edge.”

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans.

“I need a drink,” Bradley mutters, turning toward the bar.

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Keep talking, Seresin, and I’ll have you running laps around the tarmac.”

Jake slides into the booth across from you, still grinning. “And I bet you’d love the view.”

You roll your eyes and glance at Bob, still standing beside Javy. His eyes are locked on Jake—not quite angry, but definitely not amused.

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?”

Bob’s lips twitch as he slides into the booth beside you, dark blue eyes catching yours. “Think you’re ready to be an instructor?”

“Oh yeah,” you say, ignoring the flutter in your chest as his thigh brushes yours. “I was born for this.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Born bossy, maybe.”

“Hey,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “Don't be rude.”

He turns to face you—really looking at you—and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades just a little.

“You already telling me what to do?” he asks, voice low, playful.

You narrow your eyes. “What if I am, Lieutenant? You going to listen?”

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but quiet. “If I don’t?”

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Jake cuts in, loud and obnoxious. “Save it for the bedroom.”

Bob startles slightly, the colour in his cheeks deepening as he tears his eyes away from yours.

“Fuck off, Seresin,” you mutter, shooting him a glare. “You’re just jealous.”

Jake leans back, smug. “Jealous of what, sweetheart?”

“That I don’t flirt with you the way I flirt with—” You stop short, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat, but it doesn’t matter—the implication is obvious enough.

Jake’s eyes sparkle like he’s just won the goddamn lottery, and everyone else around the table fights to contain their laughter.

“Go on,” Jake says, far too pleased with himself. “What were you saying?”

You shoot him a deadly look. “Fuck you is what I was saying.”

He tips his head back and chuckles, hand over his chest, and that’s all it takes for the rest of the squad to join in. All but Bob, who’s now focused on picking at the corner of a cardboard coaster, cheeks pink and lips curved into the softest smile.

It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it.

God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years.

“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?”

You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?”

Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.”

You roll your eyes.

“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side.

“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.”

“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?”

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.”

He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.”

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles.

You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning.

You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.”

He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin.

“The usual?” she asks.

You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.”

She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead.

“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.”

You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity.

“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?”

His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.”

You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash.

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred.

“Does it matter?”

He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.”

You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks.

“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar.

You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.”

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger.

“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.”

Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move.

“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?”

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.”

As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much.

“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table.

“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks.

Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out.

“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown.

You glance at him. “Do what?”

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.”

“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.”

You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.”

There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?”

You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.”

Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought.

You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?”

“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.”

You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—”

“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.”

A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?”

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.”

You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?”

You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.”

Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Tall, pretty, a little cocky.”

You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?”

He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game.

“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?”

He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.”

You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.”

You scoff. “Yeah, right.”

“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.”

Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley.

“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.”

Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you.

He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.”

Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep.

“Mind if I play next?”

Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his.

“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.”

The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha.

Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat.

By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob.

You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy.

Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee.

“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row.

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.”

“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him.

You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?”

He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.”

Your mouth drops open.

Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.”

Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks.

Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.”

“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown.

Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show.

“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley.

Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later.

You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants.

It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second.

“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.”

Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes.

“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.”

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.”

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal.

“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no.

Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word.

You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.”

You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface.

“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.”

You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op.

“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.”

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.”

“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance.

Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory.

You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?”

“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?”

Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.”

The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat.

“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.”

The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

All from a look.

God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better.

By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO.

After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them.

Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little.

“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers.

He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.”

You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.”

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.”

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.”

“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder.

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.”

He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.”

Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours.

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks.

When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are.

“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?”

“Pizza?”

You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind.

Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...”

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?”

You stop walking. “With who?”

He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.”

Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.”

“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—”

“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?”

He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—”

“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.”

He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?”

You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.

“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.”

There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.”

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word.

Good.

It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you.

Good?

Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with.

Good.

Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that.

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.”

A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob.

BOB FLOYD

📎 [Image attachment]

‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’

And there he fucking is.

Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband.

Holy fuck.

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe.

His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo.

He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture.

It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve.

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with?

You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and—

Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on.

You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo.

With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’

“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone.

A little notification pops up beneath your message.

Read. Immediately.

“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?”

You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute.

Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help.

But first…

You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids.

Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers.

The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all.

But you can’t stop thinking about it.

You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time.

And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again.

Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak.

Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week.

“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?”

You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus.

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat.

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch.

“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?”

“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.”

Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing.

“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.”

Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.”

“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.”

Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset.

“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.”

“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.”

“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.”

Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.”

Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim.

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.”

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly.

“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply.

“Did I beat Hangman?”

You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.”

You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?”

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.”

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate.

“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.”

Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.”

“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming.

“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.”

“So… a baby sim?”

“Basically. You’ll be fine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant.

You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.”

“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.”

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.”

He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp.

From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.”

“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.”

You snort. “You are a danger to national security.”

“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth.

“I’m coming in,” you mutter.

You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him.

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.”

“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” he says, grinning now.

You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out.

He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?”

“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.”

He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?”

“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.”

Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?”

You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.”

He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?”

“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.”

The sim bucks suddenly.

“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale.

You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.”

But it’s too late.

The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude!

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…”

“You eject,” you say dryly.

“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?”

You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.”

With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.”

Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?”

You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.”

He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary.

“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.”

A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.

“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him.

His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.”

You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.”

He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls.

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?”

“Confirming sim reset. You’re good to go,” he replies.

“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?”

He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him.

“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.”

He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip.

“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.”

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless.

“Now keep her steady.”

“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.”

You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.”

He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?”

“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.”

He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway.

You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.”

Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.”

“You know, not what Fanboy did.”

He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line.

“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.”

His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.”

You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller.

You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides.

If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now.

“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.”

You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.”

“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later.

You grin. “Nice shot.”

He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?”

“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.”

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back.

“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused.

It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing.

Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.

“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone.

“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.”

He does so without hesitation.

Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing.

“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.”

Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.”

Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster.

“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered.

You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.”

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing.

“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.”

He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.”

“You sure?”

He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him.

The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.”

He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still.

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE.

You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.”

Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?”

“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.”

He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and—

He falls forward.

You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down.

“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide.

He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours.

“Are you okay? Your head—”

Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist.

“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.”

He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek.

“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.”

Your laughter fades, breath catching.

There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance.

And then—

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang.

“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?”

Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you.

Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op.

“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!”

Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob?

Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight.

After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report.

“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door.

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.”

“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.”

You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.”

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers.

Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot.

If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours.

You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out.

The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace.

But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name.

“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?”

“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—”

“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts.

You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it.

“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.”

“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.”

“Shame. Still hot though, right?”

“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable.

“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.”

There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat.

“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.”

“What, you’re not into her?”

“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything.

“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—”

Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat.

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.”

That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs.

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you.

“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—”

You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore.

Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home.

Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out.

His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage?

Fuck. That.

Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing.

Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something.

The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t.

You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it.

That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie.

You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship.

You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it.

Because it was Bob.

Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself.

Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart.

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd.

Fuck that guy.

By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice.

The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat.

So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend.

“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him.

You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room.

“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.”

There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares.

Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once.

And you don’t look at him at all.

After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room.

Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until—

“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat.

You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.”

“That thing work?” he asks.

“What thing?”

“Your phone.”

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.”

Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard.

“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.”

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer.

You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.”

“What’d you watch?”

“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking.

And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies?

“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense.

Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral.

“Do you need something?”

He frowns. “What do you—”

“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.”

You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?”

You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.”

“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.”

You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?”

There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft.

You nod once. “Yep.”

Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook.

Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy.

You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick:

‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’

Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller.

With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting.

“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move.

Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you.

You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face.

“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.”

“Copy,” Mickey replies.

“Copy,” Bob mutters.

You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth.

“Hangman, you ready?”

“When you are, boss.”

You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.”

Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful.

But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in.

“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease.

“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.”

“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.”

“Copy that. Repositioning.”

A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.”

“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.”

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.”

You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.”

He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant.

After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction.

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn.

“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.”

Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.”

Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable.

“Pilot ready?” you ask.

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.”

You nod. “Run it.”

The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence.

You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long.

He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost.

But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean.

Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter.

“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—”

“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.”

There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher.

“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen.

Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre.

But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow.

You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it.

But he knows something’s wrong.

- Bob -

After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off.

Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend.

“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group.

“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.”

Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?”

“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.”

“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.”

“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes.

“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk.

“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path.

“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!”

The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number.

“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.”

One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts.

“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.”

Bob glances up. “Hm?”

“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, I just—”

“Is this about Lucky?”

His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill.

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?”

Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?”

“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.”

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters.

“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.”

Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.”

“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.”

Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide.

She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing.

“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.”

He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid.

He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible.

You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you.

He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone.

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly.

Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him.

“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn.

Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.”

She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.”

“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots.

She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices.

“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat.

Bob frowns. “Where?”

“Hangman’s birthday.”

Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene.

“I don’t know, it—”

“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.”

Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.”

“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.”

After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press.

Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips.

God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base.

Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what.

His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more.

“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?”

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire.

Cute? You called him cute.

He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?!

He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you.

Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones.

Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach.

Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game.

He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses.

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’

‘She only uses Morse code.’

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’

When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband.

But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely.

And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it.

If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing.

The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap.

He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you’re all talking about Jake’s birthday party.

When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat.

It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading.

And then... there’s you.

It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options.

So you did.

The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin.

Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long.

The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him.

He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment.

The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos?

The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk.

“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions.

This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve.

He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years.

With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him.

Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts.

He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction.

He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it.

His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe.

His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer.

He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight.

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate.

God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop.

He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And—

His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache.

“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering.

He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more.

Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch.

The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline.

Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh.

Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants.

- You -

You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t.

Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes.

Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him

You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it.

But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours.

Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you.

And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure.

Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out.

Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage?

He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really.

You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter?

“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?”

The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying.

The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later.

“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.”

You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should.

“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her.

“All for you, baby.”

She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?”

“Show me the way.”

You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance.

“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”

There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head.

“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.”

Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?”

She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.”

“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.”

“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice.

You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked.

“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.”

The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point.

Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild.

“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.”

There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up.

A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball.

“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot.

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!”

You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces.

Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed.

You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him.

You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling.

Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress?

You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart.

After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop.

And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor.

You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands.

The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower?

The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over.

You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club.

You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen.

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea.

You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and—

Bob.

He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring.

He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in.

And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench.

Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you.

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide.

He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing.

It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out.

Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him.

“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!”

Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin.

“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—”

“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.”

Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.”

You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way.

Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin.

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea.

After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone’s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob.

He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake.

And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral.

His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob.

So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots.

You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music.

“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!”

Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night.

Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school.

Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive.

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all.

“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand.

They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around.

He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why.

“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.”

“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?”

Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you.

“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.”

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady.

“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.”

Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.”

Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham.

Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt.

After all, he’s the one who called you reckless.

“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.”

Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes.

Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm.

You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego.

You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob.

The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down.

The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all.

But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor.

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline.

Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly.

The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong.

You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips.

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him.

Bob.

He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit.

Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes?

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving.

There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room.

And you feel it.

The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in.

So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all.

But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you.

When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved.

The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away.

You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares.

Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you.

So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer.

You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting.

Then he’s there. Beside you.

He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go.

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls.

Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you.

He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?”

“What’s your problem?” you bite back.

“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?”

“Doing what?” you demand.

“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—”

“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?”

He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut.

You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know.

He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care.

And that’s the most confusing part.

“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging.

“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.”

He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—”

“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.”

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—”

“Then why would you say it?”

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?”

You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?”

“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.”

You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?”

“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.”

Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.

“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.”

His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache.

He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech.

God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music.

Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot.

“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady.

He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling.

“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward.

The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in.

Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor—like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more.

You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you.

“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.”

His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?”

“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.”

He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“You love me?”

“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.”

You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate.

One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast.

You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in.

The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs.

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time.

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry.

“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want.

His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore.

“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck.

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle.

“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk.

He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze.

“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw.

His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning.

“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.”

You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.”

That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second.

Then he’s on you. Everywhere.

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself.

He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple.

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue.

His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—”

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine.

“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?”

You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them.

He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you.

“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.”

He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting.

Then he grinds against you.

His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct.

“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked.

“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.”

His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you.

His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural.

“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control.

Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers.

“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together.

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.”

His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity.

His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one.

You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm.

He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.”

You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.”

That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again.

“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.”

He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward.

Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him.

You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him.

“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. “You feel—fuck. So good. So good.”

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone.

His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast.

He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper.

“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.”

Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly.

“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky.

He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years.

His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go.

You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time.

He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering.

“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.”

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob.

The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years.

“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you.

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes.

Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin.

His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls.

He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known.

“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you.

Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone.

It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache.

You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast.

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else.

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.”

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.”

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again.

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then—

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried.

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches.

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask.

“Bob…”

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.”

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis.

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.”

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be.

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too.

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.”

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?”

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his.

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need.

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant.

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking.

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.”

You’re just about to kiss him again when—

Bang, bang, bang.

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?”

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.”

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock.

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist.

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?”

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?”

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.”

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all.

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.”

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor.

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing.

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?”

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.”

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist.

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.”

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?”

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass.

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?”

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?”

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.”

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red.

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted.

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away.

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!”

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spearofheaven · 2 days ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ BEHIND CLOSED DOORS — office worker! nanami kento

SUM. when your husband’s secretary acts just a little too friendly around him

CONTAINS. 18+ content, MDNI. 1.1k+ words. x fem reader. semi-public sex. exhibitionism. cunnilingus. fingering. use of pet names.

