#he’s so tiny…………. just a little guy………………..

[emmiesoverthemoon]

go ask your father!

pairing: lee minho x reader tags: drabble. domestic fluff. part of the emmieverse special—see here

minho is halfway through folding the freshly dried clothing in the laundry room when he hears it: the unmistakable chorus of tiny, judgmental meows.

he glances down. three pairs of eyes stare up at him like he is personally responsible for the downfall of society.

“what,” he asks flatly, holding up a pair of your socks.

soonie meows again—loud and mournful—and doongie rubs against his shin like he is trying to awaken guilt. dori simply stares. always watching. always planning.

“i fed you. i scooped your litter. i gave you those weird snacks you like,” minho lists, bending to scratch doongie’s head. “what else do you want, huh?”

they do not answer. they simply exist at him.

until—

the sound of the front door unlocking echoes from the other side of the house.

everything changes.

soonie bolts first, nearly slipping on the hallway rug. doongie trots after him with poise, and dori makes his usual dramatic entrance: meowing as if he just survived war.

minho snorts, shaking his head.

“traitors.”

you barely have one foot inside before you are surrounded.

“hi, my babies,” you coo, crouching down to pet them as they swirl around you in a furry storm. “missed me that much?”

minho stands at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, a hopeless little smile tugging at his mouth. the sight of his babies loving on you like this never gets old.

“they’ve been moping around like your absence broke each of their hearts,” he says, slowly approaching you from where he stood.

you grin at him. “maybe it did.”

he leans to kiss you hello, warm hands settling on your waist like they never want to leave. “well i missed you more,” he murmurs.

“i would hope so,” you quipped. you melt into his embrace for a beat, then pull back. “i’m starving.”

“same,” he agrees. “want me to start on—”

“i got it,” you wave his offer off, stepping into the kitchen. the cats follow after you immediately, falling into formation like little soldiers of chaos. they may as well be magnetised to you.

you open the fridge, eyeing them. “you just want food, huh?”

meows follow. of course they do.

you point down the hallway vaguely to where you left minho standing. “then go ask your father.”

there is a pause.

then three sets of paws patpatpat down the hall like a furry stampede. when they don’t find him near the entryway, they search the house.

not in the living room…

not in the bedroom…

….he’s in the laundry room again!

minho, in the middle of matching your sock pairs again, looks up just in time for the interrogation squad to arrive.

they meow. in sync.

he blinks. “did you—did they actually—”

from the kitchen, you call: “i delegated!”

minho just laughs, setting the socks aside to kneel on the floor like a medieval servant to his royal court.

“you guys are whipped.”

soonie hops in his lap. doongie starts purring. dori knocks over a cup.

minho sighs, grinning. “yeah, yeah. i’ll feed you. but only because your mother’s scary when she’s hungry.”

from the kitchen, you call once more: “i heard that!”

he smiles to himself, completely gone for this weird little family of his.

and for the record, the cats get fed first.

he knows his place.

tysm anon! i love writing lee know soft….. soft domestic lee know and i are married now

taglist (ask to be added here): @burlesquerade @makeitworse @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325 @slut4junho

[luveline]

Blurb of folding socks together with eddie?

“This is so fucked up.” 

“It’s not fucked up.” You hide your socks. “Not fucked up.” 

“Baby, you don’t have a single pair without holes in them, what the fuck?” 

“Okay, maybe the guy with mysterious white stains on his sheets shouldn’t judge.” 

He punches you in the arm, but it doesn’t hurt. “I drool in my sleep and you know that.” Eddie bends a little to put him face to face. You’re sitting on the bed, and he’d been standing in front of you; doing the hard work if he’s to be believed, passing you socks from the laundry pile on the floor so you can pack them away into your sock box. 

Eddie drools in his sleep, but he’s also a little tiny bit disgusting in the human way, and it’s not like you care. “Gross boy,” you mutter, folding your socks into a tight ball that brags at least two holes just looking at them. 

“Give me those,” Eddie says, snatching them out of your hand. “They’re going in the garbage. They should’ve gone in the garbage five years ago, you fucking pauper. Jesus, you act like I don’t provide.” 

“Jesus!” you say, mimicking his tone. 

“I’ll get you some new socks, you freak. Or you can just wear mine.” He gives you a kiss like a bite where your teeth knock together. “So we can buy fancy grapes with the sock money.” 

You like the sounds of fancy grapes, especially if he’s buying. 

He brings the last of your socks and panties onto the bed. You smile at how happy it seems to make him to get to perv through your underwear. He nods and hums approvingly whenever he sees his favourites, and throws a pair of your girly boxers on top of the pile pridefully, though you’re confused when he sets aside a white pair of ankle socks and some pointelle panties you’d already folded. 

“What’s wrong with them?” you ask, tucking the last of your socks away into the box. 

“Just saving ‘em for later.” 

“You’re gonna wear my panties?” 

“As much as we’d both enjoy that, they’re for you. Gotta shower tonight, don’t you?” 

“Is that it? No bra?” 

He grins wildly, and you can guess what he’s gonna say before he says it, ‘cos of course you can. “You won’t need one.” 

“I get chilly,” you say, giving him an earnest frown that is a hundred percent bullshit, satisfied when he loses his teasing, sharp look and bends down over everything to give your knee a smacking kiss. Your skin tingles where his lips touch. 

“And I will keep you warm. Starting with socks.”

He swaps your little ankle socks for a pair of thick, thermal working ones. They go halfway up your calf and sit baggy on your toes, but you like ‘em, and you rub them up Eddie’s thigh until he pins you to the bed, arm twisted behind your back demanding you beg Uncle for being a harlot. He turns your face and kisses you like a prince over your shoulder when you tell him that you concede, and he apologises for his attempted spiral fracture with a bruise nibbled into the soft spot under your ear. 

[sinsxo]

right into the stomach. —blue lock

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro.

synopsis. blue lock boys with their toddler daughter who shows love in her own way — except maybe not with the right technique.

note. i saw a tiktok of a baby trying to feed her dad chips really aggressively and i knew i had to write it LMAO

cw. drabble, you guys are married and have a toddler daughter, fem!reader, crack, fluff.

wc. 0.8k words, not proofread.

check out part 1 & part 2!

isagi yoichi ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

isagi’s sitting on the living room floor, legs crossed, watching his little girl skip around with a barbie doll in one hand and a half-eaten chip in the other. she’s babbling nonsense to herself, giggling like it’s the best day of her life.

she then trots over, mouth open wide.

“papa, chip,” she says, so isagi gives her a little one. she crunches it with a happy sigh, then holds up her barbie. “papa, feed barbie too.”

“okay,” he chuckled, carefully pretending to feed the doll. “here you go, barbie.”

she giggles, feeling pleased, and carefully sets the barbie doll down beside him.

then she looks up at him and says, “papa, i wan’ feed.”

“you wanna feed your barbie?”

“nooo,” she shakes her head. “wan’ feed papa.”

he smiles, warm and wide, and holds the chip bag out to her. but when she grabs a fistful, he’s got a bad feeling.

“papa, ahh,” she looked determined.

he opens his mouth just a little, expecting crumbs. instead, her tiny hand goes all the way in.

he chokes, splutters, and pulls back, coughing with watery eyes. “thank you,” he wheezes, thanking her like he didn’t almost just die.

she just claps like she’s proud, like she just saved him instead of almost sacrificing him.

itoshi rin ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

rin doesn’t really get my little pony, but he’s watching it anyway because his daughter’s sitting comfortably on his lap, in his arms with a bag of chips, and humming along to the theme song.

he picks up a chip, but before it even gets to his mouth, she leans in and takes a bite out of it from his hand.

he blinks. “…you thief.”

“papa, me.” she says sweetly, pointing to her mouth like she’s royalty.

he gives her the next one, watching her munch with such satisfaction that it makes his heart squeeze.

she then reaches into the chip bag herself and stands up beside him on the couch. she doesn’t say a word, just holds the chip out to him like it’s a gift.

he softens, just a bit, and opens his mouth.

and the moment his lips part, she shoves her entire hand — almost her whole arm into his mouth.

he jerks back, choking. eyes wide from the shock. she’s just staring at him like she did a good job.

“why are you like this?” he asks, breathless and concerned, but he’s already pulling her into his arms and hugging her tightly.

she beams like it’s praise, proud of her assassination attempt.

itoshi sae ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

sae knows best — that his daughter is a menace. he sees the way she’s eyeing the chips, recognising that greedy little sparkle in her eye.

“i’m not sharing,” he says flatly. then holds out the bag anyway.

she grabs one with her little fingers, munches like she’s on a food review channel. “papa, gud!”

“you’re making a mess,” he says flatly, brushing the crumbs off.

“is gud,” she says again, licking her fingers.

he sighs but doesn't actually mind. he feeds her another to keep the crumbs at bay. but she’s already reaching into the chip bag.

“papa, here,” she says, holding out a clump of crushed chips.

he eyes her suspiciously.

“what are you up to?”

but she looks too excited. innocent. so he gives in and leans forward.

a huge mistake.

the second his mouth opens, her whole arm dives in like she’s trying to reach his soul.

he coughs, startled, carefully pulling her hand back. “okay,” he breathes. “we’re gonna work on technique.”

she laughs in his face like he told the funniest joke ever.

he’s never been more alert.

nagi seishiro ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

nagi’s sprawled on the floor, basically acting as terrain for the mini train set his daughter’s playing with. he’s the mountain, the tunnel, and the train station. apparently, the tracks go over his legs, his chest, and even his shoulder. he’s her favourite landscape.

he has a chip bag in one hand that he lazily munches on while watching her push a train across his leg.

“papa, i wan’ some.”

he holds the bag out to her without moving. easy.

but she just stares at the chips in the bag like she’s weighing the consequences of grease on her hands. hands out, not moving.

nagi blinks, like he just realised something important. “oh, right. don’t wanna get messy?” he asks, sitting up.

she nods.

so he picks one out and feeds her gently. she lights up like the sun and chews happily.

feeling inspired, she grabs a chip on her own, crawls over, and without warning, shoves it to his mouth — even though it’s closed.

he’s startled by the amount of force she used and opens his mouth in confusion. she takes that as a green light and pushes in another. and another.

“wait—!” he muffles through a mouthful, gently holding her arm to stop her. “no more.”

she nods seriously like she understands him.

and then shoves one more into his mouth.

© all written works are created and owned by @sinsxo. do not plagiarise, modify, repost or translate any of my content on other platforms under any circumstances.

all images, aside from the dividers, do not belong to me. credit belongs to their original creators on pinterest & xhs.