"you need an appointment to see mr. nanami."

the receptionist spoke in a bored tone, barely looking up from her computer to give you a once-over. all the while she rolled her eyes and obnoxiously smacked her gum, like you were the one wasting her time.

but before you even had the chance to answer, the office door creaked open. "and i thought i mentioned that she could come in without needing one," nanami spoke up, appearing beside her desk.

the receptionist straightened up and busied herself with 'stacking' a couple papers on her desk. fluttering her lashes when she did look up at him, leaning forward just the slightest bit. "sorry, sir. you've just been soo busy and you did mention you didn't want anyone to bother you."

you honestly couldn't blame her, though. not when your husband had walked out of his office without his suit jacket on—the sleeves of his blue button down pushed up and showing off his watch. and well, the most important thing, his wedding ring. which she was blatantly trying to disregard.

"i'm aware. but you should know that doesn't apply to my wife, she's welcome to enter whenever she pleases," you could practically see her jaw clench as soon as he called you his wife, "please don't have me repeat myself. again."

"yes, sir. it won't happen again."

what she'd promised last time.

you stepped foot into the office, ceiling to floor windows decorating the space behind his desk. your heels clacked against the pristine floors, walking over to one of the wooden chairs.

"i brought you some lunch. saw that you forgot your bento at home and i wasn't sure if you brought any money to buy lunch," you spoke up, giving him a soft smile as you offered him the bento.

"thank you," he took the bento from you, setting aside, "but i think i'd like to have something different for lunch," kento cleared the space in front of him, patting on the wooden desk. a silent invitation. the skirt you had on rose up when you took a seat. the perfect offering if you'd ask nanami.

calloused hands ran down your legs, gently spreading them open. taking his time despite the thirty minute time constraint. "i'm sorry about her, by the way," nanami spoke up in a whisper, his lips pressing against your calf. "i don't know how much more obvious i need to be about being happily married."

his lips were reverent as he kissed up your leg, one of his hands holding the other in place. "like i'd ever want anyone but you, my love," he murmured, more so to himself, gently nibbling on your inner thigh. where only he'd be able to see them after. your legs spread apart almost instinctively, giving nanami the perfect view of the lace panties he adored so much.

and as much as he loved seeing you in them, the sight of you without them was much better. kento hooked one finger around the waistband, slowly removing them. sliding them inch by inch down your legs. "you didn't think we should hurry up, mr. nanami?" you questioned teasingly, pushing his hair back to take a look at his face.

"and why would we do that, mrs. nanami? i want to enjoy our time here," he pulled the underwear off, letting it fall to the floor. "well, you know you're sooo busy," you drawled, twirling a hair strand in between your fingers. he let out a small scoff, gently nipping at your leg in retaliation.

"never busy enough for you, you know that," kento’s voice came out muffled, licking a stripe up your cunt. he swirled his tongue around your clit before moving down, running the tip of his tongue down your folds. "never?" you mused, looking down at nanami. he wasn't paying that much attention to you anymore—rather, just your pussy.

"never," he muttered offhandedly, pushing a finger inside of you. your heels dug into his shoulder blades, your back arched when kento curled his fingers to hit your g-spot. and while it'd hurt at first—it was a pain that nanami was more than welcome to receive if it meant getting to lose himself in you.

your nails—paid for by yours truly—tugged on his hair, pulling him closer to your dripping cunt. kento clicked his tongue, looking up at you, "come on, use your words. tell me what you want and i'll give it to you."

"more, please," you responded almost immediately, your grip on his hair loosening up. just a bit. he replaced his tongue with two fingers, slowly getting past that initial resistance before pushing them in and out of you.

even with his glasses fogging up with every heavy breath that he took and your slick covering his mouth and chin, nanami continued to push his fingers inside of you. coaxing out all the pretty little noises you were making. "you can be a little louder, no? just a little bit, sweetheart," nanami curled his fingers, drawing out a whine from your lips.

you dripped onto his digits with each thrust, the golden wedding band on his finger glistening against the office lights. "k-ken, don't stop," your nails dug deeper into his hair, messing up the time he took fixing it this morning. you weren't even sure what was louder anymore—the squelching in between your legs or your moans.

your thighs clamped tightly around his head, holding him in place. "open them, darling. you can take it, you even asked me for more," kento felt the way your legs trembled—the way you were almost hesitant to open your legs again. you were close. "too much, too much," your moan had come out louder this time—loud enough to bleed through the walls.

not that it mattered.

you felt that familiar pressure build up in your lower tummy, your legs threatening to close again all the while your toes curled against the leather heels. too much, you'd said, and you still found yourself needing even more. "cum for me sweetheart, you can take it. take what's yours," his words served as a final push, your orgasm washing over you like a wave.

nanami pulled his dripping fingers out from your cunt and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping them off. effortlessly, he wiped away the spit and slick dribbling down his chin before carelessly tossing the handkerchief to the side. like it was nothing more than just a bother.

your chest heaved as you leaned back against the desk, watching your husband stand up from his spot. a wet patch adorned the front of his khaki pants, his cock practically twitching against the confines of his boxers. "i think i'll just skip ahead to the main course."

needless to say, you didn't have any more trouble coming into nanami's office after that <3

#⋆˚࿔ 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 ⋆˚࿔#nanami kento #nanami kento smut #kento nanami #kento nanami smut #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #jjk x fem!reader #jjk x reader smut #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #nanami kento drabble #kento nanami x you #kento nanami x reader

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purangelblood · 2 days ago

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"TAKE IT." . . . BIGDICK!MATT.

Matt growls loudly, grabbing your legs and pushing them back, spreading you wider. The new angle hits that special spot inside you with each thrust, making you scream.

"Take that fuckin' dick." He groans, watching your perfect face contort in pleasure, your mouth open in a perfect O.

"So— big—!" You cry out, his eyes flash with something primal at your words. He's always been big, and hearing you struggle to take him only makes him harder. He reaches down, wrapping his arm around your throat as he continues to pound into you. "Too big for this tiny little pussy?"

You try to shake your head, tears streaming down your face. "Nooo— can take it—"

He squeezes your throat gently, cutting off your air slightly. "That's my fuckin' girl." He thrusts harder, deeper, his balls slapping against you with each movement. "Mhhhf—" You pant heavily, chest rising and falling as your brain turns to mush from the lack of air.

He loves seeing you like this, helpless and full of his big dick. He unwraps his arm suddenly, letting you gasp for air. "You gonna keep saying you can take it?"

You mewl weakly, hands trembling on the sheets. "I— I can—" Before you can even finish your sentence, he grabs your legs and throws them over his shoulders. The new position opens you up even more, allowing him to hit your spot with every single thrust.

He starts fucking you so hard the headboard hits the wall repeatedly. "Keep talkin' shit."

"O-oh— god!" Your words are cut off by a loud scream as he nails that spot inside you again. He continues his brutal pace, his hips snapping forward as he buries himself deep inside you. You can feel every thick inch of him stretching you wide open.

"That's it, scream for me."

"Ohohohfuck—!"

The sound of your high-pitched screams fills the room, mixing with the wet sounds of him slamming into your cunt over and over again. His fingers dig into your legs hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place, using you like his personal fuck toy. "Fuck, you're so tight."

"Matt—"

Hearing his name on your lips sends him over the edge. He pounds into you even harder, his breathing ragged and loud. His cock swells inside you as he starts to come, filling you with his hot cum. "Take it." He growls out, pressing deep inside you.

He stays buried inside you for a moment before pulling out slowly. His cum starts dripping out of stretched hole immediately. He watches as more of his load leaks out, mixed with your own juices. "Good girl." He praises you softly, running a hand down your leg.

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maskedbyghost · 2 days ago

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cw: friends with benefits, angst, smut, mild possessiveness

It was supposed to be simple. That’s the part that pisses you off the most when you think about it. Because you weren’t trying to fall in love. You didn’t want a relationship, not after the last one. You were still a little bit fucked up from it, if you’re being honest. Still not sleeping great. Still carrying all that heavy stuff around that no one really talks about after a breakup. And then he showed up.

Simon.

You didn’t even like him that much at first. He was quiet, and kind of a dick honestly. Always had this hard look on his face like he didn’t care about anything. But then again, maybe that’s why you kept looking. He didn’t flirt with you like the other guys did. He didn’t compliment you or joke around. He just stared sometimes. Stared like he knew things about you that you hadn’t even said out loud yet.

And somehow, that made you feel safe. In a really stupid kind of way.

He didn’t ask you questions. You could sit next to him and say nothing, and he wouldn’t try to fix you. He’d just… be there. And that made it easier. Being around him felt like pressing pause on everything in your head.

You both agreed it would just be sex. That’s all. You said it first. Told him straight up you weren’t in the place for anything real, and he just shrugged like it didn’t make a difference either way. He wasn’t looking for more, either. No expectations, no feelings, no “what are we” conversations.

And in the beginning, that actually worked. You’d hook up after long days, or when you were lonely, or when you just needed to feel something. He’d come over late, sometimes not say more than a few words, and still end up with his mouth between your legs like he belonged there. He was rough, kind of mean about it, but it made your head go quiet, and that’s all you wanted. You didn’t need soft. You just needed to forget.

And Simon was really good at helping you forget.

It was simple, for a while at least. No cuddling, no texting unless one of you wanted something, no sleeping over unless it was late, and neither of you felt like getting up. You never kissed him unless it was during sex, he never called you baby, and you never touched his face.

But then, little things started to change. He’d linger longer after, or light your cigarette for you without saying anything. You started to recognize the sound of his boots on your stairs. And sometimes, he’d show up without texting first, but you wouldn’t mind.

You told yourself it was fine. You still weren’t asking for anything. You weren’t falling.... You weren’t hoping.

Until one day you were. And it was too late.

Because Simon? He never changed the deal. He still kept his walls up, still kept everything at arm’s length, and still fucked you like you were just a warm body and not someone who looked at him like he hung the moon.

And the worst part? You let him.

You didn’t talk much during sex. It was just a thing you both did, like it was part of the routine. Sometimes it was at his place, sometimes yours. Sometimes after a night out when you were drunk and touchy and didn’t want to sleep alone. You’d cling to his arm, pull him into a dark corner, whisper something like “Come back with me,” and he always would. He’d follow you home without hesitation.

He never smiled during it, never said sweet things, nor asked what you liked. It was like flipping a switch, one second he was just standing there, and the next his hand was in your hair and he was pushing you down on the bed without saying a word. No soft kisses. Just heavy hands and rough thrusts and that low sound he’d make when you moaned his name, like he hated how much he liked it.

He was rough in a way that made your whole body ache after. Hands on your throat, teeth on your skin. Sometimes he’d grab your face, push it into the pillow so hard it felt like he wanted to fuck you straight through it. His voice was always low, wrecked, barely there, like he was losing his mind but trying not to show it. And when he came, he’d bury himself so deep and still not stop moving, chasing something that never felt like enough.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t sweet. But god, it felt good.

Too good.

You weren’t supposed to want someone like that. You weren’t supposed to need it like that. But every time he fucked you like you were the only thing left keeping him grounded, it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to admit.

And you liked it, you liked it even when it made you feel worse after.

You didn’t fall for him all at once. It happened slowly and stupidly. In the kind of way where you didn’t even notice it at first, because you were too busy pretending it was still casual.

It was little stuff. Like how he always stood behind you in a crowd, not touching you or anything, just close enough that you could feel him, like a wall at your back. Or how he’d rest his hand on your lower back when you crossed the street, not saying a word, not even looking at you. Just doing it like it was natural. Like he cared without meaning to.

Sometimes, he stayed the night. Not every time, or often enough for it to mean something, but still it happened. He never cuddled, never reached for you after. He would just lay there, breathing heavily like he was thinking too loud. He didn’t sleep much, and you didn’t either. You’d stare at the ceiling, both of you pretending the silence didn’t feel like it was screaming.

You wanted to believe that meant something. That even if he couldn’t say it, he felt something. That he kept coming back because he needed you, not just your body. You started reaching for him more, after, during, even before. Just little touches. A kiss on the cheek, a hand on his chest, or a soft press of your lips when he was still inside you.

But the more you gave, the more he pulled back. Like he could feel you slipping, and it scared him. Like he already knew where this was headed and was trying to stop it before it got worse.

He started fucking you harder when you tried to kiss him slow. Rougher, meaner, almost. Like he was trying to shove the feelings out of both of you. Like he thought if he could just fuck the softness out of it, it would go back to the way it was.

And he’d leave faster. No lingering, talking, or sitting on the edge of the bed while you pulled on your shirt. He’d zip up his hoodie, say something stupid like “I’ll see you around,” and disappear like it didn’t mean anything.

But it meant something to you. And you think, deep down, it meant something to him, too.

He just didn’t know what to do with it. So he did what he always did... he ran.

That night felt different before anything even started. You don’t know how to explain it exactly. It was quiet, but not the good kind. Not the comfortable kind. Just this weird silence sitting between you like something waiting to be said. You didn’t say it, of course. You never did. He was already pulling your shirt off, already undoing his belt, already pushing you back like it was routine.

And it was. That was the thing. It had become routine.

But you couldn’t keep doing it like this anymore. You were tired. Tired of feeling used even when he wasn’t trying to use you. Tired of pretending it didn’t matter that he never looked at you when he came. Tired of giving everything and getting nothing back.

So you tried something different.

You didn’t moan for him the way he liked. Didn’t arch your back or scratch at his shoulders or whisper how good he felt. You just… touched his face. Softly. Like it was something you’d been wanting to do for a long time but were scared he’d push you away.

Your fingers brushed his cheek. Your thumb barely touched the scar near his jaw, and you just said, “Slow down.”

That was it. Just two words. And he snapped.

His hand went around your throat so fast it made your breath catch. His other hand grabbed your wrists, shoved them into the pillow, and held them there like you’d done something wrong. And then he started fucking you harder, rougher. Like he was trying to erase what you’d just done.