[bruisedfig]

can I req sub-ish ben headcanons for my birthday?

omg yes ofc my sweet mahi !!!! happiest of birthdays you angel !!!!! i hope your day’s incredible !!!!! and i hope you’re UTTERLY spoilt w presents and love 🤍🥂🎉 18+

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

⊹ you somehow convince ben to let you take charge for the night, telling him “you’ll love it. you can just sit back, relax, and get your dick milked. what’s there to not like?”

⊹ but he’s apprehensive… naturally. and so it takes a little bit of sucking up—kissing ‘n grinding and letting him tease you until he’s tired himself out and ready to let you do all the work for once.

⊹ and when you pull out the police-grade steel handcuffs, he scoffs. “no way, doll. those won’t hold me. are you serious?” but you are. and your face reflects that. so he lets you “pin” his hands to the headboard, assuming he’ll just break free when he decides he’s had enough.

⊹ when you start touching him, he doesn’t quite know what to do. it’s a little bit of “shit, that feels good. keep doing that.” and before he knows it… he’s kind of begging.

⊹ you don’t say anything though—not wanting to snap ben out of this needy mindset you’ve somehow worked him into.

⊹ and as he keeps begging (“more, more– c’mon, faster, baby, i’m losing my mind here”), he begins to fuck up into your hand or mouth or whatever you’re using. and it’s sooo fucking needy. he’s literally chasing his orgasm.

⊹ but the plot twist is…. it’s only been like 10 minutes, and mr. self-proclaimed “stamina man” is already about to fucking cum.

⊹ and fuck, is the sight glorious or what? his eyes glisten in need and his lips are parted, exhaling the breathiest groans you’ve ever heard from him. it’s so fucking hot, but you do keep a part of your brain focused on the handcuffs, making sure he’s not about to break out of them.

⊹ but it doesn’t even seem like he’s trying to break free. it’s like he’s given into this completely—entirely focused on reaching his peak under your control.

⊹ you feel yourself practically vibrating from desire, having to clench your thighs together to lessen the ache between them as you work his cock.

⊹ you finally allow yourself to join in on the pleasure, sinking down onto his throbbing erection that’s wet from how much pre he’s been leaking.

⊹ the moan ripped from ben’s lungs is indescribable. so pathetic but so fucking deep and sexy. it makes your head spin.

⊹ but as you’re focused on finding a rhythm on ben’s dick… he fucking cums. right then and there. he groans gutturally and shoots his hot white seed inside you, coating your walls and filling you to the absolute brim.

⊹ your jaw drops. partially in disbelief, partially in amusement.

⊹ and when he finally comes down from that excruciatingly good high, he sees your face… and the way your lips have twitched into a smirk.

⊹ he swallows, schooling his face back into his regular tough-guy expression. “no– no. not a word, doll. i swear–”

⊹ and you laugh because 1. it’s funny and 2. the brute of a man below you just prematurely blew his load.

⊹ and lord, does your laughter irritate ben?

⊹ your chuckling is cut short when you hear the clink of the metal handcuffs break. you’re immediately thrown onto your back. “don’t fuckin’ laugh at me. i’ll show you what’s fuckin’ funny.”

⊹ uh oh….

fig yaps: this felt like a tiny lil fic so i’m tagging my taglist heheh !!!! mahi, here are some deer and a birthday kiss from me to u <3

⟡ taglist: @chevroletdean @honeyyxxbee @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4jackles @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @legalmente-loca @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @jensenacklesballsack @minettacreekk @winchester-whiskey @emeraldcrs @freyabear @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @deansbeer @artemys-ackles @bluemerakis @misatxox @star-yawnznn @ambiguous-avery @starzify @littlejackles @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @freeluigihesbae @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @lanasgirlfr @seven7lee @nymphet-quenn @rafessweetgirl @maeji-may @eternalssunshinee @blossomingorchids @benscumgluzzer @soldiersgirl @arcannaa @vmiina @h8aaz @iluvdeanwinchester @n-o-p-e-never @liiiilsss

↑ comment to be added / removed (zero judgement) !

sorry if u see this and aren’t tagged, tumblr caps it at 50 and i cbf to reblog w other tags 😭

[rawjutsu]

chapter one.

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

you’re settling into the apartment, realizing just how hard this is going to be. everything smells like him—warm, musky, deep—and it takes a couple rounds of chlorine, vinegar, and scent-neutralizing sprays to finally scrub out the worst of it from your bedroom at least.

satoru—whose name you learned when he gripped your hand like he was shaking hands with a bunny plushie and not an actual person—watched from the doorway with a smirk.

"it’s a small place. bet it’ll reek of me again by the end of the week."

you glare at him weakly. there’s not much you can say. without this apartment, you'd be homeless. plus… he doesn’t seem that bad. most predator hybrids would’ve made fifty sleazy comments by now. satoru hasn’t.

whether that means he’s respectful or just hiding the sleazy, you're not sure yet.

that doesn’t mean your guard’s down. far from it. every time he’s near, he’s just a little too loud, a little too fangy with his smiles, a little too comfortable standing too close.

he frightens you. but maybe that’s just your body doing what prey bodies are built to do: recognize danger.

he offers you dinner when he cooks. granted, it’s always aggressively meaty—the kind of protein-heavy meals that make your molars hurt just smelling them. you remember the look he gave you when you passed on eggs and bacon in favor of a celery stick and hummus.

"that’s why you’re so tiny, lil bun. you don’t eat any protein," he says, smirking as he crosses his arms. "good thing i’m strong enough for the both of us. i’ll fend off any bad guys."

ironic, coming from him.

it’s been a week now. your family bet you’d come crawling back to the farm in two days. joke’s on them. you’ve got a job—minimum wage hostess gig at a sushi place with sticky floors —and a basic understanding of the city’s train lines. so far, you're winning.

you’re curled up on the couch now, still in your work clothes, a scent-blocker gum tucked into your cheek. the shitty tv is playing a rerun of some equally shitty dating show, and you're letting your brain rot happily.

the door slams open.

"maaaan, it’s hot!" gojo groans, already kicking off his sneakers.

you nod at him, slow. "it is a little warm."

standard tokyo summer heatwave. your hair stuck to your forehead on the walk home, even with a chilled melon soda can pressed against your neck.

gojo messes with the wall unit, setting it to barely-above-freezing. he plants himself in front of the vent, sighing as the cold air blasts his face. his snowy hair flutters. his spotted tail sways lazily.

you sigh too, thankful when the cool air hits you.

"by the way," he says, pulling something out of a plastic bag. "got us a calendar. for, y’know. tracking stuff."

it’s a digimon-themed calendar. hideous. bright. kind of cute.

"tracking what?" you ask, tilting your head. your ears twitch slightly.

he gives you a look. the kind that says c’mon now. then he grins, sharp and wicked.

"heats and ruts, obviously."

your body locks up like a rabbit under a hawk’s shadow. the remote in your hand slips between your fingers and clatters on the couch.

oh. shit. you completely forgot about that.

in all the chaos of city life and moving in with a stranger—a goddamn leopard—you forgot to plan for your heat cycle.

back when you thought shoko (neutral hybrid, unbothered) was gonna be your roommate, you’d done research, figured it was safe, thought maybe you could ride it out alone. but now? now you were going to be in a confined space, with him.

gojo’s still grinning. "don’t tell me you forgot about that, bunnygirl. unless…" his voice drops. his pupils dilate. "you wanted to go through them together."

you hurl a pillow at his face. he catches it with one hand, laughing.

"no, i did not!"

"relax, relax," he says, tossing it back beside you. "i’m joking. sort of. anyway, just give me a heads up when it’s coming and i’ll crash at nanamin’s."

you roll your eyes, you doubt your neighbor would be pleased with that idea.

"you don’t have to. this is your place."

he shrugs. "you pay rent, this place is yours too. and no offense, but i doubt you want me anywhere near you when you’re all soft and squirmy and smelling like—"

you shoot a glare his way that makes him shut up.

then you nod slowly. that… makes sense. you chew your lip and glance toward the calendar.

"okay. thanks. i’ll look at it in a bit."

there’s a pause. the sound of the tv fills the room.

then, slowly, you realize he’s still staring at you.

"what?"

he raises a brow, smirking. "well, we figured out what you’re doing for your heat, but what about me, huh? you think nanami wants to babysit a snow leopard that’s trying to fuck his couch?"

you bristle. "i’ve been around ruts before."

"yeahhh," he drawls, eyes half-lidded. "pretty sure rodent ruts don’t hit the same as mine. i get a little… intense."

you scoff. your fingers tremble around the tv remote.

"okay. then i’ll leave."

“yeah? where?”

you pause. crap. where?

he smirks. "exactly."

"pff, nah. we’ll figure it out. mine just passed, anyway. right before you moved in."

"is that why it stank so bad in here?" you say, not thinking.

he doesn’t answer.

you turn to look at him—and find his eyes locked on your chest. your nipples are hard, pressing against your thin tee from the cold.

your face burns.

you cross your arms. "you made it too cold in here, creep."

he hums a laugh and stands, stretching his arms behind his head. his muscles ripple, and it’s so annoying how effortlessly good-looking he is.

"get used to it, bunny. i love the cold."

he wanders into the kitchen.

you try to focus on the tv, but the image creeps in anyway—his face, twisted by his rut, eyes wild, claws flexing. the thought of what his version of a rut would look like crawls down your spine like ice.

you press the gum deeper into your cheek.

this is not going to be easy.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

taglist: @satorupied, @mashtura, @auucz, @littlemissfix-itfic, @luv3nti, @sukunawhores, @nx-0w, @rh-tg1, @sugacor3, @victoria1676, @arabellasolstice, @qardasngan

[scarrlet-xiv]

pent up

nsfw geto suguru x fem!reader college au

read part 1 here

what could a bumpy ride lead to? part 2 of sexual frustration.

“eat my ass!” 

suguru grimaces at his friend’s retort to the senior who she used to date. he shouldn’t have let shoko and satoru drag him into this house party in the first place. even poor nanami got yanked into it.  

it’s already four hours past his usual bedtime and shoko’s by his side screaming flirty insults at her ex while laughing. if they didn’t mention that you’ll be coming to this party, suguru wouldn’t have accepted their request to be their designated sober friend along with choso to take care of them while they go and destroy their livers with cheap liquor.

“shoko!” choso whispers to his friend to hush her loud mouth, afraid that after tonight, she might get back together with that scumbag of an ex. suguru grunts at them, standing up from the beaten up couch that smelled like frat boy sweat and starts to gather some of his drunk friend’s belongings.

he hasn’t seen you all night and suguru’s sure that his annoying friends only mentioned you to get him to come and baby them. acting like a mother and scolding shoko, he tells the group to start fixing themselves up so choso could drive them back to their dorms to which they pout at but follow nonetheless.

with drunk satoru holding even drunker shoko by the arm and choso guiding blacked-out first time drinker nanami, suguru walks in front of them so he could reach the car faster. he turns around and see shoko pinching poor satoru’s cheek as the pair parade through drunk bodies.

just as he’s about to open his mouth to tell them to walk faster, someone bumps into him. he snaps his head around, a snarl already curling on his lips—ready to tear into whatever drunk idiot just stumbled into him.

but then he sees you.

your eyes wide, startled. your body frozen mid-step.

his mouth shuts instantly, the harsh words dying in his throat as he realizes he almost unleashed it on you. not some drunk fratboy—you.

his expression falters, caught somewhere between guilt and surprise, like he’s embarrassed to have let you see even a flicker of that edge.

“sorry!” you apologize. you’re looking for your friend who invited you to come here after she left you to make out with some boy who smelled like hotdog water. she’s supposed to be your ride home tonight and you’re not enjoying the smell of evaporated sweat anymore.

suguru takes note of your soberness as he looks at you. no signs of flushed cheeks or a drunk squint. he realizes that he might have been staring at you longer than needed so he clears his throat and speaks. “s’fine.”

what the fuck was that? s s’fine? you fucking idiot.

internally panicking that he might’ve come off too cold, suguru cusses himself out in his head. smooth. real smooth.

he can already feel the blush creeping up his neck, the shame mixing all too easily with something much worse—want.

he’s trying hard not to dwell on the way you look tonight. the tiny skirt that stops just below your plump ass. the way your thighs press together when you shift your weight. or worse—the way that little squeal you let out when you bumped into him sounded dangerously close to the moan you made the other night when you were…

he swallows hard. fuck. not the time.

“did you guys see meimei anywhere? she’s supposed to be my ride tonight.” you ask them once choso finally managed to drag nanami by suguru’s side out the porch, the other two catching up aswell.  

suguru’s still forming words to speak but shoko is quick to answer, waving a thumb finger towards her back. 

“i think i saw her go upstairs with that toji dude.” she slurred as she tried to step forward, leaning too much instead. satoru tries straightening her up and smiles drunkenly.

suguru watches your brows knit together in frustration, guessing that you knew that your friend wouldn’t be able to drive you back now. he also watches you mutter out a discouraged thanks to the group and start to walk back into the house. satoru nudges his shoulder, pointing his white head to your fleeting figure.

“come ride with us.” suguru says, a little too loud and a little too demanding. 

shoko winces at his tone before slapping a hand on her face to stop herself from laughing at her friend. satoru, whose arm is still draped on shoko, hears his friend try to cover her laugh, making him snicker as well.

suguru glares at his friends but stops his mouth from cursing them, waiting for your response. you turn back to the man with hopeful eyes and start to walk back to the group.

“are you sure?” you ask him. you looked at him like he was some kind of knight in shining armor, ready to save you from this junk house. this made suguru feel something bubbly in his stomach. manly moths, perhaps.

he’s so lost in your eyes that choso had to swoop in for his friend before you notice how suguru’s face is starting to get red.

“yeah, i can drive you back. you and suguru live in the same building, right?” he asks you with a friendly smile.

“uhh… yeah, we’re in the same building” you answer, smiling back at the man who’s nanami clinging on to. 

suguru settles on keeping everything he wants to say locked in his head. it’s driving him insane—the way every step toward the car is filled with your laughter, your voice threading so easily into his friends’ conversation, while he’s stuck walking beside you in silence, planning what he might say when you’re finally alone again.

but talking to you now? it’s torture.

because all he can think about is last night.

the sound of you through the thin dorm walls, soft and frustrated, trying to get yourself off. the way you sighed when your fingers didn’t quite get you there.

like you needed more.

like you needed someone else.

his jaw tightens, breath shallow, eyes locked on the ground like it might cool him off.

as you reach the car, it’s already been decided: blacked-out nanami stays slumped in the back, and shoko’s half-dead body is draped across the passenger seat. that leaves just enough room for two people beside nanami.

“wanna sit on my lap, y/n? i can sit on yours if that’s better,” shoko mumbles, giggling, eyelids at half-mast. you’re pretty sure you understood maybe three words out of all that.

“it’s too dangerous to do that in the front,” choso adds from the driver’s seat, voice flat. honestly, you kind of agree, you’re not risking getting vomited on tonight. before suguru can politely offer to find another ride, dipshit satoru decides to open his mouth. “why don’t you sit on sugu’s lap? it’s safer at the back,” he offers.

your energy spikes—subtle, unnoticed by anyone. it wouldn’t hurt to sit on a hunk, right? especially him.

“that’s fine with me,” you reply, maybe too cheerfully, flashing suguru a smile you hope lands somewhere between casual and cute.

he looks like he’s about to choke and thank satoru all at once. you watch his mouth open, then close, no words forming. it’s kind of adorable, seeing him speechless for once.

“alright, everything’s settled then,” is all he manages to say as everyone starts climbing into their seats.

you settle onto suguru’s lap, trying not to combust. you’ve been crushing on your next-door neighbor ever since you caught him coming home at the same time as you. he was sweaty, probably just back from the gym, and you still remember the way the sheen on his biceps made you lose track of your thoughts. you even had to mentally slap yourself when you found out your blockmate, shoko, was close friends with him and actually introduced the two of you. the universe really was out to get you.

the first challenge was closing the door. suguru shifted beneath you, lifting his hips and dragging you with him as he scooted forward to shut the door. the motion slid you deeper into his lap, your skirt bunching up around your waist. now, only the thin fabric of your panties and the soft press of his sweatpants separated you from his bulging cock.

his breath hitched, barely audible, but you felt it, warm against your neck. your pulse was loud in your ears, heat curling low in your belly. you were hyperaware of everything: the soft hum of the engine, the muffled voices up front, the weight of his hands settling on your hips like he wasn’t even thinking about it. 

neither of you moved, like you were both daring the other to break first. like you’d both forgotten there were other people in the car… until a laugh from satoru snapped the moment in half, leaving only the thrum of want, heavy and unspoken.

the car rolled forward and the tension didn’t ease. if anything, it thickened. his hands stayed where they were. your body stayed where it had landed, pressed snugly against him. neither of you said anything, and you weren’t sure if it was just you imagining things, or if he was too polite to ask you to shift off.

you tried not to breathe too hard. you tried not to think about how warm he was under you. you definitely tried not to think about how his cock felt beneath you, or how much of your skin your skirt wasn’t covering.

and then the car jolted.

choso hit a bump too fast, and the whole vehicle lurched. you gasped as your body ground hard into his, your thighs tightening around his as you struggled not to fall forward. his grip on your hips tightened instantly, firm and sudden.

for a second, it felt like the world stopped.

then, soft—so soft you almost missed it—he exhaled your name like it hurt to say.

and just as the heat built again, the universe decided it had enough fun.

“mmn… fuckin’ hell,” nanami mumbled beside you, suddenly stirring from his blackout. “who hit me with a truck?”

you flinched slightly, instinctively trying to shift off suguru’s lap, but his hand caught your waist for just a second too long before letting go. heat surged across your face. suguru looked away, jaw tense, as nanami blinked around like he had no idea what year it was.

“we didn’t crash, right?” nanami asked, rubbing his temples.

“nah, just a bump. you’re good,” satoru said from the other side, barely suppressing a laugh. “go back to sleep, sleeping beauty.”

“fuck off,” nanami muttered, slumping sideways, right into satoru who let out a wheeze and started complaining about how heavy he was.

shoko snored softly in the front. choso didn’t say a word, eyes locked on the road like he was pretending his blind ass didn’t hit a hump too fast.

you exhaled slowly, trying to settle your heartbeat as you adjusted your skirt, finally able to sit up straighter. the moment between you and suguru had dissipated, at least, on the surface.

but under the quiet buzz of the car, and nanami’s groaning, and satoru’s complaining, something still lingered. the press of his hands. the sound of your name on his breath. the tension hadn’t vanished, it had just gone quiet, waiting for its next chance.

the rest of the ride passed in a haze of low conversation, drunken groans, and the occasional sharp turn from choso that made everyone lean just a little too close. you tried not to think about suguru’s thigh pressed against yours or the way he hadn’t looked at you since nanami woke up. tried not to think about how he still hadn’t let go right away.

eventually, the car slowed in front of your dorm building. choso put it in park with a heavy sigh, like the drive had drained the last bit of his will to live. shoko was still knocked out cold, mouth open, a soft snore vibrating in the quiet.

“alright,” satoru whispered dramatically, nudging nanami awake again. “lovebirds, this is your stop.”

you rolled your eyes and moved to gather your things. suguru slipped out first, reaching back for you. his hand was warm when it closed around yours—gentle, but firm enough that your breath caught. he helped you down like it meant nothing, like you both hadn’t spent the last ten minutes thinking about what it felt like to be that close.

his fingers lingered. yours almost gripped back.

the building was quiet, only the low buzz of vending machines and the flicker of a dying hallway light filling the space between you. you walked side by side toward your doors—neighbors, nothing more, but every inch between your bodies felt like a dare.

you stopped in front of your door and reached into your bag. once. twice. a third time, more frantic now.

“shit,” you whispered. “no, no, no… i left my key.”

you jiggled the handle anyway, as if hoping your door would suddenly decide to forgive you.

suguru was quiet. you glanced up to find him watching you, jaw tight, brows drawn slightly like he was working through something.

then his eyes flicked to his door. just one step away.

his voice was low when it came, almost strangled.

“you can stay in my room.”

you blinked, heart stuttering. had you heard him right?

he dragged a hand through his hair, gaze darting to the floor, to the vending machine, anywhere but you. “just… just for tonight.”

his fingers fumbled with the key in his pocket, knuckles stiff like he didn’t trust himself to do anything else with them. he wasn’t breathing right. neither were you.

your throat dried, knowing that once you entered that door, whatever line the two of you had been pretending not to toe would disappear completely.

your voice caught somewhere behind your tongue. your fingers twitched at your sides, unsure if they should grab the hem of your skirt or reach for him instead. he wasn’t moving, but he didn’t need to, his silence screamed louder than anything. waiting…

“are you sure?” you asked, barely above a whisper, not trusting yourself to say more.

his lips parted like he wanted to answer, like he had an answer, but instead, he just unlocked his door with a shaky click and stepped aside, holding it open for you.

you hesitated.

just one step.

just one step and this would no longer be a crush, a tension, a thing to swallow and hide.

you met his eyes one more time.

he looked at you like he was already touching you.

and then—

a voice from the hallway behind you

“yo, y/n!—did you leave your keys in the car?”

satoru.

~

a/n: LOLLLL turns out there will be part 3. yall know theres a reason why this mini series is called sexual frustration lol hope u guys r alright w getting blue balled <33

tags: @getoswifeyy

[geminiwritten]

dirty laundry (two) ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things

see PART ONE for the first half of this fic + author's notes, warnings, etc...

word count: 22046 (section two, 11909)

Jake doesn’t see you when you get home from lunch with Natasha—he’s already at Lana’s place. Or maybe it’s Lila? He’s not sure. He just knows it started with an L.