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t. His hips were slamming into you like he was mad, but not at you. Like he was mad at himself. Or maybe the world. Or maybe just the way your voice sounded when you asked for more than he could give.

“Don’t,” he growled into your neck, and his voice didn’t even sound like him. It sounded like someone scared.

You didn’t cry. Not right then.

You just lay there and took it. Let him fuck you like he always did, let him pretend it didn’t mean anything, even though it did. You felt it, how desperate it was, how shaky his breath was when he finally finished, how his hands didn’t let go even when it was over.

But you knew. You finally knew.

He couldn’t love you. Not the way you wanted. Not the way you needed.

And something deep in your chest cracked open. Just enough to let the cold in.

You didn’t say a word after. Just rolled over when he got up. Pulled the blanket up to your chest and stared at the wall, blinking too fast, trying not to let the tears win.

And he left like nothing happened.

But everything had.

The next time you saw him, you already knew it would be the last. It felt different the second you let him in, like there was something in the air that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You didn’t smile, he didn’t kiss you. You just walked back into your room in silence, still wearing the oversized shirt you’d borrowed from him weeks ago, the one you never meant to keep, the one that smelled like him no matter how many times you washed it, and you stood there with your arms crossed like you were trying to hold yourself together, like saying what you were about to say would physically hurt.

And it did.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to. You didn’t look at him because you knew if you did, if you saw the way he blinked at you, or the way his jaw clenched, or the way he didn’t even flinch like he saw this coming, it would break you in half. So you stared at the floor, or the wall, or anywhere but him, and you just said it. Because if you didn’t say it now, you never would.

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t ask why. He just sat down slowly on the edge of your bed, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, and the rise and fall of his chest was shaky, like he couldn’t catch his breath, like your words had knocked the wind out of him but he was too proud to show it.

“I knew this would happen,” he said finally, and his voice wasn’t cold, it wasn’t empty—it was just tired. Like he was mad at himself. “Eventually.”

You nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at you, and you could feel your throat starting to close up, feel the sting building behind your eyes, and your whole body felt heavy. “I wanted to pretend it wouldn’t,” you whispered, your hands twisting in the hem of his shirt, your voice cracking even though you were trying to stay calm, “but I can’t. I love you. And you don’t—or you won’t. And I can’t keep asking for something you’re scared to give.”

That made him look up.

His face was blank at first; he was trying to process it, trying to understand how it had gotten to this point, even though you both knew exactly how. And then he stood, slowly, like he was afraid too sudden a move would scare you off, and he walked toward you with that careful look he only got when he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing but was still trying anyway.

And then he kissed you.

Soft, at first, because he wasn’t sure if you’d let him. Maybe he thought you’d push him away. But you didn’t. You kissed him back even though you knew it wouldn’t change anything. You let him press you into the wall, let his hands slide up under the shirt that technically wasn’t his anymore, let his mouth find your neck, your collarbone, your lips again, and none of it felt like the usual heat, it just felt sad and desperate.

You let him fuck you because you knew this was the last time. You let him take you to bed and pull your underwear down and slide inside like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

His hands were rough like always, his teeth scraped your skin, his thrusts were deep, a little too fast, a little too rough—but there was a shakiness in the way he held you, like maybe he already hated himself for letting it get to this point. He didn’t know how to say any of the things you needed to hear, so he fucked you instead.

And then, just when you thought that was all it was going to be—just another night, just another goodbye—he slowed down.

He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, and he didn’t move. Just held you there, skin to skin, and everything about him felt different all of a sudden... softer... scared.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, so quiet it almost didn’t sound like him.

Your chest tightened, and your voice broke when you tried to answer. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because if I let myself love you, I’d lose you anyway,” he said, and his voice was raw now. “You’d wake up one day and realise I’m not enough. That I can’t be what you need. That you deserve better than someone like me. Someone who’s barely hanging on. Someone who doesn’t know how to hold you without wondering if he’s gonna fuck it all up.”

You touched his face slowly. Like you were afraid he’d flinch away. But he didn’t. He let you, for the first time, he really let you.

“I don’t want someone else,” you whispered, and your thumb brushed his cheek, and your eyes were wet even though you were trying not to fall apart. “I wanted you. I still do.”

And when he started to move again, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and deep. Like he was trying to give you everything he’d held back for so long. His hands ran over your body like he was learning it all over again. His lips pressed to your shoulder, your jaw, your mouth. He looked at you the whole time, like he didn’t want to forget your face.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice shook, and his thrusts stayed steady, “I love you, I love you....fuck, I love you.”

You cried into his kiss. Your hands wrapped around his neck and your body trembled as he whispered all the stupid, sweet things he never let himself say before. You’re mine. I’ll do better. I need you. Please don’t leave.

And then, somewhere in the middle of it, somewhere between your broken sobs and his desperate kisses, he grabbed you tight, pulled you against him, and whispered it like a promise, like a threat, like a man who was finally ready to fight for something.

“Fuck that,” he growled, his voice suddenly shaking with something angry and scared and real. “You’re not leaving me. You’re mine. I don’t care how bad I am at this. I’m not letting you go.”

You were still crying. He was still shaking. And everything was still so goddamn complicated.

But he stayed, and that was a start.

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

idk what this is honestly ...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley smut

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terraswallows · 3 days ago

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The Curse of Loving Like a Trans Lesbian.

I think the most beautiful and cruel part of being a trans girl—especially one overflowing with emotion—is just how affectionately, how deeply, we love.

There's no “casual” setting for us. No dimmer switch. We fall in love hard, like we end up staying up too late just to hear her breathe on the other end of the line.

Especially when it’s with her, you know the one—it feels like everything hits deeper. Every touch, every giggle, every sleepy cuddle while sharing a blanket that's too small.

We get attached so fast—not because we're weak, but because we feel everything. Because we see each other, hold space for one another in ways the world often never has.

And when the visit ends… when the door closes, or the screen goes dark, or the warmth beside you is suddenly gone—?

It feels like a heartache. Like your entire world has quietly unraveled and no one else even noticed.

You walk around suddenly feeling extremely touch-starved, or wearing her clothes because they still smell like her. We are suddenly aching for the weight of her arms, her voice, her little silly rituals she does that only you know about.

You can try to play it cool, but you know deep down, your whole soul is just screaming:

“Please come back. Please hold me again. I need to feel your touch.”

But the truth is… this is part of the magic too.

Because when two trans girls fall in love—

we really do fall in love.

It’s not just romance to us, it’s something more.

Because being a trans girl in love? Can be heartbreaking at times, sure.

But, it’s so worth it.

#trans #trans community #transgender #mtf trans #transfem #lgbtq #lgbtqia #trans woman #transgirl #sapphic

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captainhufflepuff501-blog · 10 hours ago

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Aaaaahhhhh I love them so much!!!! I'm normal about them I promise

Time may pass but my love for you remains the same ❤️‍🩹✨️

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lostazuree · 3 days ago

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WELL HELLO THERE!!

Really nice to meet you btw!

I wanted to ask for some hq smut. Short thingsies or hc are ok for me! I want the Wedding night, like, no brutal fucking, genuinly making love to fem reader.

I really really want Oikawa n Tsukishima and if you feel like him too, i would love Sakusa too

THANK U SM OMFG 🫶😭

⚝₊˚𖦹౨ৎ— Wedding Night.ᐟ ♡

⚝ Haikyuu!! Boys x Reader!

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: Wedding night love making! -NSFW, Praise, soft smut, fluff-ish, penetration, light cussing.

ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: Oikawa Tooru, Tsukishima Kei, Iwaizumi Hajime, Kuroo Tetsurou, Miya Atsumu, Kageyama Tobio .ᐟ

𖦹 ᴏɪᴋᴀᴡᴀ ᴛᴏᴏʀᴜ .ᐟ

This man was beaming the whole day, wider than ever before, too quiet, like one wrong word and he might wake up to an empty bed for the end of his dream. He was a giddy schoolgirl when he saw you in that dress, wanting to cry when you walked down the aisle. He couldn't wait for these guests to leave, so he could have you to himself.

When you both reached the room, he lifted you up and twirled you around, grinning in not the usual charming way, but a more genuine, boyish way as he whispered, "God, finally, finally. I can't breathe!" He settled you down on his bed, laying you down while his lips were latched to yours, he mumbled in a few praises about how good you looked, how lucky he is to get to call you his wife now as you both giggled over things previously unsaid, and how he's now acting all sappy. He lied you down on the bed, unzipping your dress.

"You look so, so stunning tonight, I forgot I was even there, angel." He hummed, looking at you with a faint smile as he took a moment to admire you, hands trailing down every inch like he's been dreaming of this for too long, in that moment, I believe he'd want to drop his teasing & cocky persona for the moment, (Do not get used to it) He's thanking to whatever supreme deity there is above, because this is his greatest win in life.

He makes it his goal to make this as good as possible, to pour his soul about just how much he loves you, in ways his words would fail to express, he wants to show you just how much. Leaving faint lovebites on your neck he's sure to get swatted for in the morning, his mouth trailing low, and hands even lower. "Tell me to stop when it gets too much.", oh, sweetheart. He's practically fawning over you, eyes darting everywhere as he pulls your thighs apart, tip sliding against your entrance, soon lowering himself into you, slowly, like he wants you to feel every inch of him, giving you time to breathe. "Y'know, I really lucked out in highschool." He hummed in your ear, voice laced with something you couldn't pin down. He was enjoying this, these little ministrations were getting to him. Praises, praises, & praises as he's cupping your breast, lightly pinching the nipple while your eyes roll back. He's just giddy, slow yet deep thrusts delving into you while his hands caress you and hold you down, your hands tangling in strands of his hair, tugging him closer, his cock hitting your spots repeatedly, unhurriedly, hands pinning yours to the bed when he picks up a steadier pace, while he's kissing you over and over again till you fall apart on his hands, "T-..Toru..", absolutely thrives on sounds. "On it." Doesn't give you a chance to complain as he pushes himself deeper, not rough, just slow. His thrusts soon falter when you two near, eventually releasing. Will hold you and cuddle you to sleep afterwards, whispering in your ear how he's once again that lovesick second year who fell for you. He plops down on the bed breathlessly beside you. "I promise to love you and cherish you whole heartedly, forever, even if death do us part, and I'd love you now and forever, until the next life I get to share with you." No way did this idiot just recite his vows again after ...sex?! "Toru, you fuckin' dumbass.", "Just makin' sure, wifey." and he chuckled, for this is what he wants to wake up to everyday, for you are the win for everytime he lost in his life. -And honestly, you wouldn't have it any other way.

𖦹 ᴛꜱᴜᴋɪꜱʜɪᴍᴀ ᴋᴇɪ .ᐟ

He really didn't care that it was his day as well. It was yours. He really couldn't care less about the wedding guests, if he'd be asked to recall his favourite parts of the wedding, there won't be a single face other than yours in his head.

The whole ceremony, he looked nowhere but you. And finally when the 'lousy guests' as he says, were gone, he couldn't wait to get you. He's smiling, watching you twirl around in your dress, showing off how pretty you looked. "Of course you did, I picked that dress." He looks at you with such a fond little smile, grabbing you by the hand as he pulls you on the bed with him, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. "You looked jaw-dropping." he included while you loosened his tie, exchanging a few snarky remarks about how you just can't get your hands off him.

But soon, he's the one who can't get his hands off you. Pushing your dress off your shoulders, he's visibly taken aback by the view, audibly swallowing as he whispers in, a few praises that sound foreign to his own ears. He's not a man of many words, but he'll gladly fill your ears with praises if he gets his fill of you. Leaning in, he kisses your lips, before those kisses trail down your neck, to your chest, like he's trying to engrave every inch to his brain through his lips. You hummed something about him taking credit as usual, hands tangling in his hair, and he smirked. He lays you flat against the bed as you two bicker about how your life turned out here from your highschool days, giggles and chuckles turning into moans, gasps and whimpers as he's into you, pulling out- not all the way before going back in, slow, considerate. "Back then I never knew why you stuck around, but I guess, now you're stuck around, forever.", "Willingly. Ring off or on." you muttered out breathlessly with a smile. And he gives you such a childish, sheepish even, grin. "I suppose that's right, You never stopped being cheesy." He leaned in to kiss you before you could make any sounds of protest at his reply, his kiss deep and passionate like he's been meaning to pour confessions worth a decade into it. He retains his pace, slow, deep thrusts into your aching cunt, holding your thighs stable in his hands when he feels your body shaking, walls clenching around his length, he bites his lip, letting out a shaky exhale as he kisses your forehead.

"Mhm..you're doing such a good job, darling." His voice is so uncharacteristically soft, like he's trying to reassure both you and himself that it's happening really happening, his eyes never leaving yours. And after a while, his pace and rhythm falters, he grunts, tilting your head up as he presses another kiss to your forehead while you both come undone. He holds you in his arms, hands running through your hair as he whispers some breathless promises that you both are too hazy to remember, "You've no idea how much I've dreamt of this, Mrs. Tsukishima." and that comment doesn't just make you giddy, but also him.

𖦹 ɪᴡᴀɪᴢᴜᴍɪ ʜᴀᴊɪᴍᴇ .ᐟ

It's one of those rare times you've never seen him in a rush, one of those times where he's patient, happy, like he's genuinely filming this whole day in his head, filming you in his head, because he knows he'll never live this day again.

He stayed back, waving those guests off, making you wonder whether if this was even the same man before he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you to the room with the widest grin you've seen on him. "God, you look so pretty, I can't take my eyes off of you." He chuckled, crashing his lips with yours as he set you down on the bed.