After washing two loads of your laundry—moving one from the dryer to your bed and the other into the dryer—he got a text from Lola saying she got off work early. So, naturally, he was on his way there within minutes.

Four rounds later—and one very close call where he almost said your name instead of Lily’s—he showered in her cramped little bathroom, got dressed, and drove home. Feeling a thousand times better than when he left. Thoroughly satisfied. And only a tiny bit guilty about what he’d done to himself earlier… while staring at your lingerie like a fucking perv.

That is, until he walks through the door and sees you—pantless again—bent over the kitchen counter in nothing but an oversized shirt, Chinese takeout menu in hand.

But not just any shirt. No. His shirt.

His.

“Oh, hey.” You straighten immediately, tugging the hem of the shirt down over your ass. “Sorry, didn’t think you’d be home yet. Want Chinese? I’ll go put some pants on.”

Before he can even blink, you’re gone—down the hall and into your bedroom.

You return a moment later in a loose pair of sleep shorts, smiling down at your phone like some idiot in love.

And something about that makes Jake want to roll his eyes.

“How was lunch?” he asks, picking up the takeout menu like he doesn’t already know exactly what he’s getting.

“Good,” you reply, eyes still glued to your screen. “Had fun.”

He nods even though you’re not looking and drops the menu back on the bench. “I’ll get the—”

“Beef and broccoli,” you interrupt, glancing up with a smirk. “And kung pao chicken. Side of steamed rice, vegetarian spring rolls. Extra soy sauce packets, two fortune cookies, and a Diet Coke.”

Jake’s heart leaps in his chest, skipping into an uneven rhythm as he just stares at you—brow furrowed, lips slightly parted. A mix of awe and confusion flickers across his face because… how do you know that? How do you know him that well?

Sure, it’s just a takeout order. But still. You knew. Without hesitation.

And there you are, standing in his shirt—his fucking shirt—looking like the most gorgeous woman on the planet, and God, he’s about to lose his damn mind.

He clears his throat, letting out what he hopes passes as an easy chuckle. “You’re good.”

You pretend to dramatically flip your hair off your shoulder. “I know. Now go pick a movie. I’ll order.”

He hesitates for a beat, watching as you grab the menu and start dialling the restaurant’s number into your phone. Then he shakes his head and moves into the living room, dropping into his usual spot on the couch.

An hour later, after scrolling through every single streaming app the squad collectively pays for, Jake finally settles on an old action movie you both know he’s seen a hundred times. But you also both know it’s his unspoken comfort film, and—thankfully—you don’t say anything. You just keep eating your Chinese food, eyes flicking between the TV and your relentlessly buzzing phone.

“That Justin?” Jake asks through a mouthful of beef.

You nod. “Yeah. Sorry. I can turn the vibration off if it’s annoying.”

Jake shakes his head. “It’s fine.” He swallows, watching as several more messages pop up in quick succession. “Wow. Guy’s not just a double-texter—he’s a quadruple-texter.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. Some women like communication. In fact, I’d argue that most do.”

“Yeah?” he chuckles. “You gonna like it when he’s banging on your door at two a.m. like a creepy stalker?”

You frown. “How does texting a few times in a row immediately equal stalking?”

“Because he’s clearly obsessed with you,” Jake says with a shrug. “And after one date? Kinda a red flag. I’d expect that level of energy after six months—maybe—not one night.”

You narrow your eyes. “Maybe I’m just that good.”

Jake laughs, low and quiet, eyes dropping to his bowl of beef and broccoli. “No pussy is that good.”

You snort—loudly. The sound is abrupt and completely unladylike, but Jake can’t help the way his eyes flick up to the giddy smile on your lips, the light blush creeping into your cheeks.

“Guess you’ll never know,” you say, eyes sparkling with amusement.

What he wouldn’t give to know...

“Guess I won’t,” he mutters, shovelling another forkful of food into his mouth.

After a beat, you glance back over at him. “How was your day, anyway?”

He freezes mid-chew, eyes widening as heat crawls up the back of his neck.

“It—uh—it was good. Yeah. Fine. Why?”

You shrug. “Just wondering. Thanks for doing my laundry, by the way.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “Anytime.”

“Except I think this is your shirt,” you add, glancing down at yourself.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “It is. Sorry. Must’ve mixed some stuff up.”

“All good,” you say, light and casual—seemingly oblivious to the guilt scrawled across his face. “It’s comfy.”

He gives you a tight smile, eyes snapping back down to spear another floret of broccoli.

“Except I think you need to give it a hot wash,” you add.

His eyes flick back up, cheeks already burning. “Why?”

You pinch the hem of the shirt and rub the fabric between your fingers. “There’s a hard stain near the bottom, but I can’t tell what it is.”

Jake’s breath catches, lungs going tight.

You glance back up at him. “Did you spill maple syrup on it or something?”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers, heart pounding. “Yep. Maple syrup. This morning. Sorry.”

You frown, clearly dubious. “It’s fine. Not my shirt, remember? Besides, a hot wash will get that right out.”

He nods, shifting the bowl in his lap and praying to whatever god might listen to please, please reroute his blood flow. “Noted. Hot wash.”

You nod slowly, giving him a suspicious look before finally turning back to your dinner.

Once you’ve both finished dinner, Jake takes the dishes into the kitchen and washes up, glancing at the movie over his shoulder as it plays. When it ends, you grab the remote and declare that it’s your turn to pick the next film.

By the time he returns to the couch, you’re curled up right in the middle of it, leaving just a sliver of space on either side.

Which is fine. Totally and completely fine.

He grabs a blanket from the basket in the corner and drops down beside you, draping it over both your legs.

“Thanks,” you say with a soft smile. “Didn’t know you knew how to be sweet.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond. He’s not sure what he could say to that. Because, yeah. Jake didn’t know he could be sweet either.

Eventually, you settle on some spy-romance-thriller and toss the remote onto the coffee table before nestling in. You adjust the blanket and fluff the pillows until you’re perfectly comfortable. Jake watches, a little fascinated, and doesn’t even realise he’s staring until you shoot him a look.

“What?”

He blinks. “Nothing, sorry. Daydreaming.”

“Was your date that good you’re still thinking about her?” you ask with a soft laugh.

He frowns. “Date?”

“Sorry,” you amend. “Your hookup. Because I know, I know—Jake Seresin doesn’t date.”

“Exactly,” he says, giving you a little wink.

You pause, lifting a brow. “So... was it good?”

“What?”

You roll your eyes. “Your hookup. Jesus, where is your head at tonight?”

Still stuck on your dirty laundry, apparently.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. It was fine. Did the job.”

You scoff. “Did the job?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. That’s all I wanted. Bit of fun.”

You nod slowly, eyes narrowing like you’re trying to read his mind.

“You know,” he adds, “not every woman is out there hunting for Mr. Right. Some are more than happy with a Mr. Right Now. It’s easy. Fun. And you don’t have to worry about texting them the next day.”

Your brows shoot up. “Is that a dig at me?”

He chuckles quietly, glancing toward the forgotten movie. “Maybe.”

“Wow,” you say slowly, dry and sarcastic. “Well, Mr. Right Now, maybe you should watch what you say. Because one day, you’re going to fall in love. And it’s not going to be pretty. You’ll fall so hard and fast, you’ll forget your own name—and that’ll be karma for all the one-night stands and broken hearts you’ve left behind.”

He turns his head toward you, his expression flat even as the corner of his mouth twitches. “That so?”

You nod, firm. “Yep.”

“When that day comes, I’ll let you know,” he says, laughing quietly. “And I’ll apologise for being a dick. Maybe even take back what I said about your creepy stalker boyfriend. But don’t come crying to me when you find him breathing on your window in the middle of the night.”

Your eyes go wide, lips parting in disbelief, but the amusement still shines through. “Dude!”

He laughs again as you sit up, fully turning toward him.

“What?”

You gape at him, scandalised. Then you reach out and smack him on the shoulder—hard.

“Ow!” he barks, half laughing, half offended. “The hell was that for?”

“For being a dick!”

You go to hit him again, but Jake catches your wrist mid-air. “Uh-uh,” he grins. “Not happening twice.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, immediately swinging your other hand at him.

He catches that one too—easily—and in the same breath, he moves. Forward and up.

Shoving you onto your back like it’s nothing. Effortless.

Then he’s above you, pinning both your wrists above your head. The blanket is tangled somewhere beneath you, one of your knees brushing the outside of his thigh—and he’s close. Too close.

Every part of him is closer than you’ve ever been. His face hovers over yours, his chest inches from your breasts, his hips nearly aligned with yours. If he moved—just a fraction—he could press his half-hard dick right into the apex of your thighs.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. Eyes frantic. Searching his face like you might find some kind of answer for whatever just snapped and turned the air to static.

His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm. Certain. Unshakable. His gaze flicks between your mouth and your eyes like he can’t decide which is more dangerous.

“Still wanna hit me?” he murmurs, voice low, something dark and teasing threading through it.

You swallow. “Maybe.”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“So are you,” you breathe.

There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Just heat and tension and the sound of your combined breathing, louder than it should be.

Then—

“Truce,” you say, voice hoarse as you shift your wrists beneath his hands.

Jake hesitates. He wants to stay. Wants to press in, drag that single moment out until it breaks. But he knows. He knows he’s close to the edge, and if he goes any further, he might never come back from it.

So he lets go and sits back slowly, pulse hammering in his throat. “Truce,” he echoes.

You both move until you're upright again. Comfortable, but not really. Not anymore. There’s more distance between you now, but it doesn’t help.

Jake doesn’t reach for the blanket that you’ve stolen. He’s not cold anymore. In fact, he’s thinking about opening a window. Or the balcony door.

Maybe he should just do that—open the door and walk straight off the balcony.

Because now, his cock is throbbing—hard and heavy between his legs, hidden only by the way his knee is bent with one foot on the couch. It's aching. Begging.

For friction. For relief. For you.

The ninety-minute movie feels a hell of a lot longer than that in the stifling lounge room. Jake's raging hard-on barely lets up, and even when it does, you shift or sigh or stretch your neck in a way that makes it start aching again.

By the time the credits roll, Jake is dying to get to bed. He needs to go somewhere—anywhere—that you’re not. Away from your scent, your smile, your soft little laughs. God. He needs space.

“Alright,” you sigh, pushing up off the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

He nods. “Good idea.”

But he doesn’t move. He can’t. Not until you’re gone and he can hide his ridiculous boner.

“Oh,” you call back, halfway down the hall. “I’ll drive myself to base tomorrow.”

He frowns. “Why?”

You always carpool. Same apartment, same squad, same shift. It just makes sense.

“Justin’s coming over tomorrow night, and I don’t want to be late,” you reply. “And, no offence, but I can’t really rely on you to not be kept back.”

He gives you a flat look. “Rude. But whatever.”

You flash him a bright, cheesy smile before quickly ducking into your room. If it weren’t for the blush still clinging to your cheeks, he might think you’d already forgotten about what happened earlier.

But no. Your face is still very red.

And that leaves Jake feeling just a little bit smug as he takes himself—and his tragically horny dick—off to bed.

He barely sleeps all night. He tosses and turns, punching his pillow like that might stop his brain from looping thoughts of you. But every time he shuts his eyes—there you are. Smiling. Laughing. Dancing in the kitchen. Climbing out of your jet with a grin bright enough to eclipse the sun.

You’re stuck in his head. Lodged deep. Making his heart race and his blood flow in one, completely unhelpful, direction.

He wakes up rock hard at 1:27. Then 2:13. Then 3:45. And finally, at 4:36, he gives up entirely. He throws the blankets off, pulls on his gym clothes, and heads to base in the dark.

If he’s going to suffer, he might as well look good doing it.

Thirty minutes of bench, an hour of cardio, and fifteen furious pull-ups later, he still can’t stop picturing the way your tongue caught between your teeth when you giggled at him last night. Or the way your body squirmed beneath him—hips wriggling, wrists twisting—but you were so easy to hold down.

So easy to keep.

God. The things he could do with you pinned beneath him.

By the time Jake finally makes it to the hangar, his whole body is sore, his brain is fried, and he's teetering on the edge of a full-blown mental breakdown.

“Dude,” Javy says as he steps up beside him. “You look awful. Like you haven’t slept in three days. Are you sick?”

Jake shakes his head. “‘M fine. Jus’ tired.”

“Oh wow,” Natasha says, a grin creeping across her lips as she steps in front of them. “He’s regressed to single syllables.”

Javy chuckles. “And he’s slurring. Should we take him to the hospital?”

Jake clears his throat. “I am fine. Alright? Just leave it alone.”

Neither of their knowing smirks falter.

“Well,” Natasha says, eyeing him, her head tilting just slightly. “Judging by that reaction, I’d say you either drank an entire bottle of tequila to yourself last night or... you got rejected by a woman.”

Jake visibly flinches. His green eyes snap to her face, jaw tightening.

Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god. It’s the second one.”

“I didn’t—” he starts, but Javy cuts in with a dramatic gasp.

“Oh my God. This is historic,” he announces. “A woman said no to Jake Seresin and he hasn’t recovered.”

Jake turns toward him, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “Nobody got rejected, okay?!”

Natasha scoffs. “So you just happened to get no sleep, show up looking like a kicked puppy, and flinch like that when I mention rejection?”

Javy leans in, eyes comically wide. “And you liked her, didn’t you? That’s the twist. She actually meant something.”

Jake scowls, jaw working. He doesn’t meet either of their eyes.

Natasha whistles under her breath. “Well, shit.”

Javy beams. “This is a world first, ladies and gentlemen. Someone alert the Pentagon. Get a medal minted.”

“I hate both of you,” Jake mutters.

Natasha grins. “You’ll feel better after a flight. Or at least distracted.”

Javy shrugs. “Unless this mystery woman is on base too. Then you’re screwed. Emotionally and professionally.”

Jake doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. He just stares down the tarmac like he’s hoping it’ll swallow him whole.

Because yeah. The mystery woman—the one who’s messing with his head and making his pulse do weird shit—she’s on base. In fact, she’s walking across the flight line right now.

It isn’t long before Maverick arrives, rounding up the squad and announcing—with a shit-eating grin—that it’s ‘obstacle course day’. Which earns a hearty chorus of groans. But not from Jake, because this? He can do this. It’s work. It’s exercise. It’s a well-needed distraction.

Maverick starts by instructing the squad to jog the quarter-mile stretch from the hangar to the training field as a light warm-up—boots crunching on gravel, the sun barely up over the bay. Jake keeps his eyes forward, jaw tight. He can hear you somewhere behind him, chatting—somewhat breathlessly—with Natasha, but he doesn't dare look. He can’t. Not if he wants to stay focused.

Once you all reach the field, Maverick starts barking about how the conditioning course will be run. Then he tells everyone to lose their flight suits and warm up properly.

“Valkyrie!” he shouts after a few jumping jacks. “Quit talking. Focus up.”

You clamp your mouth shut and give Natasha a subtle sidelong glance. Jake’s not stupid—he knows that means you’ll finish telling her whatever you were saying later. Probably something about Justin.

After a thirty-minute warm-up, everyone gets ready to start. The shit-talking begins, and the sun slowly rises, bathing the training field in warm orange light.

Jake is ready—so ready. His gaze is narrowed, his limbs loose, and he’s excited to do something other than jerk off and think about you, goddamnit. He’s excited to do something he’s good at. To show off a little. Because this obstacle course? He eats this shit for breakfast.

Or at least, he used to.

Rope climb, monkey bars, vertical walls, balance beams—he’s usually halfway through his second lap by the time everyone else finishes one. But today?

Today, he misses the jump onto the cargo net.

He slips on the damn rope wall.

He lands wrong coming off the balance beam and has to catch himself with a sharp hiss through his teeth.

“Jesus, Hangman,” Mav calls out from the sidelines, brows raised. “You drunk?”

Jake doesn’t answer. He just resets and pushes off again, heart hammering harder than it should be. His palms are slick and his jaw aches from how tightly he’s clenching it. He feels like one big bruise, and he knows he’s going to feel this shit for the next two weeks.

Reuben jogs past and claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “Careful, man. You keep biffing it like this and they’re going to revoke your golden boy status.”

Jake forces a laugh through his teeth, but it’s tight. Shaky.

He’s fine. He just didn’t sleep. He just... pushed too hard at the gym. He just—

His eyes flick sideways.

You’re across the course, waiting your turn, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your neck. You’re smiling at something Bradley said, adjusting your gloves as you watch the others ahead of you.

You’re not even looking at him.

With a light shake of his head, Jake turns his gaze ahead and—

Misses the next rung on the monkey bars.

“God dammit,” he mutters under his breath, dropping to the ground.

Javy stops nearby, eyebrows raised. “Dude. What is going on with you today?”

Jake doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even have words for the pressure building behind his ribs—like a grenade with the pin pulled halfway out. Everything’s too loud. Too hot. Too much. You’re everywhere. In his head. Under his skin. Burned into his eyes.

He’s not flustered. He doesn’t get flustered.

He’s just... distracted. Yeah. That’s all.

He grits his teeth and tries again. Then gets halfway before slipping—again. His hand slams into the rung too late, and he stumbles forward, barely catching himself before eating shit in front of everyone.

“Focus up, Hangman!” Mav barks. “You’re better than this!”

Jake bites the inside of his cheek until it stings. His lungs burn. His arms feel like they’re made of lead.

Across the course, Natasha slows, watching him quietly. Her brow creases just slightly.

Her sharp eyes follow his line of sight and easily catch the way his gaze flicks toward you—quick, but not quick enough.

Her head tilts.

“Interesting,” she mutters to herself.

She picks up her pace and moves through the course with practiced ease, quickly joining Jake where he’s crumpled beneath the monkey bars.

“Pull it together, cowboy,” she says. “Don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your mystery girl.”

Jake’s stomach drops.

What the fuck?

His wide eyes meet hers, brown and sparkling with mischief.

“What did you just say?” he asks, voice hoarse.

She grins wickedly. “Nothing, Bagman. Now get up before Mav sees you slacking off again.”

His heart beats faster than it should. Too fast. Too heavy.

How does she know? She can’t know.

There’s nothing to know.

You’re just his roommate. A friend. A pain in the ass. That’s all.

He just needs to sort his head out.

He just needs to stop thinking about your body under his. Your laugh in his ears. Your wrists in his hands.

With a quiet growl, Jake pushes himself up and resets. Then he lurches forward, fingers grasping for the bar—but he misses. By half an inch.

The day couldn’t be over fast enough. Everyone is breathless and sweaty by the time Maverick dismisses the squad, but no one is as battered and bruised as Jake. He feels like he’s been thrown out of a moving truck—and run over for good measure. Everything hurts.

“Hey,” you say quietly, almost carefully, as you approach him. “You alright?”

You’ve got your bag over your shoulder and your sunglasses perched on your head. Ready to leave base. To go home and wait for Justin to come over.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “just tired today. That’s all.”

You nod slowly, the corner of your lips twitching. “You—uh, you took quite the beating out there.”

He can’t help but smile at you and the way you’re trying so hard not to laugh at his shitty day. “I know. Thought I’d let someone else get best time for once.”

You arch a brow. “Really? You decided to let the whole squad make better time than you?”

He chuckles softly, letting his head fall back. “The whole squad beat me? Well, shit, baby, I guess I gotta step up my game next time.”

He freezes, and you do too, both of you just staring at each other as that little pet name hangs between you like a held breath.

He clears his throat. “Uh... I mean, y’know, gotta bring my A-game next time.”

You nod slowly, letting out a soft, uncertain laugh. “Yeah. You better. Or Mav might kick you off the squad.”

Silence hangs, thick and heavy. Jake wants to say something—make a joke or a snarky remark—but his voice is caught somewhere deep in his chest.

“Seresin,” Javy interrupts, clapping a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “You almost done, or...?”

He steps up beside the two of you, eyes darting back and forth as his brow knits. He's not stupid. He can clearly sense that there's something painfully awkward hanging in the air.

You raise your brows and take an unsteady step back. “I was just going to say, let me know if you’re home for dinner. I’m making nachos, but I always make way too—”

“Won’t be,” Jake cuts in. “Mav asked me to stay back. Again. Paperwork.”

“Oh,” you frown, just slightly. “Must’ve missed that. All good. See you later.” Then you turn to Javy and flash him wide smile. “Bye, Coyote.”

He gives you a lazy salute. “See ya, Val.”

You turn on your heel and walk away, leaving Jake standing there slack-jawed and utterly defeated.

Javy clears his throat, the grin on his lips turning wicked. “So...?”

Jake’s eyes snap to him. “What?”

Javy raises his brows. “Mav didn’t ask you to stay back.”

“I know,” Jake says, turning back to try and remember what he was filling out a maintenance log for. “She’s got a guy coming over, and I didn’t want to make her feel bad, but I figured she’d be happier if I wasn’t there.”

Javy nods slowly, looking entirely unconvinced. “Right. Okay. So, you were being a good roommate?”

“Exactly.”

There’s a split second of silence where Javy steps even closer, invading Jake’s space as he leans against the wall and tips his head forward. “Want to talk about it?”

Jake doesn’t even look up. “Talk about what?”

Javy shrugs. “Don’t know. Got anything you want to talk about?”