"Hard to believe I bagged a wife, one as pretty as you, love." He rested his forehead against you as you began to loosen his tie, his hands slowly, carefully undressing you like he's unwrapping a present, which is true, after all, you are kind of one, to him. He took a moment to admire you, his calloused hands hovering over your skin hesitantly before you pulled him closer and he got the message. His hands now roaming over your body like he's analyzing a court, his eyes focused, but soft, his lips dragging themselves from your lips to your neck as he bit down, leaving marks on places he'd be very proud of, later. He's so sappy as he positions himself between your thighs, the faintest tint of pink on his cheeks as his tip rubs against your folds. This is the softest you've ever seen him aside from the day he dropped juice over himself while confessing to you back in highschool. He's looking at you the whole time, gouging your reaction as he pushes inside you, slowly. His eyes are so wide and dreamy, panting softly before he buries his face in your neck, his rhythm never faltering. "You've made me the happiest man alive, baby. I'll make sure I return the favor. Everyday." and you can't help but giggle at his giddy behaviour, It's hard to believe he's the same Iwaizumi, who's now a blushing, sappy mess while he's rolling his hips against yours, hand clenching the headboard, veins rippling in his arms from just how tight his grip is. But all of that just makes you fall in love with him more, after all, what's a better feeling than being confessed love to, over and over again while you're struggling to think straight from just how big his cock is?

His pace doesn't falter too quick, it's his goal to get you to orgasm, but you know he's close when he's grunting a little more, the veins on his dick twitching as he's panting. Eventually, after you've both been milked dry, he plops down on the bed, pulls you on his chest, his big arms circling you whole as you whisper, "Haji, baby, I love you too." and he grins, hands caressing your hair, until his sappy mode turns back on. "You make my days a far more bearable. Thank you, darling.", he's blushing the entire time, praying you don't see him so flustered because he doesn't even know why he is. But he knows, he wants to stay like this for the rest of his life.

𖦹 ᴋᴜʀᴏᴏ ᴛᴇᴛꜱᴜʀᴏᴜ .ᐟ

He's so uncharacteristic, donned up in a suit and blushing like a maiden when you stood infront of him at the altar, hands unstable and fingers fidgeting, his mind was reeling with words unsaid, grinning at you like he did for the first time he laid his eyes on you.

"I'm still mentally not here, it's unfair how beautiful you looked." He smiled, cupping your face as he joked, in order to retain some semblance of his breaking composure, he could frankly cry from just thinking that he's married now, that too, to the person of his dreams. He pushed himself off the wall, placing a chaste kiss to your lips, which soon turned deeper, more passionate as he lifted you up in his arms and placed you on the bed, climbing over you with the widest grin you've seen on him. Not the cocky grin you're used to, but more like a lovestruck expression you see on kids when they get a crush. Boyish, unfiltered. His hands travel across you body, undressing you slowly, his breath hitching when you undid his buttons. He slid the dress off you, his eyes trailing, eyeing you up and down appreciatively.

"You're gawking like a damn virgin, Tetsu." You teased him, he chuckled as he lied you down impatiently, his touch leaving trails of heat in their wake. "I can't help it. You're too, too pretty for your own good." he kissed your cheek, hands cupping your soft mounds as he squeezed them, hands spreading your plush thighs. "And hey, I'm allowed to gawk at what's mine." He mused, whispering in your ear, hands caressing your thighs softly, like he's mapping them inch by inch with his hands before he parts them, positioning himself in between, his tip pressed right against your entrance. "Push me away when you feel like.", he reassures you before his cock slides inside your pussy, slow, deliberate, stretching you out while your nails dig into his shoulder, clawing at his chest. He looks at you, eyes locked on the your face, both to check how you're feeling, and admire it. "Y'know...you kinda blessed me before the priest did." He grinned, sheepish at his cheesy jokes, which, sure, sound insufferably corny, but are sincere. He holds you down, lavishing you with kisses, hickies as he tells you just how proud he is, how incredibly lucky he must've been that he's at this point in life. You don't know which point though- the relationship or the current ongoing sex, but you were fine by both.

He continued his thrusts and sheepish praises, his hands occasionally caressing your body so it wouldn't be too aching for you, your moans and gasps making his eyes roll back, his breathing heavy and ragged when your fingers tangled in locks of his hair, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your lips when he felt your pussy clenching around him more desperately. You were close, so was he. Still, he rode you through your orgasm, and took a moment to admire how you looked beneath him. "You're the hardest, yet the best thing I ever had to win over, but I'll do it all over again. In every life." He whispered against your neck, arms trapping you in his embrace as you two bantered about his cheesy antics. He looked at you and thought to himself, about just how blissful his mornings are going to be, starting from tonight.

𖦹 ᴍɪʏᴀ ᴀᴛꜱᴜᴍᴜ .ᐟ

Atsumu was a self-assured, confident man, until your wedding day. He was freaking out, all emotional and hyper when he saw you, dolled up for him in a white dress, and when you stood infront of him at the altar, he'd already shed a few tears from just how enchanting you looked, from how you were now gonna be his.

You had to calm his brain down, because oh boy, was he a teary-eyed, giggling mess who couldn't stop hugging you with those big arms of his, refusing to let you go. "Jesus, 'm god. 'tis real, yer' real!" his eyes were shining, hair fallen over them. He had the silliest grin on his face, it was like his hands had a mind of their own, ad he just couldn't bring himself to stop kissing you. After a long smooch-session, he plopped down on the bed and pulled you over himself, his calloused yet careful fingers brushing strands of your hair away, so he could meet your eyes. "Yer' m' wife now, can ya believe that? Hell, I can't!" and you two giggled over a few things that lead to one another.

Soon, he flipped you over, his mellow eyes scanning your face while you fiddled with his tie and buttons, sliding his shirt off, letting your hands roam over his broad, built figure. He hummed in content, pushing your own dress down as he left feather-light, hot kisses over your body. Neck, chest, collarbone, stomach, just wherever his lips could land. "Yer' so, so pretty, I wonder how I landed ya." He whispered, his tongue soon circling your nipple and his fingertips drawing patterns across your thighs. "..'Tsumu-", you croaked out, and thankfully, he took the signal. His hands now parted your thighs to a good distance, positioning himself between your legs as he wrapped them around his waist. "Sweetheart, hold on tight, 'kay?" He whispered in your ear as his cock made contact with your glistening folds, his fingers twirling strands of your hair around them, the other hand holding the head board.

And with those words, he finally lowered himself inside your entrance, bit by bit, savoring the moment as you clung to him, a sputtered string of incoherent praises leaving his lips at how good you felt, how desperately your hands tried to hold onto his sturdy shoulders when he picked up his place, though by only a notch. His hands caressed whatever part of your skin they landed on, soothing you while you arched into his touch. Not long after, you were spent. And he once again cradled you in his arms. "Baby, yer' gonna marry me, right?" he whispered, and you looked at him incredulously, "..'Tsumu, we just got married, today." and he was quick to retort with a wide, enamored yet sheepish grin, "Again, for good measure." and at that, he knew he fumbled so many things, but today, he made a decision worth a blissful lifetime.

𖦹 ᴋᴀɢᴇʏᴀᴍᴀ ᴛᴏʙɪᴏ .ᐟ

The ever quiet, maybe even stoic and aloof individual is so, so close to his breaking point, he can't focus on anything else aside from how angelic you look, so much so, that he almost forgets that he's the one marrying you, and he's not here to watch.

He isn't quite at all, giggling and blushing like a dopey, intoxicated teen who had his first taste of alcohol. His hands are unable to keep themselves off you as he backs you against a wall, peppering your face in kisses, "It's impossible for me to convey just how much I waited for this.." He trails off as he locks his gaze with yours, leaving a fluttering kiss to your lips. "..for you." He continues sheepishly as he scoops you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest, whispering sweet nothings like a prayer as he sets you down on the bed. His hands slowly tugging out your accessories and the laces of your dress, letting it fall apart as he stared at you with wide eyes.

"Oh, god, wake me up. Wake me up." He mumbled under his breath as his hands finally made contact with your body, his touch light and reverent. "You're awake, Kags." you couldn't help but tease him at his flustered reaction, and he just frowned at you, cheeks still tinted with a faint pink as he narrowed his eyes at you, clicking his tongue in faux annoyance, "I know that.", but his frown softened when you chuckled, pulling him over you, his fingers brushing strands of your hair away from your face. "I really must have done something praise-worthy that I ended up with you.", he whispered meekly while you continued teasing him that you too, didn't know how you fell for this brooding introvert. "Oh please. Shut up." He grumbled as he pushed your legs apart, feeling the skin with his fingers while his teeth grazed over your neck and chest, leaving streaks of faint red wherever they touched.

He took a few deep breaths as he lined up his cock against your dripping cunt, taking a moment to look at you, before he slowly pushed himself in, waiting for you to adjust to him. "You look so pretty like this." He whispered in your ear, his cock throbbing as you moan next to his ears. But really, he's been doing a fairly well job keeping his cool as he resumes his thrusting. His hand holds your thigh to steady you, the other under your waist as you arch your back. He's close, really close, but so are you. So after a euphoric orgasm from you two, he pulls you close to him, he's silent, his hands caressing your body before he let's out a whisper which sounds like he's holding tears, "Thank you, love."

A/N: I hope my blatant favouritism for a particular character in this wasn't too obvious, lmao.

Sorry if it's toooo long, I just poured my heart and soul into this. (๑•﹏•)

(Couldn't include Sakusa because I have slight trouble writing for him)

Thank you for reading!

Likes and Reblogs, and your opinions, would be highly appreciated! 🎀

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science-hoes · 2 days ago

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Robby is a physician. He’s a brilliant physician. He was ranked number one by every single emergency program he applied to for residency and fellowship.

So he shouldn’t be so frustrated that he can’t come in you.

It’s all so new to him. After you and Jack and Dana and just about every other loved one in his life suggested he go to therapy, he visited a psychologist and didn’t hate it. The psychologist prescribed him an SSRI for his anxiety and depression, and it’s been a miracle drug to him.

His days are brighter, his jaw is unclenched, and the back of his neck finally has a break from being rubbed raw as a nervous tic. There’s only one problem.

After a couple of months adjusting to the medicine, he’s fucking you, pounding his hips into yours over and over and over and over. But he doesn’t come. It’s like his finger is on the trigger, pushing down as hard as he can, but the gun will not fire.

At first, you both brush it off as a particularly stressful day. The next time it happens, you both blame the wine from dinner. But the third time? Robby is fucking pissed.

His only reason for living most days (aside from loving you) is to fill you up with his cum, watching it drip out of your weeping pussy, dreaming of the day your IUD expires and his seed finally takes.

You blame yourself for a while, worried that he isn’t as attracted to you, or you’re unable to stimulate him to release. Robby nearly strokes out at the presumption that you don’t make him feel good. You’re what brought life back into him. Every squeeze of your pussy and rock of your hips drives him absolutely insane. He spends the better half of that night assuring you that you make him feel good.

Luckily, Robby is a man of science. When the experimental protocol fails, troubleshoot. There are several failed attempts: roleplay, extended foreplay, asphyxiation, bondage. None of which brought him over the edge.

Until you have your IUD removal appointment without telling him. When you ride him that night, a smirk crawls onto your face. “I got my IUD removed today.”

The admission alone is enough to make Robby’s hips stutter. “You- what?” He croaks.

You roll your hips harshly against his, taking every generous inch of his cock into yourself. “My IUD is out. Means you can fuck a baby in me now.”

It was like you were dangling a raw, juicy steak in front of a wolf. He was literally salivating at the thought of getting you pregnant. “You wanna have my baby?” He asked, brow furrowed, eyes glimmering with hope.

You bounce faster, your hands pressed against his soft abdomen for balance. “I wanna have your baby, Michael.”

That’s enough. A whole month of pent up cum blasts into you. It catches you both off guard, the way his entire body convulses. His screams are vile and drug from the depths of his core, trembling underneath you. His cum leaks out of you before he’s even finished unloading, pulsing for a good while after you’ve finished rocking your hips. It’s so much fluid, negating any friction that existed before. Your eyes roll back at the absolute fullness.

“Jesus, Robby.” You moan, falling forward into his arms.

Robby just pants, keeping you close against his chest slick with sweat. “I’m sorry, kid.” He grumbles, letting out a struggled cry as his cock pulses again.

You peppered his neck with butterfly kisses, matching the flutters of his length inside you. “Don’t apologize.” You whispered. “I think you came enough for it to work the first time.”

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch #dr robby #doctor robby #noah wyle #michael robinavitch smut #dr robby x reader #dr robby smut #doctor robby smut #doctor Robby x reader

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multi-fandom-imagine · 1 day ago

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Heyy same anon from the kpop demon hunters question! Gonna try and not spoil the movie for my request lol, I loved the movie and its message and Ik Jinu wanted to be free but GOD I want him back so I NEED to have him and reader having first time + emotional yearning sex after he comes back in some way plzplzplzplz (Whether reader is a huntrix member or not is up to you haha)

A/n: still fuming about what happened to him, annny who. I hope you like it!

The blood on your hands isn’t yours.

It’s slick and warm and staining your shirt as you clutch Jinu to your chest, half-dragging, half-guiding him into your apartment. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be alive.

But here he is.

Breathing—barely.

“Shit,” you choke out, lowering him gently onto your couch. “Jinu—how—?”

“I missed you,” he says instead of answering. His voice is hoarse, cracked around the edges, like something burnt and broken and still clinging to the memory of being whole.

You press trembling fingers to his cheek, daring to believe what you’re seeing. His skin is pale, his side is bleeding through his shirt, but it’s him. The boy who had sacrificed himself to save you. The boy who vanished in a flash of demonic light while you screamed his name.

“You died, Jinu.”

“I came back.” He shudders, reaching for you with blood-streaked fingers. “For you.”

You break. Collapsing into his chest, you cry against his collarbone, barely noticing the way he winces in pain, arms wrapping tightly around you anyway. You feel like you’re breathing underwater—like you’re drowning in disbelief, relief, and aching joy all at once.

He’s here. He’s here.

“I thought I’d never feel you again,” you whisper into his neck.

His voice is ragged. “Then feel me.”