“No,” Jake snaps.

“Alright,” Javy says, pushing off the wall. “You just keep jerking off to your roommate until you die of dehydration. See what I care.”

Jake’s eyes go wide. He chokes on nothing—just air. When he finally turns around, Javy is already gone, striding across the hangar the same way you did. But he’s got a noticeable pep in his step, clearly fucking thrilled with himself for figuring this one out.

After a brief, mostly internal meltdown in the locker room, Jake packs up his gear and heads off base. He sits in his car for twenty minutes, scrolling through texts from a few women he’d messaged earlier, and thankfully, one of them tells him to get his gorgeous ass over to her place right now—no questions asked. So he does exactly that.

The drive is only ten minutes, but it rattles his nerves. Not because he’s worried about this woman—no, that would be ridiculous. He’s worried about you. Or more precisely, what Natasha and Javy think they know about you.

Which is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Because there’s nothing there.

You’re just his roommate. His ridiculously good-looking, maddeningly sexy, impossibly charming roommate. Two months of living together and sure, some weird feelings have popped up. Strange, shallow stuff. Surface-level. All about your ass, your tits, and whatever else Jake usually notices.

But that’s it. That’s all there is.

He hasn’t noticed the soft melody beneath your laugh. Or the way your lips twitch when you bite back a snarky comment. Or how your tongue drags slowly over your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought.

He hasn’t noticed any of it.

And this guy—Justin? Jake couldn’t care less about who you’re with. That’s your business, not his. He’s just glad you’re getting some.

Just like he is. Right now. With a woman who’s perfectly attractive, even if she doesn’t look, smell, or sound like you. But hey, that’s a good thing, right?

“Baby, c’mere,” Sienna—Jake thinks—croons, reaching across the couch. “Why you sittin’ so far away, hm?”

He shifts closer to the red-headed woman, trying hard not to breathe in the candy-cane scent of whatever glittery body lotion she uses. He remembers that it was overwhelming last time, but this time it’s just making him feel downright sick.

“You really come over here just to watch a movie?” she asks, eyes flicking between Jake’s face and the TV.

His green eyes are glued to the screen. Not because it’s interesting—it’s really not—but because it’s the same spy-romance-thriller you picked last night, and he wants to know if it was actually any good. Since he missed most of it trying to focus on hiding his raging boner.

“Come on,” Sabrina—maybe—sighs, trailing a manicured nail down the line of his jaw. “I got all pretty for you.”

Jake’s eyes flick toward her, lips twitching into a tight smile. She’s not ugly—far from it—but maybe she’s just not his type. Or maybe he doesn’t have a type anymore. Because despite the fact that they both know exactly what he came here for, he can’t seem to want it.

And what’s worse? He can’t get hard. At all.

“Sorry,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Just—uh, just trying to get work out of my head. You know?”

She nods slowly. “Okay, baby. Well... what if I get us a bottle of wine? Take the edge off.”

Before he can respond, she’s already off the couch and sauntering toward the kitchen. Jake doesn’t care. Honestly, he’s just relieved to get a breath of air that doesn’t reek of unicorn-scented body lotion.

He’s been here nearly two hours. They started making out the second he walked in the door, but it didn’t him take long to realise that absolutely nothing was stirring in his pants. So he’d asked for a minute to decompress, maybe watch something first. Hit reset.

But truthfully? He doesn’t want to get to it. Which is absurd, considering the weekend he just had—fighting off boners left, right, and centre.

“Red or white, baby?” Serena—possibly—calls from the kitchen.

Jake opens his mouth to reply, but his phone buzzes first. Lighting up with your goofy caller ID photo—a close-up of you in your flight helmet, blurry and ridiculous, pulling a face way too close to his camera lens.

His lips twitch as he swipes the green button.

“Hey?”

“Jake,” you say, breathless.

His stomach drops. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Jakey!” Selena—or whatever—calls again. “Red or—?”

“I don’t care!” Jake snaps. “Either’s fine.” Then he lowers his voice, speaking softly into the phone. “Sorry. I’m here. What’s up?”

“A-Are you still on base or...?”

“No, I’m—um, I’m at a friend’s place,” he says quickly. “But that doesn’t matter. You sound stressed. What’s going on?”

“Oh.” You hesitate, voice suddenly too high, clearly realising what you’ve interrupted. “No, it’s fine. I didn’t know you were... with someone.”

“It’s fine. Don’t apologise,” he says, already standing. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing, honestly—”

“Tell me.”

“Seriously, dude,” you sigh. “I’m fine. It’s just—the power went out, but I’m pretty sure it’s only our apartment. So I guess that means it’s... I don’t know. A fuse? The circuit thing? I figured you’d know. But really—it’s fine. I’ll call building maintenance.”

“No, no,” Jake says, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch. “I’ll come home, I can—”

“Jake,” you cut him off. “Don’t. Please don’t. Have your fun, I’ll figure it out.”

He pauses, brow furrowed, suddenly remembering why he came to Sierra’s place. “Wait. Where’s Justin?”

“Oh, he’s not coming over. Got caught up at work or something.”

“Right,” he mutters, peering toward the kitchen. “Just—just stay put. I’ll be home soon.”

“No. Please,” you say, and there’s something strained in your voice. Something off. “Don’t bail on your hookup just for me. I’ll call Phoenix or Rooster, see if either of them knows what to do. Okay?”

His heart is pounding now, hard and fast, making it impossible to think. But he knows better than to argue. He knows better than to ditch a hookup for you. Because he knows what that would mean.

“Okay,” he sighs. “But call me if you need me to come home. I won’t be late.”

“I will. I promise,” you say, voice softer now. “Now go get some. Lord knows you need the ego boost after today.”

He chuckles, closing his eyes and picturing the smile on your face. The one that makes him feel like he’s seventeen again. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Bagman.”

Then you hang up, leaving Jake alone with the dial tone and a weird, hollow ache blooming in his chest.

“Everything okay?” Sasha asks, brows drawn.

Jake frowns, staring down at the phone in his hands. His stomach churns, chest tightens. He can’t breathe. His tongue feels heavy, and his voice is lodged somewhere in his throat.

“Jakey?” she presses. “You don’t look good.”

“Gotta go,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

“You what?”

“I—I have to go. My roommate, she—”

“Your cousin?” Sydney interrupts.

“No,” Jake’s frown deepens. “My roommate.”

Simone frowns. “Yes, your roommate who’s also your cousin. The one you—”

“She’s not my fucking cousin!” he snaps, louder than he means.

Sandy startles, eyes narrowing. “You said she was—”

“She’s my roommate,” he says, voice firm. “Just my roommate. Actually, no—she’s my friend, and part of my squad.”

Samantha raises an eyebrow. “Your squad?”

“Yes. Squad.” Jake runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Because I’m a naval aviator. Which you’d know if either of us bothered remembering anything about each other.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know you’re in the Navy. So what if I forget what you do?” Then she props a hand on her hip. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

“I just—” He takes a deep breath. “I—I need to go home, okay?”

“What? Why? Because of your roommate?”

“Yes. Because of her.” He slides his arms into his jacket. “The power went out and she needs help.”

“The power went out?” Samara echoes, incredulous. “And you have to go home, or what? She’ll die?”

Jake frowns. “No, she won’t—I mean, it’s not life or death, but—”

“Seriously,” Summer cuts in, “what the fuck is your problem tonight?”

“My problem?” Jake narrows his eyes. “My problem is that I can’t just ignore my roommate when she needs me.”

Sadie arches a perfectly plucked brow. “She doesn’t need you, Jake. She’s a grown woman.”

“Well, maybe I need her!” Jake blurts.

The words scorch his tongue, slam into his chest, and steal the air from his lungs. His breath catches—shaky, shallow. Every nerve ending feels raw, exposed—like frayed wires sparking and crackling, desperate for ground. If anyone else touches him now, he might short-circuit. Blow apart.

He needs you. Only you. You’re the only safe harbor, the only grounding wire strong enough to steady this storm raging inside him. The only one who can reach in, hold on, and fix what’s broken.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Shit. I—uh, I gotta go.”

He grabs his keys off the coffee table and shrugs his jacket on properly. He barely looks at the woman staring at him in utter disbelief—just nods and turns toward the door. “Thanks, uh… Sabrina? Samara?”

Then he’s gone. Out the door, down the stairs, across the street, and into his car.

The second he slams the driver’s side door closed, the silence wraps around him like a vice. It’s too quiet, too sharp. His pulse is too loud. And the second the engine turns over, he’s spiralling.

I need her?

He says it again—in his head—and it lands like a punch to the ribs. A silent admission, a whisper amongst whirling thoughts.

Fuck. He grips the wheel tighter.

I need her.

He’s known you for years. Years. Since before flight school. Since that first day at the Academy when you smiled at him like you already knew he was trouble. He remembered that smile for weeks. Thought about it during PT. Laughed about it in the mess hall when his bunkmates gave him shit for getting flustered.

But you barely looked at him again. Not until North Island.

And even then, he didn’t realise what was happening. Not when you moved in. Not when you started stealing his socks or fake-kissing his cheek to get rid of the girls who wouldn’t leave the next morning. Not when you started saving him—over and over again—with a raised eyebrow and a sharp little smile, acting like his wife, or cousin, or federal agent.

He should’ve known.

He did know. Somewhere deep down, his body knew before his head did. That’s why no one else ever stuck. Why no other woman ever made it past two nights. He kept telling himself it was just about sex. That the feelings he had were just surface level—just instinct. Biology. Whatever.

But the truth is, no one ever stood a chance. Not when your laugh still echoes in his head days after he hears it. Not when the soft sound of your footsteps across the apartment floor is more familiar to him than his own breathing. Not when you’re the first person he wants to see when something good happens. Or something bad.

Jesus.

He runs a hand through his hair, breath catching. His throat’s tight. His chest aches.

All this time. All this pretending. And he still didn’t see it.

He’s not in control. He never was.

He’s in love with you.

And suddenly it’s not even a question of what if.

He wishes it were.

But it’s just fact. Solid and terrifying. A truth that makes his heart race and his hands shake.

He presses harder on the gas. He just needs to get home.

To you.

He drives like he has nothing to lose—even though right now, he knows he has everything to lose. He’s headlong and reckless, speeding, weaving through traffic, taking corners too fast. Pulling moves that could easily earn him a suspension or, worse, a formal reprimand from the Navy.

But he doesn’t care. Because fourteen minutes later, he’s outside your building, practically falling out of his car and hurrying through the lobby like a lunatic.

He jabs at the elevator buttons, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the carriage crawls upward. When it finally opens on your floor, he squeezes out and bolts down the hallway, fumbling with his keys like his hands forgot how to work.

His head is spinning. His fingers are numb. He can barely breathe, let alone think straight—and less than a foot from the door, the keys slip from his grasp.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching down to pick them up.