Your eyes meet his—soft golden, wet with unshed tears. There’s no teasing in them now. No idol’s smirk. Just raw, exposed want… and grief and yearning and need.

You kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. Frantic. A crash of mouths and teeth and breathless gasps as you straddle his lap. His blood seeps into your clothes, but you don’t care. You cup his face, fingers trembling as you kiss him like it’ll tether him to the world again. Like you can kiss him into staying.

“Tell me this is real,” you whisper against his lips. “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

“You’re not,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I only feel real when I’m touching you.”

You tug off your shirt, stripping off the remnants of battle-stained clothing. He watches you like you’re something divine, eyes devouring every inch of bare skin as if memorizing you is the only thing keeping him alive.

“Lie back,” you breathe, guiding him down carefully, mindful of his injury. You straddle him again, skin pressed to skin, and he groans as your lips trace his throat.

His cock is already hard beneath you—hot, twitching, and aching with the same hunger you feel in every nerve ending. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, both of you gasping when the tip nudges your pussy.

You sink down slowly.

His hands clutch your hips, trembling. You feel every inch of him stretch you open, fill you, claim you like he was meant to be inside you all along. Like his body remembers yours.

“Oh, fuck—Jinu,” you moan, grounding yourself with your hands on his chest.

His voice is wrecked. “I dreamed of this. Every second I was gone, I dreamed of being inside you.”

You ride him slow, bodies molded together like you’re trying to erase the days, weeks, months of loss. Every roll of your hips is a promise. Every breath is a prayer. His eyes don’t leave yours, even as they flutter with each tight clench of your pussy around his cock.

You’re crying again—you don’t know when the tears started—but they fall silently down your cheeks as you move above him. Jinu reaches up, thumbing them away with infinite tenderness.

“I didn’t die for the world,” he says softly, “I died for you. And I came back because… I couldn’t stay gone. Not from you.”

Your body trembles, your climax cresting like a wave of holy fire—raw, sacred, blissful. You gasp his name as you come, pussy clenching tight around him. He cries out beneath you, hips bucking as he spills deep inside you, arms crushing you to his chest.

You lay there for a long while, tangled in each other. Breathing each other in. Hearts pounding in sync, his fingers weaving in your hair keeping you close.

“Don’t leave me again,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his.

“I won’t,” he vows. “Even if I die again, I’ll find a way back. I’ll always find you.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you clung to him as you slowly nodded your head. You believed him and like Jinu, you would find any way to bring him back.

Because he was your soulmate and you'd never leave him behind.

#drabbles #drabble #smut #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #Jinu #jinu kpdh #jinu x reader #Jinu x you #netflix #kpdh #kpdh x reader

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trashytracktales · 14 hours ago

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Girl i need. NEED. Lando and reader sneaking out of their own wedding to fuck. i can’t get it out of my head pls pls pls pls.

like imagine himmmm: obsessed with how she looks, can’t stop being handsy and touchy and always looking for kisses and attention that at some point he drags her in some bathroom and gets under her massive bridal skirt AAAASSAASNFHDJS i can’t pls pls make it happen 😭😭

5 minutes. 7, tops | LN⁴

☁️ summary ──── Lando has never been the one to resist her. And on their wedding day, when she looks the most beautiful he’s ever seen her, wrapped in white and glowing just for him, he doesn’t even try.

☁️ pairing ──── Lando Norris x Wife!Reader

☁️ rating ──── explicit

☁️ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, dirty talk, swearing, banter and emotional intimacy, smut, semi-public, brief fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, teasing, possessiveness, unprotected (bathroom) sex.

☁️ word count ──── 4.2k

☁️ date ──── Jun. 22, 2025

☁️ a/n ──── Based on this ask, this os was highly requested for some reason, so take a slice until I find a way to finish the other 5 I started 🫴🏻🍰

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” a voice cuts through the air, loud and vibrating with excitement. “For the first time ever, I have the honor to present you: Mr. and Mrs. Norris!”

A set of double doors at the back of the hall swing open, and a wave of applause and cheers rolls forward as the newly married couple appears in sight.

Lando is holding her hand tightly, like he has no plans of letting go ever again. He looks like a fairytale, wearing a tailored black suit with clean lines down the legs, the kind of cut that says money but doesn’t scream it. His shirt is a stark white beneath, the collar buttoned all the way up, his tie coordinating perfectly with her dress without being too much. There’s a hidden message in those seemingly small choices that might go unnoticed. But they say more than words ever could. No loosened collar means a man who knows exactly who he belongs to, and the matching tie means that, from now on, every step is made with her in mind.

His smile is blinding, spreading all over his face and lighting his features with happiness. He’s not smiling for the crowd or cameras, but for her. His eyes keep flicking sideways to catch hers like he still can’t believe this is real.

“Let’s go, Landooo!” someone shouts, making the guests laugh, and his smile blooms even further.

They walk in perfect harmony toward the center of the room, surrounded by clapping and whistles, artificial fog and confetti, and her dress molds softly against her legs as they move, his steps steady and sure, despite the fact that on the inside, Lando already fainted three times, received CPR twice, and died once.

They reach the dance floor, and as the first notes of their song begin to play, everything shifts. The noise drops off almost instantly, the crowd falling silent, while the lights dim just a little. The music fills the room with something much heavier than melody just as Lando places a hand on her waist, fingers brushing the fabric of her dress. Her back fits perfectly against his palm, and when she gazes up at him with those eyes that still make his heart skip more than one beat, lips curling into a smile that’s been haunting his thoughts ever since the day he’s met her, Lando is gone.

Her dress glimmers, hugging her curves like it was crafted for the sole purpose of undoing him. And truth is, it was.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, starting to guide her in the steps they’ve been practicing for months now. It became muscle memory, carved into quiet mornings before he left for work or rehearsed in his driver’s room between practice sessions; they’ve been stealing moments whenever they could, and now everything blends together effortlessly, like it was always meant to lead here.

She giggles, blushing a little but enjoying the way his voice drops when he’s being honest. Honest and absolutely in love with her.

“Don’t you have other lines, Mr. Norris?” she teases, eyes sparkling under her curled lashes.

He leans in, lips slightly brushing her ear. “Not unless you want to show everyone in here how you melt if I say something else,” he replies under his breath.

She looks at him again, emboldened by the intimacy in his words. “Like what?” she challenges him.

Lando’s jaw clenches. He spins her slowly, her dress fanning out, revealing just enough leg to make his vision blur. When she lands back in his arms, her chest presses against him, and he hisses softly.

“For starters, your boobs look insane in that corset,” he says, eyes flicking down for the briefest second.

She exhales a soft sigh, half scandalized, half thrilled, her fingers tightening around his shoulder.

“It’s torture,” adds Lando, his mouth hovering dangerously close to hers. “I was hard the second you walked down that aisle.”

The girl finally gasps, eyes darting to his. “Lando.”

“I’m so serious, baby,” he insists, laughing softly. “It hasn’t let up. I don’t know how I’m supposed to wait ‘til we get home,” he punctuates it with a look so intense that her knees nearly give out. She clutches his shoulder firmly, her pulse slowly rising, everything below her waist aching at the thought. “I just want to fuck my wife.”

Well, shit.

The word echoes in her head like church bells, giving her chills all over her body — wife, wife, wife! She loves the way he says it, like it’s something he’s earned. She melts further into his frame, their bodies brushing in a way far too suggestive for the room full of people watching them.

She lifts her chin, brushing her nose against his in the barest tease of affection. “You’re not the only one suffering, you know,” she whispers, her lips grazing his. “I’ve been a mess since I saw you in this tux,” she continues, smoothing the material with her palms sliding down his chest. “My husband looks like sex.”

Lando lets out a high-pitched chuckle. “Shoot me in the balls, it would hurt less.”

“I really appreciate the visuals,” she laughs in return.

He twirls her once more, slower this time, his eyes never leaving her. When she lands back in his arms, her back arches just slightly, pressing her breasts against his chest. It’s easy to feel the shift in him, and how his fingers tighten around every part of her body that he’s touching.

As the song is coming to an end, Lando’s hand slides up to her throat, holding her there. Her breath catches right away, but he doesn’t wait for permission. He already got it the moment she said yes to him in fornt of their families, friends, and the entire world. So he crashes his mouth to hers, putting up a show for everyone, without shame. It’s not the delicate kind of kiss people expect during a first dance. It’s months of tension and restraint, and the thrill of calling her his wife unleashed all at once. Her fingers curl into the lapels of his suit, so dizzy that she can barely hear the music anymore. But she feels it in the way their bodies sway together, the way the room goes still again, before the crowd erupts in wild applause.

Just as the final chord fades out, his lips leave hers, bringing her back to reality.

“Should we dip?” asks Lando, staring at her with a subtle look.

She arches a brow, grinning. “Dip?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs with a slight tilt of his head, completely serious despite the smirk. “Sneak out. Just for a bit.”

Her eyes widen. “We can’t leave our own wedding, Lando. We literally just got here.”

He smiles, leaning in closer, voice laced with enough honey to make her swoon. “Come on,” he insists. “Just a quickie in the bathroom,” his lips touch her cheek gently as he speaks, “We’ll be five minutes. No one’s gonna notice.”

She pulls back to shoot him a questionable look. “Five minutes?”

Lando rolls his eyes. “Alright. Seven, tops,” he says.

Her pulse is jumping wildly as she presses a hand to his chest, half to hold him back, half to steady herself. “Baby, our parents are here.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “As if we didn’t go at it in my childhood bedroom with my mum watching The Crown across the hall,” says Lando in a casual voice, studying her face. “What?”

“You’re such an idiot,” she says, fighting to hide a smile.

In response, Lando lifts his left hand to her eye level. “Your idiot,” he reminds her, pointing at the ring on his finger. “Forever.”

The girl shakes her head. “Your point?” she asks.

Lando grins. “I’ll make it fast, darling,” he assures her, his hand sliding around her waist, fingers pressing into the small of her back. “I’ll be in and out. Like, literally”

“So romantic,” she says sarcastically. “My husband, everybody!”

Just then, the voice of the wedding planner cuts in again, echoing through the mic like a divine intervention, “Now that the dance floor is officially heated up,” she calls cheerfully, “We’d love for all of you to join the lovely couple and let’s get this party started!”

She hesitates. For just a second, and that second is all he needs. He sees the flicker in her eyes, the war between logic and lust and, luckily, he knows her too well to know exactly which one’s winning this time.

With a playful wink, he intertwines his fingers with hers and gives her hand a gentle, insistent tug. “Come on, Mrs. Norris.”

As they weave through the crowd, hands still clasped tightly, guests stop them every few steps, offering hugs and heartfelt congratulations. They smile, nod, thank everyone politely, but there’s a quiet urgency in their movements, a shared look between them like they’re trying not to be swept up in the chaos. If they could melt into the walls unnoticed, they would, but right now, all they want is to be alone.

For just five minutes. Seven, tops.

The second they disappear around the corner, his hand is already on her waist, pressing her back into the wall beside the bathroom door. His mouth finds hers again as hot as earlier, pulling soft whimpers out of her.

The bathroom is nothing short of extravagant, like everything else at this wedding. Soft golden sconces glow against marble, casting a warm light that reflects off the tall mirrors lining on the walls. The sinks are sculpted from polished stone, ivory and veined with gold, with delicate faucets that look more like something made by Michelangelo than plumbing. Plush white hand towels are rolled perfectly beside trays of expensive perfumes and colognes. Everything sparkles, and it smells like luxury: jasmine, sweet vanilla, and a hint of champagne.

They stumble through the door like they’re drunk, her giggles breathless and lips kiss-bitten, while Lando spins her gently and backs her toward the counter. Her body presses to the edge, dress fanning out as she leans back whithout resistence. Then her leg slips out from the slit in her gown, forcing Lando to drop to his knees immediately, as if pulled by gravity.

He shoots her one look, with dark eyes and puffy lips from all the kissing. His hands trail slowly up her thighs, parting them delicately, then pulling her panties down. The white of her dress pools around his shoulders, brushing against his cheeks and collar, framing him in folds of pearlescent fabric.

Her mouth goes dry at the sight of him; he looks angelic between her legs, surrounded by pure white, but when his tongue touches her, there’s nothing holy about it.

Lando groans the second his mouth finds her folds, his hot tongue lapping confident strokes that make her head tip back against the mirror with a dull thud. He said quickie, but doesn’t rush. He tastes her like he’s savoring the first gulp of water after the Singapore Grand Prix, and hearing her silent moans only makes him thirstier.

“Lan…” she whines, fingers tangling in his curls.

He smiles against her skin, already pulling back, lips wet and glistening. “You are a fucking dream,” he tells her. “Such a mess f’me, you don’t even need prepping.”

He’s up in a blink of an eye, lips brushig her jaw so lightly that she’s sure she imagined it, until Lando cups her face gently, thumb brushing her cheek as he tilts her chin up, searching for her eyes. The warmth of his other hand slides back between her legs, fingers sliding through slick heat. All he gives her is just a couple of slow pumps, the kind meant to tease and announce their presence, not satisfy. His eyes stay locked on hers the whole time, reading every shift of her breath like it’s a private language only he understands.

“You like being sneaky so much that you’re dripping already, hm?”

She’s trembling, thighs closing around his wrist. “No,” the girl lies.

Lando hisses. “No?” he shakes his head, laughing softly. “I think you like knowing they’re all out there celebrating us, while you’re in here soaking my fingers.”

He’s well aware of the effect he has on her; always were. He knows all it takes is just a little look, and she’s done for. It’s a power he’s been taking advantage of countless times in the past, but this time, he uses it almost like a gentle reminder. While maintaing that look, he unbuckles his belt with the other hand, the soft clink echoing in her head like choir of angels. Then, he unzips with practiced urgency, pushing his pants and briefs down just enough to free himself.

And she realizes that Lando was nothing but honest, as usual.

His cock is already hard and flushed, the head swollen, leaking slightly at the tip. He wraps his hand around the base with a quiet hiss through his teeth, dragging it once down his length. He keeps his other hand working between her legs in the meantime, coaxing her higher with every stroke.

“See what my wife does to me?” he asks rhetorically, then slows, easing his fingers out with maddening care, watching her with a knowing gaze.

She can barely breathe at this point.

Deftly, Lando’s hands land on her hips, hiking her dress up her waist, until white silk bunches around them, revealing the heated skin beneath. He hooks one of her legs up over his waist, angling her until her core presses right against him. He knows it was the perfect choice, because her back arches in an instant, and breath starts stuttering when she feels the head of his cock sliding through her folds, catching on her clit and dipping back down, spreading her wetness over both of them.

The skin-on-skin contact makes her whimper in anticipation.

“My pretty liar,” she says, making Lando puff out a sigh. She lets out a shaky breath, body already aching, but the longer he lingers, the more her frustration bubbles up. Her fingers grip his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “You said five minutes,” she whispers, eyes narrowed but glittering. “And now you’re playing games?”

His jaw clenches as he pushes forward, just enough for the head to catch against her entrance. Then, continuing to hold her gaze, he thrusts in. All the way.

Lando chokes on a breath. “I said seven, tops,” he defends himself.

He stills inside, eyes closing for a moment, brain gone entirely blank at the feeling of her, as if it’s the first time. Her pussy grips him tight, warm and slick and perfect and his, and for a second, all he can do is focus on his breathing. No coherent thoughts, no words, just the mind-shattering realization that he’s buried inside his wife.

Each breath is punctuated by the slow beginning of his hips rolling, starting to move, dragging his cock against her walls again and again, as if trying to relearn every inch of her from the inside out.

She’s maddening around him, her body molding to his like it was made for him to hold. In his selfishness, Lando actually believes she was. Because it’s not just the physical. It’s everything that bonded them over time. And now, it’s the weight of the ring on her hand as it clutches at his shoulder. The way she gasps his name like it’s the only word she knows. The look in her eyes that says, I’m only yours.

His breath gets shallow and unsteady in a way she’s never heard him before. Like Lando’s unraveling in real time, coming apart at the seams just from being inside her. And she moves with him, meeting every thrust with the same need. Her nails scrape gently down the back of his head, then dig in when he shifts just right, making her entire body shiver in response.

“Mine,” he chokes on the words, thrusts slowing for a heartbeat as if to savor it, while she hums in pleasure. “Feel how wet you are? That’s all me, yeah?”

She nods, but it’s not enough. She turns her head, mouth finding his jaw, his neck, trying to stay anchored in the moment while her body rocks with his. “Always you, my love,” she replies, sounding like she’s on the verge of despair.

His laugh is breathless, like she’s just broken something open inside him. “Fuck, I won’t last. Two minutes,” he informes her. “Dropped to two minutes.”

She laughs, too. But his next thrust is harder, less controlled, making her cry out instead, all needy and high-pitched. She gasps his name, fingers clawing at the lapels of his tuxedo jacket as his hips continue to move in earnest, thrusting into her with a delicious rhythm. She fumbles with the tie and buttons, trying to peel the fabric from his shoulders, craving more of his heat and skin and the way his muscles flex every time he slams forward. But Lando’s pace only increases, and it ruins her effort.

His jacket slips halfway off, one sleeve hanging limp from his arm, the other clinging stubbornly to his shoulder. He can’t stop. The sight of her like this, with her legs spread, dress hitched up, and soft body pulling him in with every thrust has obliterated every ounce of patience he had left.

“Fucking, fuck,” he growls, burying his face in her neck. His mouth presses a small kiss there, but his lips twitch with restraint, the need to mark her thrumming violently through him.

“Don’t,” she warns, knowing every filthy thought that’s ever crossed Lando’s mind.

“Please,” he whines. “Let them know I fucked you in the bathroom at our own wedding.”

Her voice trembles as she moans loudly, her arms locking around his shoulders, pulling him in closer. Her back arches off the counter, hips meeting his, as her body folds to the rhythm.

“You’re already fucking up my wedding dress,” she gasps, breath hot in his ear. “Trust me, baby. They’ll know.”

Lando pulls back to look at her, sweat beading at his temple, a gremlin-like smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s the only time you’re wearing it anyway.”

After that, his hands clamp down on her waist, firm to fuck her harder, burying himself to the hilt with each movement. She cries out, head falling on his shoulder, completely unraveling for him as her slick walls tighten around his cock. Her body clings to him in every possible way, shaking with the promise of release, and all Lando can do is just hold on, driven by the feel of her, the sound of her, the truth of what they are now.

Husband and wife. And so completely owned by each other.

Her body is ready to give up under his force, every inch of her strung tight with need, already teetering on the edge. Her hair’s falling in messy waves around her flushed face, eyes glassy as she encourages him to take her harder.

Fueled by her demand, Lando does exactly as he’s told.

“My wife.”

Thrust.

“Mine.”

Thrust.

“Making me go crazy.”

Thrust-thrust-thrust.

His words slam into her as hard as his hips do, leaving her gasping, dazed, dizzy. And wanting more. She lets out a string of moans, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket still stubbornly clinging to his shoulder. Her entire world feels like it’s collapsing around the rhythm of his body and the ragged devotion in his voice.

“You have no idea,” he grunts, “How fucking excited I am to fuck you like this for the rest of our lives.”

“I might have a few ideas,” she replies. “Especially if this is you before our wedding night. What’re you gonna do when I’m wearing nothing but your last name and asking for more?” she asks, tilting her hips enough to make him feel the shift. “Think you can keep up with me, husband?”

A guttural noise tears from his throat as he slams into her faster, chasing the release like it’s his lifeline. Their bodies slap together with wet sounds, the soft rustle of her dress and the quiet creak of the counter drowned beneath their wild breathing.

“That answers your question, eh?”

“Shit. Yes. Fuck,” she replies. “Lando,” the girl pants, mouth brushing his.

And then she breaks. Her orgasm hits fast and hard, her thighs shaking, body trembling as she cries out, voice echoing off the walls of his skull. But before she can fully scream, Lando covers her mouth with his, swallowing the sound.

Their kiss is messy and soaked in panting breaths and wet lips, and with her convulsing in pleasure beneath him, is too much for Lando to hold back. He thrusts deep once, twice, then groans into her mouth as he spills all his love and lust inside her. The blinding sensation knocks the air from his lungs, their bodies shaking together as they fall apart and hold each other through it.

Trying to catch her breath, her cheek rests against his shoulder, arms wrapped loosely around his back, one of her legs still hooked around his waist. His hands stay firm on her hips, not wanting to let go, still inside her, connected, and in no rush to move, because time doesn’t exist in this little corner of their universe.

But a few moments later, Lando lifts his gaze, catching sight of them in one of the tall mirrors. The reflection hits him hard: his dark curls are pointing in every direction, his jacket hangs crooked from one shoulder, tie just halfway undone. Her dress is wrinkled and bunched around her thighs, and her lipstick is smudged everywhere on his face from all the kisses they never planned to stop. And what truly gets him is the look in his own eyes — he’s glowing. Like he’s just crossed a finish line, but this time it wasn’t just him in the car.

He sees her holding onto him like she always will.

He sees himself holding her like she’s the only safe place he’s ever known.

Suddenly, he realizes he’s a husband now. Her husband. And he’s going to wake up to this woman for the rest of his life. Through every challenge, every joy, and every storm, he has a partner that’s here to stay. Even when life throws everything it can at him, she will be his constant. His only source of peace. His home.

Lando’s throat tightens, emotion rising so violently it nearly drowns him. Gently, he leans in, pressing his lips to the shell of her ear, breathing her in as he closes his eyes.

“I promise to always be yours,” he starts whispering his vows again. “To protect your heart like it’s my own.”

Her breath hitches, her brain just coming out of the haze of pleasure caused by her husband.

“To love you when things are easy,” he continues, “And love you even harder when they’re not.”

With teary eyes, her arms squeeze him tighter. Even if she finds it hard to hold him like that, because her body melts under the weight of his words, she does it because she knows how important it is for Lando to remind her that, at the end of the day, it’s about this: them.

She’s just about to whisper something back after Lando stops talking, but he’s always managed to leave her speechles, one way or another. This time, he reduces her to a soft moan when he slowly pulls out of her. At that, her body clenches involuntarily as the absence of him leaves her sensitive and throbbing. The warm aftermath of their pleasure slips slowly out of her, making her thighs twitch around the sensation.

Lando sighs as he watches it happen, forehead dropping to her shoulder.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, voice raspy as if he just woke up. “Didn’t mean to ruin the moment, but fucking hell. It kills me every time I pull out,” he explains, drawing back to look at her, his hand trailing over her thigh, possessive and adoring all at once.

She exhales a breathy laugh despite herself, her chest still rising and falling from the intensity, cheeks all flushed. “You’re such a boy,” she scolds playfully, giving his shoulder a half-hearted push, still giggling.

“I’m grieving,” he says, faking innocence.

“You’re done,” she cuts him off, the affection in her voice making it sound more like a vow than a complaint.

Still perched on the counter, she leans forward, trying to tame the wild curls now clinging to his forehead. Her fingers thread through his hair with the kind of tender frustration only a woman in love can pull off, pushing it back, smoothing it, even if it’s completely in vain.

Lando closes his eyes and hums like a man being worshipped. “That’s your mess, by the way,” he says satisfied.

“Yeah,” she agrees with a smile. “My beautiful mess.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

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bywons · 2 days ago

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DIE FOR YOU 𖥔 psh

𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐕𝐈， 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ ｡ 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽!𝗉𝗌𝗁 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1340────── fluff 𝗋𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 ✿‎ kissing 贅沢 𖥔

RB & FDBKS ◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ FOR KISSES

“who is it?” sunghoon shouts again, only to be met with silence.

the bell rings for the fourth time this day, leaving sunghoon confused in his kitchen, with a cold black coffee in his hand.

sunghoon doesn’t have much visitors, not anymore when he decided to leave the job, wash his hands from this overlooked burden on his shoulders. and yet he would catch specks of blood on him, not completely gone, still howling at him to come back.

he places the chipped black mug down on the counter, its cold contents sloshing dully against porcelain. the caffeine never worked anymore—not since the last assignment. not since the last bullet, the last betrayal.

the bell rings again, pulling a curse out of sunghoon under his breath.

“seriously?” he sighs to himself, thinking that it’s probably those naughty kids around the block, ding dong ditching random people, and so he just returns to his worn down couch and plops down on it.

ring. a fifth time.

“oh my god,” sunghoon gets up from the couch with a irritated frown, rushing towards the door, although he is used to open it for ghosts.

sunghoon yanks the door open with the kind of irritated force that suggests he’s ready to yell at a neighborhood kid—

but the words die in his throat.

his breath catches mid-exhale.

time halts.

because there you are.

soaked from head to toe in a thin, once-luxurious silk gown now clinging to your trembling frame. mascara smudged like bruises under your eyes. your hair—a carefully constructed crown of wedding curls—ruined by the rain and wind, clinging to your cheeks, your temples. a cut on your heel where you must’ve ran barefoot.

you’re breathing like you just outran the devil.

and maybe you did.

his breath leaves him like a punch to the chest.

“…you,” he breathes, as if your name has been locked behind his teeth for too long.

you look up at him with red-rimmed eyes, chest rising and falling erratically. “i didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper. “i didn’t want to go anywhere else.”

sunghoon doesn’t move. his fingers tighten around the doorframe, knuckles white, disbelief flickering through his features. you watch his throat bob as he swallows, gaze dragging across your ruined wedding gown, the slight bruise on your ankle, the cut near your heel.

“you look…” he pauses, voice uneven. “you look like you ran through hell.”

“i did,” you rasp, stepping forward, voice trembling. “right after i said no.”

his breath stutters.

you shift. “i ran away, hoon. from him. from all of it.”

“i thought you chose him,” he says, and the words cut through the quiet like a blade. “i thought you wanted that life.”

you shake your head. “i thought i did too. until i found out what he really was. a trafficker. a liar. everything you tried to protect me from.” a beat. “you were right.”

sunghoon exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair as if to ground himself. “you came back.”

“i never stopped thinking about you,” you whisper. “you think i forgot? the nights we spent hiding in plain sight, you holding your breath so no one would see us touching fingers under the table? i loved you, sunghoon.”

his name from your lips again—it’s a wound reopening. and you see it in the way his lips part, eyes shining with disbelief.

and so he drowns in it as well, all these nights of silent prayers to anybody in this universe listening to him, to bring you back to him, so he could hold you and kiss you again— it’s a miracle he really manifested.

“i thought you didn’t want me anymore,” you add, your voice cracking. “i thought you left for good.”

“i left so you’d be safe,” he growls, stepping forward. “you were never supposed to come back to this world.”

“well, I did,” you reply, lip quivering, eyes locked onto his. “and i’m not safe. not without you.”

and in that moment, something shifts.

he doesn’t speak.

he doesn’t warn you.

he just closes the door behind you with a soft click, and then he’s in front of you—warm and solid, eyes burning like storm-lit skies.

his hand cups your jaw, thumb swiping at the wet streak down your cheek, and when you lean into it, something inside him snaps.

“i shouldn’t do this,” he whispers.

the kiss he gives you is nothing like the last one you remember.

this one is wild. possessive. grieving.

you gasp against his lips, arms winding around his neck instinctively. he groans low in his throat as your bodies collide, heat blooming where the rain had only moments ago touched your skin. his other hand slides down your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left—until every regret, every unspoken word, melts into this collision of lips, teeth, and breathless longing.

the kiss is everything left unsaid. a thousand what-ifs poured into one breathless exchange.

he tastes like coffee and anger and regret. you taste like rain and ruin and hope.

when he pulls away, barely, your foreheads press together, breaths mingling between you.