Then—

Laughter. Your laughter.

Light and soft, threaded with that hidden melody that’s burrowed into the deepest parts of his memory.

He freezes, eyes flicking to the sliver of light glowing beneath the door. Power. The power’s back on.

Another muffled laugh, and his stomach drops so hard and fast he’s surprised it doesn’t fall out of his ass.

Maybe it’s just Phoenix? Or Rooster? You did say you were going to call—

“Justin,” you giggle, from somewhere inside, “stop it, I’m trying not to spill it.”

All the blood drains from Jake’s face. He just stands there, pale and slack-jawed, staring at the door like it just punched him in the chest.

His fingers twitch, trying to remember how to move. His whole body feels heavy. Numb. Weighted down by the brutal whiplash of emotional discovery and the gut-punch of reality.

He’s not even sure he has the nerve to walk in.

But after a long moment—too long—he takes a breath, deep and unsteady, and slides the key into the lock.

He pushes the door open and steps inside, kicking his boots off as his eyes land on you in the living room. You’re holding a glass of wine in one hand, and the other is resting—way too high—on Justin’s leg.

Jake isn’t sure what he expected Justin to be like, but whatever it was, this isn’t it. The guy is tall—maybe taller than Jake—with dark hair, dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. Pale, but not scrawny. Broad shoulders. Thick legs. He looks like a lumberjack—minus the flannel. Practically Jake’s polar opposite. He doesn’t look like he belongs in San Diego, and he definitely doesn’t look like he belongs beside you.

“Jake?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Hi,” he mutters, eyes still locked on Justin.

“I didn’t think you’d be home for a while.”

He shrugs. “Came to fix the power. But I can see that’s no longer an issue.” His eyes narrow. “Thought Justin wasn’t coming over.”

Justin shifts uncomfortably, easing his hand away from your leg.

“Oh,” you say, standing up. “Right. Sorry. Jake, this is Justin. Justin—Jake.”

“Hangman,” Jake says flatly.

You frown. “That’s his callsign.”

“That’s right,” Justin says, offering a polite chuckle. “You’re a fighter pilot too.”

“Naval aviator,” Jake replies, enunciating each word.

You shoot him a look—eyes wide, brow furrowed. Like, what the fuck?

“Right, yeah,” Justin says quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

You take a long sip of your wine before clearing your throat. “Justin was stuck at work, but after I called, like, the whole squad, he was my last hope. He came right over and found the circuit breaker on his way up.”

“Great,” Jake mutters, tone dry. “He’s a double-texter and he knows where the circuit breakers are.”

Your eyes go wide. “Jake. What the fuck?”

“What?” he asks, shrugging like he’s not being a complete dick. “Not saying I’m not grateful. Just takes some balls, showing up after being—what? Plan Z?”

“Jake!”

“Okay,” Justin says quietly, pushing up from the couch. “I’m just gonna go.”

You turn to him. “No, no. Don’t. He’s just being—”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Jake says, already swinging it open.

You whip back toward him. “Jake. Stop.”

“It’s fine,” Justin mutters. “I’m going. You two can… sort this out.”

Jake watches your jaw clench, your eyes slashing toward him in a lethal glare. But he can’t bring himself to stop.

“Justin, I’m so sorry,” you sigh.

Jake’s eye twitches when your hand wraps around Justin’s arm, rubbing up and down like you’re trying to soothe him. The sight alone sparks something hot and bitter behind his sternum.

He steps aside as you both move toward the door, still holding it open like he’s doing everyone a favour.

“It’s alright,” Justin says softly, crooking a finger beneath your chin. “Call me, yeah?”

“I will,” you murmur. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, gorgeous.”

You sigh, stepping back—and that’s all the cue Jake needs. He lets the door slam shut in Justin’s face, a solid final barrier between the two of you.

Relief floods through him—but it’s short-lived. Because before he can even blink, you turn on him, gaze fixed and deadly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you spit, eyes narrowed and brows tightly drawn. “Justin was being perfectly polite. He came over here and did us a favour. Then you walk in all rude and territorial—you might as well have just pissed on me!”

Jake chokes on his own breath, coughing softly as he lifts a hand to his chest. “I—”

“Like, seriously!” you go on, throwing your hands up. “You’ve been acting weird the past few days for God knows what reason, and you’re letting it affect you at work. Then you ditch a hookup—which is not very Hangman of you—just to come home and act like a dick?” You pause, wide eyes trained on him. “Do you know how hard it was to convince Justin that there’s nothing going on between you and me? And now what’s he going to think?”

Jake can feel his heart beating in his throat. Loud, heavy, fast. His stomach—if it’s even still in his body—feels like it’s been turned inside out. He can barely breathe, barely think.

“B-Between us?” he stammers out—the only fragment of your rant that seemed to stick.

You roll your eyes, propping your hands on your hips. “Yes, Jake. I live with a young, attractive, single man... of course Justin is going to think there’s something more going on. It’s the same with you and your hookups. But I’m not going to lie to him and tell him you’re my fucking cousin. Because I like him.”

Those last three words feel like a punch to Jake’s gut, winding him.

“You like him?” he asks, voice quiet—strained.

“Yes,” you say, firm—despite blinking a little too fast, which Jake knows is your tell. “And you’re not allowed to have a problem with that. I mean...” You let out a sigh, shoulders sagging as you step closer to him. “What is going on with you? You—You look sick. Are you okay?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. He can’t.

Because no, he’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay since that night he walked through the door and heard you with someone else. His stomach is in knots, his chest feels too tight, and his skin is buzzing like his nerves are misfiring. He’s pale, yeah, because all the blood is either in his head or his heart and both of them are screaming.

He’s exhausted. Not from the day, but from pretending. From biting his tongue and keeping his distance and playing the roommate, the friend, the flirt with no feelings who knows better than to touch what he can’t have.

His pulse thunders in his ears. His throat aches with everything he hasn’t said. His hands are curled into fists at his sides because if he doesn’t hold something back, he’s going to break.

He looks at you—really looks—and it just… hits him. Hard. Like gravity, or fate, or something heavy and persistent that just won’t let go.

“I—I think I love you,” he mutters, voice low—wrecked.

You startle, eyes growing even wider as you stumble back a step. “What?”

He clears his throat, wishing his heart would stop beating so damn fast. “I’m in love with you.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow hard, eyes glossing over. You take a hesitant step back, like you need the distance just to stop yourself from falling into him.

He wishes you’d let yourself.

“Jake...” you whisper, “y-you’re not in love with me. You can’t be.”

Another punch to the gut. This time harder, lower.

“Why?”

“Because,” you say, eyes flicking toward the floor as you shake your head. “You’re you. Jake. Hangman. You—You’re in love with what you can’t have. The idea of me, maybe. But you’re not in love with me.”

Jake feels like his ribs are splitting—cracking wide open to expose his trembling, bleeding heart. Nothing protecting it as you reach in and rip it apart.

“Why—Why would you say that?” he asks, voice soft, breathing ragged.

“Because I know you!” you say, probably a little louder than intended. “And the woman you fall in love with—really fall in love with—is going to be so special. She’s going to be sexy and funny, and shine so brightly that you forget about all the others, but...” You take a shaky breath. “I’m not that girl, Jake.”

He wants to scream. He wants to run. He wants to reach out to you and tell you—show you—that there’s no one else on this earth that could possibly be that girl.

It’s you. It’s always been you. It always will be you.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, a single tear falling down your cheek. “I just—I think we both need some space, don’t you?”

Jake can’t respond. Can’t say anything. His voice is stuck beneath the lump in his throat, and if he tries to dislodge it, he might just fall apart.

“I—I know it’s probably been a little confusing because we’ve gotten so close,” you continue, swiping at the tears on your cheeks. “And that’s my fault, I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve made sure we kept boundaries and stayed out of each other’s way, but I—I don’t know. I like being close with you, Jake. Being your friend.”

Friend. Ugh.

“And I know you love me,” you add, stepping forward again. “Because I love you too. The same way I love the whole squad.”

At this point, Jake’s not even sure if you’re trying to make things better or worse.

“Let’s just—” You hesitate, your hand twitching like you might reach for him, but you stop yourself. “Let’s forget this happened, okay? Start fresh. Set some boundaries, take a little space. And eventually you’ll see that whatever you think you’re feeling is just... fondness. Platonic.”

Jake isn’t sure what to say—he’s not even sure he can say anything. You’re staring at him with wide, glassy eyes, and it takes everything in him not to break. He sees the tremble in your hands, the slight quiver of your bottom lip. And so he does what he knows he has to do.

He agrees.

“Okay.”

You step forward again, a shaky smile flickering on your lips as your fingers curl gently around his wrist. “Thank you. And—And I’m sorry. I know this is confusing, I just... I don’t want to lose you. You’re one of my closest friends.”

Jake presses his lips into a thin line, holding his breath like that might hold everything else in place.

For a moment, neither of you move. Then slowly, your hand falls away.

Jake searches your face, green eyes scanning like they’re trying to catch a flicker of something—anything—that might tell him you don’t mean it. That you’re lying. That you feel it too.

But all he finds is sadness, and tears, and a wall where there used to be warmth.

He ducks his head, steps aside, and walks quickly toward his room. The door slams shut behind him, and he slumps against it, head thudding back against the wood.

“Fuck,” he mutters, throat tight, eyes burning.

You might be confused. You might even be scared. But Jake’s not.

He’s knows he’s in love with you.

- You -

Two. Weeks.

It’s been fourteen fucking days since Jake Seresin told you he’s in love with you.

How are you even supposed to function after a confession like that? How are you expected to keep breathing, keep moving, keep waking up every day just to see his face? At home and at work. Because the universe is some cruel sadist.

Or maybe you’re just a masochist.

After all, you were the one who agreed to move in together.

But he didn’t mean it, right?

He was just caught up in the moment, confused by proximity or friendship—or simply feeling something for the first time in his life. Jake Seresin doesn’t do emotion, so of course he’s going to be confused when he starts caring about someone other than himself. He’s never had a close female friend—not like this. He’s just… not thinking straight.

But you? You can’t stop thinking. About him. His face. His stupid smile. The way he says your name, and the shape his lips make when he does.

About how gorgeous he is—not in the over-the-top way, with his hair done just right, clean-shaven, mess dress pressed to perfection—but in the quiet way. When he’s in sweats and nothing else, his skin warm, hair a mess, lying on the couch like some off-duty Greek Adonis. He doesn’t even know he’s beautiful in those moments. And those are the moments you can’t stop thinking about.

You can’t get his eyes out of your head. His smile that crooks a little higher on one side, just for you. The way he smells like cedarwood and jet fuel. The way his warmth finds the deepest parts of you whenever he gets just a little too close.