“tell me this is real,” he murmurs between kisses, foreheads pressed together. “tell me i’m not dreaming again.”

“you’re not,” you whisper, kissing him again, slower this time, savoring the moment. “but we don’t have time. he’ll come looking. i need you to run with me, sunghoon.”

he stares at you.

and for a second, you see the soldier again. the protector. the man who once vowed to guard your life with his own.

“alright,” he says finally, voice rough. “pack light. i still know a place they can’t find us.”

you nod, tears of relief springing to your lashes.

he looks at you then—so full of emotion, like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. And you swear you see it again:

that same look he gave you the night before he vanished from your life.

the look of someone who wanted to stay, but loved you too much to do so.

now he’s choosing you.

he presses one last kiss to your cheekbone, slower, softer—then disappears into the back room with quick, silent steps. you stand in the doorway, dress clinging to your damp skin, breath catching in your chest as you watch the man you once lost move like muscle memory, like instinct never truly left him.

you press a hand to your lips, swollen and tingling from his.

and then— a sound.

low. distant. tires on gravel.

your heart stutters.

you turn your head just as beams of light—white, clinical, searching—slice through the trees beyond the window.

your breath stops.

a car. maybe more.

the rain has softened now, just enough for the faint growl of an engine to bleed into the silence like a warning note dragged across a string.

you don’t need to see it fully to understand.

they found you.

sunghoon returns, almost on cue, a black duffel slung over one shoulder and a gun in his hand—sleek, matte, quiet.

you flinch at the sight of it. it’s the final line he’s now willing to cross. again.

his jaw is tight, his eyes sharper than you remember. focused. lethal.

he doesn’t speak as he peers through the edge of the curtain. doesn’t blink as he steps silently to check the back exit, his every movement fluid, trained, automatic.

your chest tightens with every beat.

the cabin is small. the kind that creaks in places, holds secrets in floorboards, memories in walls. but now, under the low hum of approaching danger—it feels like a glass box.

trapped. exposed.

“i should’ve never dragged you into this,” you whisper, barely audible. but he hears.

he stops, turns toward you.

and the look in his eyes—god, it’s not regret. it’s conviction.

like he’s never been more certain of anything.

he strides to you in three swift steps and presses the gun gently into your trembling hands.

“stay behind me,” he says, quiet but firm. “no matter what happens.”

스루 ܃ don’t ask, i had this bodyguard hoon idea for quite a while now. couldn’t sleep so well last night, so i thought of writing a short drabble out of the idea TT if it does well, maybe i will release a full oneshot or a series on this ! hope you enjoy this 💌

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drewsephrry · 1 day ago

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Love Island - Episode 13: Pick me, Choose me, Love me

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

words: 4.9k

warnings: cuss words, sexual innuendos

series masterlist

The girls are gathered in the makeup room, getting ready for the recoupling. The atmosphere is thick, awkward and tense, like no one really wants to say what they’re thinking.

“So…a recoupling.” Cleo ventures, trying to break the silence. “That’s gonna be…interesting.”

No one really reacts. She clears her throat and turns to Y/N.

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” She asks and Y/N offers a small, instinctive smile.

“Honestly? I’m just excited to recouple with Rafe.” She says, a hint of giddiness slipping through. “But I do need to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Ryan first.”

“You’re going to talk to him?” Sarah asks, glancing up from her eyeshadow palette. Her eyes flick briefly to Kiara before returning to her brush. Y/N catches it and nods.

“It’s what he deserves.” Y/N says simply. “I can’t just leave things hanging like that. He needs to hear from me that I don’t see it going anywhere. Even if it’s hard. It’s not fair to let him think I might pick him when I won’t.”

The girls nod, quietly agreeing.

“You’re such a good person.” Cleo says warmly.

“I’m just trying to be honest.” Y/N replies with a shrug, meeting Kiara’s eye as she fans her eyelash glue dry.

Across the room, Abigail is rifling through her clothes in silence, round curlers perched on her head.

“Need a hand, Abi?” Y/N calls over.

Abigail turns with a soft smile and shakes her head.

“I’m good, thanks.” She responds.

Y/N gives her a knowing nod before turning her attention back to her makeup bag, the buzz of tension still lingering beneath the surface.

Later, when the girls make their way downstairs, Y/N spots Ryan sitting on the couch with Kelce and John B. She walks over, steady but warm.

“Hey.” She says with a soft smile as she stops in front of them.

The boys greet her and she turns to Ryan.

“Mind if I steal Ryan for a minute? I promise I’ll bring him back.”

“Keep him.” John B teases, earning a few light laughs as Ryan stands up. He places a casual hand on Y/N’s waist as she leads him toward one of the quieter couches, away from the others.

“You look incredible tonight.” He says as they sit down.

Y/N’s cheeks flush with color as she glances at her dress.

“Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Ryan leans back slightly, already sensing where the conversation is headed.

“I pulled you for a chat because…”

“You’re picking Rafe.” He says, cutting in gently and she freezes for a second.

“Ryan…”

“It’s okay.” He says quickly. “I see you two together. I get it.”

“I did feel something between us. I want you to know that.” Y/N swallows, her voice quiet.

“I did too.” He says with a nod. “I really like you, Y/N. But I also know what you and Rafe have is different. I’m not here to fight for someone’s attention. I’m here to enjoy this and maybe find something real.”

Her expression softens, worry flickering in her eyes.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” She mutters.

“You didn’t.” He reassures her, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “I had a crush, I took my shot and it didn’t work out. That’s life.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs again.

“Don’t be.” He smiles, sincere. “I’m glad we got to know each other. I want you to be happy. And if Rafe makes you happy, then I’m rooting for you.”

“This kind of feels like a breakup.” Y/N lets out a soft laugh. He laughs too.

“It does. ‘I’m just focusing on my career right now.’ ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’” He jokes, tossing out the clichés. She laughs louder this time, before they fall into a brief, easy silence.

“I’d still like to be friends.” She says suddenly, sitting up.

“I’d really like that too.” He agrees and she opens her arms.

“Come here.”

He leans in, wrapping her in a warm hug. She breathes in the familiar scent of his and lets herself settle into the moment before pulling back with a smile.

“So…” She says, leaning back. “Thoughts on tonight’s recoupling?”

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

“I mean, have you felt a spark with anyone else? Who do you think might pick you?”

Ryan hesitates for a second, then leans in slightly like he’s sharing a secret.

“Okay…don’t tease me or tell anyone yet, but…I think I’m getting a bit of a vibe from Abi.”

“Really?” Y/N’s eyes go wide, her smile lighting up.

“Yeah.” He says with a grin. “She’s sweet. Funny. And I don’t know, maybe it’s because we entered the villa together, but there’s this comfort between us.”

“I can see that.” She says thoughtfully. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“I want to.” He admits. “But I’m not sure where things stand between her and JJ.”

“Well.” Y/N says with a shrug. “You’ve got nothing to lose. I think you should go for it.”

“Thanks, Y/N. Really.” He nods, eyes warm.

She smiles again, proud of the way things turned out, even if it wasn’t the easiest conversation to have.

Confessional - Ryan “I really respect her for pulling me aside and having that conversation. She didn’t just leave me hanging or make me look stupid…I mean she’s not the type to do that. She’s way too kind for that.” He says with a small sigh. “Honestly, I’m just grateful we got some closure.”

Across the villa, Kiara and Abigail are on the lounge beds, drinks in hand. The night air is warm, but the energy between them is noticeably cooler.

“Okay, so…” Abigail starts, her voice low and hesitant. “I pulled you for a chat because…shit, I’m really bad at confrontation.”

She takes a long breath before continuing.

“Last night, some people saw you and JJ going into the villa…and then coming back like twenty minutes later. And I’m not saying something definitely happened, but I guess I just wanted to ask...did…did something happen? If so, do you feel something there? Like…is there an actual connection? Or is it just friendly?” She winces. “God, I sound toxic. Just-just forget I said anything.”

She starts to rise, embarrassed, but Kiara gently reaches out and catches her hand.

“Abi, wait.”

Abigail pauses, then sinks back down beside her. Kiara exhales slowly.

“There’s…been a vibe between JJ and me for a while. I didn’t act on it because I didn’t want to overthink it or make things messy. But last night, during the challenge… something shifted. It was this undeniable spark everyone talks about.”

She hesitates.

“Afterward, he told me to meet him upstairs. And I swear, I didn’t know what he was planning or what he was thinking.”

“So…what happened?” Abigail frowns. Kiara looks down at her drink, then back up.

“We kissed. Just once. But…it felt real. Like the first time I’ve had butterflies in this villa.”

Abigail’s face tightens. She looks away, staring into her glass.

“You could’ve told me.” She mutters.

“I would. I swear.”

“When, Kie?” Abigail presses, her voice strained. “When you would have stood up and picked him at the recoupling?”

Kiara’s heart sinks.

“No. I would never do that to you. Please…just trust me on this.”

“I want to. But the way you both hid this from me? I just…I didn’t expect this. Not from you.” Abigail shakes her head, eyes glassy but holding back.

“I’m sorry, Abi. I really am.” Kiara's shoulders slump as the weight of her guilt settles in.

“I am too.” Abigail replies quietly as she stands. “I just need some space.”

Kiara nods silently, watching as Abigail walks away.

Confessional - Kiara “I would’ve told her. I should have told her.” She insists quietly.

Maddy and Sarah are in the kitchen, casually snacking and sipping on drinks, when Y/N strolls in and hops onto one of the stools.

“Hi, girlies.” She sing-songs, flashing them a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous.” Maddy beams, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “You good?”

“Just had the talk with Ryan.” Y/N exhales.

“Oh, shit.” Sarah’s eyes widen. “How’d it go?”

“He was actually…really chill about it.” Y/N says. “I think he saw it coming. He wasn’t upset and we agreed to stay friends, so…it went as well as it could have.”

“Yeah, no.” Maddy shakes her head, already unimpressed. “Boys and girls can’t just be friends.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mads.” Y/N says with a smirk, “But I have to disagree.”

“Nope. Every guy I’ve ever said ‘let’s be friends’ to, whether that was exes, flings or even random guys I’ve ended up hooking up with at some point. It’s literally impossible. Unless they’re gay.”

“Honestly, I have to side with Maddy on this one.” Sarah raises her hand like she’s seconding a motion.

“Well, that’s not gonna happen with me and Ryan.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“Whatever you say.” Maddy says, folding her arms. “But it’s impossible when there are feelings involved.”

“There are no feelings involved.” Y/N insists, shaking her head. “Not like that.”

“You like him.” Maddy replies immediately, raising a smug brow.

“I don’t like-like him.”

“But you like him.”

“I don’t have a crush!” She argues.

“But you like him.” Maddy says again, grinning.

“I just think he’s-”

“Charming?” Maddy laughs. “Yeah, you've said it a million times, babe. You like him.”

Y/N sighs and turns her gaze to the beanbags, where Rafe is sitting, relaxed and glowing under the villa lights.

“Well…if I do like Ryan, it’s not the way I like Rafe.” Her voice softens as she watches him. “Ryan’s a great guy. He came in when I was all over the place. And he helped, you know? He pulled me out of my head when I was still dealing with the whole…cheating thing. But at the end of the day, he’s not Rafe.”

“You’re falling for Rafe.” Sarah lets out a squeal.

“D-Don’t say that.” Y/N warns, instantly flustered.

“Oh my god, did you stutter?” Maddy gasps, pointing at her. “You totally stuttered. You’re so falling for him!”

Y/N groans and hides her face in her hands as the girls burst into giggles around her.

Just then, Kiara steps into the kitchen, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor.

“Y/N?” She says, carefully.

Y/N lifts her head from her hands, eyebrows raised.

“Kie? What’s going on?”

Kiara glances at Maddy and Sarah, who go quiet, sipping their drinks. Then she turns back to Y/N, nervous but determined.

“I...I feel like a hypocrite.” She says quietly. “Calling Rafe a liar, saying I didn’t trust him and that he’d hurt you…when I messed up too.”

Y/N’s eyes widen slightly, already sensing what’s coming.

“Kie-” “I kissed JJ.” Kiara blurts out.

The room goes still. All three girls look up at her, stunned.

“And...we didn’t tell Abigail.” She continues. “She found out. And it sucked. Seeing her face like that…seeing how hurt she was.”

Y/N immediately opens her arms and Kiara walks into her embrace. Y/N rubs her back gently as she speaks.

“I think I know how Abi feels.” She murmurs. “And honestly, the best thing you can do is give her some time. Let everything breathe a little.”

She pulls back to look Kiara in the eyes.

“Was the kiss just in the moment? Or…did it mean something?” Y/N asks.

“I wanted to kiss him. And…I think he did too. He made the first move.”

Y/N sighs, but it’s not judgmental, it's more thoughtful.

“Then yeah…I think what hurt Abigail most wasn’t just the kiss, it was the fact you kept it from her.”

“So I should just… give her space?”

Y/N nods and Maddy and Sarah follow with quiet agreement.

“And the recoupling?” Kiara asks, almost in a whisper.

The girls exchange glances. No one jumps to answer.

“Just…go with your gut.” Y/N says gently. “If you talked to Abigail first, explained what happened and how you feel about JJ, then she probably will understand your choice. But if you’re unsure about JJ or if there’s no real feeling behind it...maybe it’s not worth the fallout.”

Kiara nods again, taking it all in. Then she leans in and hugs Y/N one more time.

“Thank you.” She murmurs.

“Anytime.” Y/N gives her a soft smile.

Confessional - Kiara “That talk with Y/N definitely helped me make up my mind.” Kiara says, nodding. “Honestly, someone should just hand that girl a psychology degree.”

Rafe sits by the firepit with JJ and Topper, the three of them nursing their drinks.

“Rafe?” Topper says cautiously.

“Yeah?” Rafe’s jaw tightens as he glances up at him.

“I just wanna say I’m sorry for what I said the other night.” Topper starts, shifting in his seat and Rafe gives a small nod, letting him continue.

“I shouldn’t have called Y/N fake or said she was playing you. I thought I was looking out for you, but...I was out of line. I’ve had time to think it over and I see both your sides now. I just want you to be happy, man.”

Rafe exhales slowly.

“Then don’t talk shit about her again.” He says simply. “And really, you owe her the apology, not me.”

“I figured you’d say that.” Topper nods, already expecting that. “And yeah, I will. I promise. So...we good?”

“We’re good, man.” Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle and nods.

They dab each other up and JJ leans back on the bench with a sigh, clearly growing impatient.

“Alright, can we get to the real crisis here?” JJ says.

The guys glance over at him.

“What now?” Rafe asks, lifting his glass.

“I, uh…I kissed Kiara last night. And I haven’t told Abigail.” JJ reveals.

“Shit.” Topper’s eyes widen.

“I know. It just…happened. And I don’t regret it. Kiara and I had a moment. I kinda wanna see where it goes.”

“And Abigail?” Rafe presses.

“I like her too.” JJ admits. “I’m a mess.”

“Then be straight with her. Don’t leave her in the dark.” Rafe says, the memory of his own screw-ups flickering behind his eyes.

“She’s gonna hate me.” JJ mutters.

“She might be pissed, sure. But she deserves the truth, JJ.” Rafe looks at him, voice softer now.

“And you better do it before the recoupling.” Topper adds.

JJ stands up like he’s ready to go and then a loud ping echoes.

“I got a text!” Sarah shouts from the kitchen. “Islanders, please gather at the firepit. #decisiontime #whowillitbe.”

JJ freezes, then drops back down onto the bench with a groan.

“Fuck.” He mutters.

Rafe gives his back a sympathetic smack while the boys let out a collective sigh.

Confessional - JJ “I’m fucked. This whole thing is fucked.” He runs a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

The Islanders begin gathering slowly, one by one taking their seats beside their current partners. A phone chimes, slicing through the chatter.

“Boys.” Pope reads. “Please stand at the front of the firepit.”

The guys exchange a few glances before getting to their feet and making their way to the front. The girls shift in their seats, anticipation building as they prepare for the recoupling.

Maddy’s phone buzzes first. She jumps up with a grin, practically glowing.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She begins, her voice light. “Because he’s made me laugh more than anyone before. He’s sweet, he’s fun and I always feel at ease when I’m around him. So the boy I wanna couple up with is…Kelce.”

He jogs over, plants a kiss on her lips and she giggles as they sit back down together, his arm draping naturally around her shoulder.

Next up is Sarah, who stands and delivers a short but heartfelt speech. She smiles as she chooses John B and he walks over, grabbing her and kissing her. Their kiss turns intense fast, drawing whistles and laughter from the others.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough!” Someone calls and they break apart, laughing as they return to their seats.

Alyssa stands next. Her expression is a little more serious.

“I'd like to couple up with this boy, because even though things haven’t exactly been smooth between us lately.” She says. “I still believe there’s something worth holding onto.” She glances at Topper. “So I’m choosing to couple up with…Topper.”

He walks over, hugs her a little longer than expected and they sit down quietly.

Y/N stands up slowly, smoothing out her dress and letting out a small breath as all eyes fall on her.

“I wanna couple up with this boy because…” She begins, voice a little unsteady. “Even though we haven’t known each other that long...being around him just feels easy.”

She lets out a quick breath, eyes flicking toward him.

“Okay, not always easy.” She admits with a small laugh. “It’s been a bit messy, if I’m honest. But somehow, it still feels real.”

Rafe watches her, lips twitching into a subtle smile.

“We’ve had our ups and downs already. But there’s something there. And no matter how things have gone…I keep coming back to him.”

Her voice softens at the end, eyes lingering on him now.

“So yeah. The boy I wanna couple up with…is Rafe.”

He’s already on his feet before she finishes, crossing the space between them in a few steps. He wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her just slightly, kissing her without saying a word. She smiles into it, arms winding naturally around his neck like she’s done it a hundred times.

“Hey!” Sarah calls out, teasing. “You told me and John B to keep it PG!”

Everyone laughs as they finally break apart and settle on the bench together. Rafe turns to her, eyes scanning her face.

“You’re not wearing that…lip stuff tonight?” He asks, voice lower now.

“You always kiss it off anyway. Figured I’d skip the routine.” She grins. He chuckles, hand settling on her waist again as she leans into him. He presses a kiss to her temple, then turns his attention back to the firepit, still holding her.

Abigail rises slowly.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She says. “Because he’s funny, he’s sweet and from the moment we met, he’s had this really kind and calming energy. I’ve loved getting to know him, and I’d really like to see where this could go.” She exhales. “So the boy I wanna couple up with is…Ryan.”

Ryan’s eyes widen. He turns instinctively to look at Y/N, who mirrors his expression before giving him an encouraging grin.

He walks over to Abigail, kisses her cheek and takes the seat beside her.

JJ, still standing at the front, furrows his brow in confusion. He glances at Abigail across the firepit. But she doesn’t meet his eyes.

“That was…unexpected.” Ryan whispers to Abigail.

“Not really.” She replies, calmly meeting his eyes.

Ryan relaxes a little more in his seat, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Cleo stands next and confidently chooses Pope. Their kiss is sweet and unhurried before they settle down again.

Finally, Kiara rises.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She sighs. “Because he’s really handsome, really funny and somehow always has me laughing until I can’t breathe. And...there’s a spark there. Something worth exploring. So, the boy I wanna couple up with is…JJ.”

JJ walks over slowly, hugging her a little awkwardly in front of everyone before they both sit down with matching sighs.

When the recoupling wraps up, the islanders scatter. Some heading toward the fire pit, others toward the daybeds, settling in with their partners.

Ryan and Abigail walk over to one of the couches, drinks in hand, the warm night buzzing around them.

“I gotta say.” Ryan starts, settling in beside her. “I’m really glad you picked me.”

“You are?” Abigail asks, her smile soft but a little surprised.

“Yeah.” He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was actually telling Y/N earlier…I feel like we’ve got something. A connection, I guess. I mean…we came in together, which probably made it easier. But being around you just feels…natural. Comfortable. You’re really sweet. And stunning, obviously. And now I’m rambling.” He lets out a nervous laugh.

Abigail laughs too.

“No, it’s okay.” She pauses, then adds more seriously, “I do feel that connection, too. But I want to be honest with you. Right before the recoupling…I found out something happened between JJ and Kiara. And I won’t lie, it did influence my choice.”

“Okay.” Ryan’s smile dims just a little, but he nods, taking it in.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m using you or that it’s not real. Because I meant what I said up there. I chose you because I see something with you.”

Ryan leans forward slightly, his expression earnest.

“I didn’t know about the JJ and Kiara thing. I knew he wanted to talk to her, but that’s it. And honestly? I don’t think you’d ever use me like that. I see you. Or at least, I’m starting to. And yeah, maybe everything's moving fast and it’s all a bit chaotic right now, but I’m here and I want to see where this goes. Whenever you are ready.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot. It is a lot right now.” Abigail nods, her shoulders relaxing a little.

“Come here.” He opens his arms gently. She leans in and hugs him tight, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Confessional - Ryan “Yeah, I know she’s got a lot on her mind and things are messy right now…but I’m genuinely glad she chose me.” He grins. “I wanna keep getting to know her. See where this goes.”

The islanders start making their way into the villa to get ready for the night. Rafe walks through the flower-lined corridor, carrying Y/N in his arms like a bride. She giggles the whole way, her laughter echoing as they step inside and the boys, already lounging around, erupt in cheers.

“Here comes the bride!” JJ hollers, grinning as the others join in with whistles and claps.

Rafe gently sets her down at the foot of the stairs. She turns to smile at him, but before she can fully walk away, he catches her hand and pulls her back into him, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

“Don’t take too long.” He murmurs. She giggles, giving him another quick peck before heading upstairs.

In the dressing room, the girls are wiping off their makeup and chatting about the day. The door swings open and Y/N walks in to a chorus of playful screams.

“There she is!” Maddy teases. “How are you feeling Mrs. Cameron?”

Y/N blushes, grinning wide.

“Honestly? My cheeks hurt from smiling. I feel…giddy.” She replies as the girls laugh with her, the energy light and warm.

A few feet away, Kiara is taking off her earrings when Abigail approaches her quietly.

“Hey.” Abigail says.

“Hey.” Kiara glances over.

“I just...I wanted to say sorry. If I came off mean earlier.”

“You didn’t.” Kiara assures her gently. “But you have every right to be upset. I should’ve told you. I get it.”

“I’m not mad.” Abigail shakes her head. “I was just... frustrated, I guess. But I see the way you and JJ are with each other. And I don’t want to be in the middle of that.”

Kiara steps in for a hug and Abigail wraps her arms around her without hesitation.

“I love you.” Kiara whispers. “And I’m really sorry for how it all happened.”

“Love you too.” Abigail says softly, pulling back with a small smile before going to change into her pajamas.

Confessional - Abigail “Me and JJ…it was fun while it lasted. All two days of it.” She lets out a small laugh. “But this is Love Island. I can’t be mad at him for wanting to see where things go with Kie. And I’m definitely not mad at her either. It is what it is.”

Later, as the girls trickle downstairs, Abigail makes her way over to JJ’s bed. He looks up, running a hand through his hair as she approaches.

“Hey.” He says.

She sits down where he pats beside him.

“I know about you and Kiara.” She starts, voice calm. “And I’m not mad. Or hurt. I’ve had time to think and I can see she really wants to give whatever’s between you two a shot. And I don’t want to be in the way of that.”

JJ nods, his expression sincere.

“I should’ve pulled you aside sooner. I messed up, and I take full responsibility for that. I’m sorry, Abigail.” He apologizes and she nods, a soft smile on her lips.

“Thank you for saying that.”

He nods back and with a quiet understanding between them, she stands and heads to her bed, where Ryan is already lying down, looking up at her with a warm smile.

Meanwhile, Y/N steps into the bedroom, the soft swish of silk the only sound as she crosses the room in her yellow pajamas. The camisole clings delicately to her frame, lace tracing her bust and hem, matching the floral silk shorts that sit snugly on her hips. Rafe doesn’t even try to hide it as his eyes follow every step, the straw from his water bottle paused at his lips.

He shifts under the covers and lifts the duvet for her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That color.” He mutters, voice low and a little hoarse. “Looks too damn good on you.”

She smiles, settling on her side of the bed and placing her phone and water bottle on the bedside table. But before she can fully lie down, Rafe reaches over, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest. She melts into him, a quiet laugh leaving her lips as she tucks her face against his neck.

Then, a hesitant voice breaks the moment.

“Hey…Y/N?”

Topper approaches slowly.

“Hey, Topper. You alright?”nShe sits up slightly, turning to him with a concerned smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly as he glances between her and Rafe. “I just…I wanted to apologize. For what I said the other day. Calling you fake, saying you were playing Rafe…that was outta line.”

“It’s fine, really-” Y/N shakes her head.

“No, I need to say it. I was out of line and you didn’t deserve that.” He cuts in, firm but sincere.

She exhales softly, then moves to crawl across Rafe to reach him. She opens her arms and Topper doesn’t hesitate to hug her back.

From behind her, Rafe’s eyes drop to the way her shorts ride up, his gaze darkening slightly.

“Yo, Rafe.” Topper teases as they pull apart, catching the look. “You’re drooling, man.”

Y/N giggles, looking over her shoulder to find Rafe still staring. She smacks his chest playfully.

“My eyes are up here.”

“I know.” He murmurs, eyes finally lifting to meet hers.

She turns back to Topper with a gentle smile.

“Thanks for apologizing.” She mutters and Topper nods, offering a final glance to them both before heading to his own bed.

“Good man.” Rafe calls after him.

As soon as he’s gone, Y/N moves to her side of the bed again, but Rafe isn’t having it. He pulls her back into his lap with ease, arms around her waist and she laughs as her arms drape over his shoulders.

The villa goes dark, a chorus of sleepy goodnights floating through the air.

Rafe leans in, not wasting a second, capturing Y/N’s lips with his. She kisses him back eagerly, fumbling to pull the duvet over them as if it might shield them from the intensity brewing between them.

His hands find her waist, fingers splaying and sliding down to her hips, then lower. Her body shifts, brushing against him in a way that makes him let out a low, guttural groan.

“Sorry.” She breathes out, her voice shaky as she adjusts the blanket.

“Don’t…don’t apologize.” He murmurs, eyes fluttering open in the dark. “Fuck, I-I want you.”

“Ray…” She pulls back just enough, the air between them cooling. There’s hesitation in her voice now and it makes him blink, thrown off.

“Wh-Am I moving too fast or something?” He asks, voice suddenly laced with concern.

Her hand finds the back of his neck, her fingers trailing gently through his hair, grounding him even as she hesitates.

“I…is kissing okay? Just kissing, for now?”

Relief and restraint flash across his features as he nods quickly.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s more than okay. We don’t even have to do anything. I just wanna be with you.” He murmurs. She exhales, her shoulders relaxing.

“It’s just…it’s our first night back together. After everything that’s happened, I don’t wanna rush anything.”

“I get it. You lead the way.” He reaches up, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear with the softest touch.

She gives him a grateful, almost shy smile, then leans in again. Their lips meet gently at first, a slow burn, until she deepens the kiss with a quiet hunger that still makes his head spin.

Rafe’s hands slide back to her waist, gripping her just right, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t go further.

He’s content kissing her like this. Wanting more, but respecting the pace she sets.

And when she finally rests her head against his chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around her, he presses a kiss to her hair.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He whispers like a vow into the dark.

to be continued...

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