You’ve always known he’s good-looking, since the very first day you met him. That’s not news. What is news is the way your stomach flips whenever someone even mentions his name. How your skin heats up when you remember the look on his face right before he said it—I’m in love with you. The rawness in his voice. The way it felt so real.

And maybe the worst part is, you don’t know if you regret what you said… or if you’re just terrified that you meant it. That you pushed him away not because you didn’t feel it, but because you did—so much it scared you.

Because two weeks ago, you were doing just fine repressing every unusually warm feeling you had about Jake. Everything that wasn’t totally platonic. But now, it feels like there’s a crack in the floodgates—and you’re one rainstorm away from drowning in everything you’ve tried so hard not to feel.

“Japanese or Mexican?” Justin asks, phone held up to his nose as he scrolls through the food delivery app.

How is it down to Japanese or Mexican? They’re not even close. No one in the history of the world has ever been torn between sushi and tacos. It just doesn't make sense.

“I don’t mind,” you mutter. “Not really hungry.”

He sighs, dark eyes flicking toward you. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been distant all week. I’m surprised I finally got you to come around.”

You’ve only seen Justin once since the incident—just long enough to apologise and swear, honestly, that there’s nothing going on between you and Jake. After that, your replies slowed, you stopped checking your phone for his name, and a small, quiet part of you hoped he’d just... give up.

“Yeah, sorry. Work is just—”

“Work?” he cuts in, raising a brow.

You nod. “Work.”

“Right,” he mutters, glancing back down at his phone. “Let’s do Japanese.”

God. You’re not even hungry—and raw fish and seaweed sounds borderline offensive right now.

An hour later, your untouched dinner is still on the coffee table while Justin chuckles at some formulaic comedy—the canned laughter pressing into your skull like static. You’re sitting close, but it feels wrong. Like the space between you and him is closing in, pressing down on your chest. His thigh brushes yours and you force yourself not to flinch, pasting on a polite smile even though your skin is already crawling.

It’s not that he’s doing anything overtly wrong—he’s being perfectly nice, charming in that clean-cut, eager-to-please way. But every laugh feels too loud, every compliment a little too rehearsed. You nod, you smile, you even let him tuck a strand of hair behind your ear—and instantly wish he hadn’t. It doesn’t make you warm. It doesn’t make you flutter. It just makes you want to lean away.

Because the truth is, he’s not Jake.

And now you finally know what that’s supposed to feel like—real connection, real tension, real... something.

“How is he?” Justin asks suddenly.

You blink. “Who?”

“Jake,” he says, frowning. “You just said he’d hate this movie.”

You did?

“I did?”

He nods. “Yeah. I asked if you wanted to change it and you said, ‘Jake would’ve turned it off ten minutes ago’.”

Shit.

“Right,” you mumble, shaking your head. “Sorry. He’s okay. I think. I don’t really know. We haven’t talked in… a while.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “He’s been distant. We’ve been giving each other space.”

Justin smiles, a little too easily. “That’s good. You need boundaries, right? Living together and working together—it’s a lot.”

You hum, noncommittal, eyes glued to your untouched plate of sushi.

You used to know exactly where Jake’s boundaries were. Now all you can see are the ones you put up—and how much it’s starting to hurt having them there.

After Justin clears the takeout containers and pours you a glass of wine, he nestles even closer on the couch. The lame movie is drawing to a close—you can tell—but he makes no move to grab the remote. Instead, he leans in, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling your body to his.

Your stomach twists, and that familiar ache wells at the back of your throat—but right now, you’re not sure if it’s tears or nausea. Or both.

You swallow hard and take a shallow, shaky breath before turning toward him. You’re not stupid—you know what he wants. So you force yourself to try.

Your breath catches as his lips brush yours—tentative at first, then deeper, more insistent. You slide your hands up his chest, to his shoulders, fingers digging in as you try to relax your rigid posture. To lean in to him.

He shifts your bodies until you’re lying back, trying desperately to forget the knot twisting inside of you. His hands find your wrists, gently moving them above your head and pinning them against the couch armrest. Your heart races, but not with desire—with memory.

Suddenly, it’s not Justin’s hands you feel.

It’s Jake’s—rough, familiar, impossible to forget. Wrapped around your wrists, pinning you down with ease.

Your mind flashes back to that night. The tension, the heat, the rawness. His eyes blazing, chest heaving. The way his breath ghosted over your damp lips, sparking fire right between your legs.

You moan involuntarily, but it’s not Justin’s name on your lips.

“Jake...” you whisper, breathless.

The body above you freezes. Then pulls back.

Justin just stares, wide-eyed, brows drawn tight. “What the fuck?”

“I—” you try, but the words catch in your throat.

He sits back, scooting as far away from you as the couch allows.

“Justin—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Just don’t, alright? I knew it.”

You frown. “Knew what?”

“I fucking knew there was something going on between the two of you.”

You shake your head. “There isn’t—”

“Don’t give me bullshit,” he says. “I’m not stupid. I didn’t even have to meet the guy to know. Just the way you spoke about him. The way you talked about him—it was non-fucking-stop. Do you know you talked more about Jake than yourself on our first date?”

Your eyes go wide, realisation thrumming hard through your veins.

Fuck.

It really has always been Jake. From the very first moment you met him—the way you refused to acknowledge him, convinced yourself he was just some pretty boy you wanted nothing to do with.

Then again at flight school. He was impossible to ignore. Always creeping into your thoughts and dreams, weaving himself deeper than you ever meant to let him.

TOPGUN. North Island. Moving in together. All of it, some cruel, subconscious prank you’ve been playing on yourself—just waiting for the moment you’d finally wake up and realise he’s not just Jake. Not just Hangman. Not to you.

To you, he’s everything.

Why else did you enjoy getting rid of his hookups so much? Why else did you even do it—if not to placate that deep, gnawing jealousy clawing at the corners of your mind?

A sharp ache blooms in your chest, and the tears come fast, unbidden—slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. You’re not sure if it’s heartbreak or relief—or both. You’re crying for the truth you refused to see, for the walls you built, for the fear that maybe you’ve left it too late.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I—I have to go.”

Before Justin can respond, you’re already on your feet, grabbing your things with trembling hands. You don’t look back as you step out the door, stumbling down the front steps and across the street.

You don’t care how it looks. You just need to get out of here.

You need to go home.

You need Jake.

The drive home is sketchy at best. You can barely see through your tears, and your chest is so tight you can’t take a proper breath. But somehow, you make it.

You park, climb out of the car, cross the street, and stumble through the lobby. You mash the elevator button like the extra pressure might make it come faster. It doesn’t.

When the doors finally open, you squeeze in—then out again, rushing down the hall with your keys already in hand. You fumble at the lock, find the right one, shove it in and force the door open, practically falling inside.

It’s dark. Quiet.

You pause to kick off your shoes, wiping at your face and blinking hard at the still, empty apartment.

Jake didn’t tell you he was going out. Then again, he hasn’t really told you anything lately—not since he told you he’s in love with you.

But you know he hasn’t been going out. You know he hasn’t seen anyone else since then. Hasn’t really spoken to anyone, either. Even Javy asked if you knew what was going on with him. You’d just shrugged and mumbled something about him avoiding you too.

Your throat tightens as you step farther in.

“Jake?” you call softly, your voice wobbly—uncertain.

There’s no response.

With a soft sigh, you shed your jacket and lay it on the kitchen bench. Then you pad quietly toward the hall. At the very end, beneath Jake’s bedroom door, is a faint sliver of light. He’s home.

You move as quietly as you can, tears still slipping down your cheeks, hands trembling at your sides. It doesn’t take long to reach his door—but you don’t knock. Instead, you let your forehead rest against the wood with a soft thud.

“Jake,” you whisper, barely audible.

If he’s watching something or has his headphones in, he wouldn’t hear you.

You clear your throat, lift your head and—thunk—let it fall again.

“Jake,” you say, a little louder.

There’s a shuffle. Then silence. A pause. Two distinct footsteps and—

The door yanks open and you go with it, falling forward.

“Jesus Christ,” Jake breathes, arms wrapping around you as you crash into his chest.

“Nope,” you murmur, sniffling. “Just me.”

He exhales—something like a half-laugh, half-sigh—as he steadies you in his arms. You don’t even try to hold yourself up—just sink into him, your cheek pressed to the firm warmth of his chest, his heartbeat thrumming hard beneath your ear.

“Are—are you okay?” he asks, voice tight with concern. “Did something happen?”

You draw a deep, shaky breath and slowly begin to take your weight back, bracing one hand on his shoulder as you pull upright.

“I—I just—” Your voice breaks as more tears roll down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, his voice low as he takes your hand, his expression softening. “It’s okay. I’m here. Whatever it is—we’ll figure it out, yeah?”

He draws you further into the room, nudging the door closed behind you. Then he sits on the edge of the bed with a heavy breath and tugs gently on your hand to guide you down beside him.

But you don’t move. You can’t. Not yet.

It’s ridiculous, but... you don’t want your first time on Jake’s bed to be like this. Sobbing. Falling apart. If you’re ever in this bed, you want it to be because he put you there—and because you didn’t want to leave. Crying? Maybe… but from overstimulation, not emotional collapse.

“What happened?” he asks again, more carefully this time. “Did—did Justin—?”

“No,” you say quickly.

You step back just enough to face him, standing in front of where he sits at the foot of the bed. Then you tip your head back, trying to breathe, trying to collect yourself. You sniffle. Wipe your cheeks. Blink a few times. And finally, finally, you meet his eyes again.

“I—um, I think I broke up with him,” you say quietly. “If there was even anything to break up. Honestly, we’d barely been going out.”

Jake nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Right. So... he didn’t take it well?”

You let out a soft, watery laugh—half-snort, thanks to your stuffed-up nose. “No idea. I left before he could say anything.”

“Oh.” Jake frowns. “Then why—”

“You know,” you interrupt, eyes drifting around his room, “I don’t think I’ve been in here more than once.”

His brow lifts. “Really?”

“Yep. When we first moved in. But it’s different now. It’s very... you.”

Jake huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Is that a good thing?”

You nod, your gaze snagging on the worn, pale cowboy hat hooked over the bedpost. “Yeah. I like it.”

Silence stretches between you. Heavy and charged. This is the longest you’ve been in the same room in two weeks— and the air between you is thick with everything left unsaid.

Finally, Jake clears his throat. “So... are you okay?”

You meet his eyes. “I think so.”

He nods once. “Good. With all the crying, I thought—”

“I love you,” you blurt.

His entire body stills. The words hang in the space between you like something fragile and flammable. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

You swallow hard. “I—I’m in love with you. That’s what I meant.”

He just stares. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, stunned into silence. You can practically see the static behind his eyes.

You wait—heart in your throat, lungs burning. You can see it in his face. You know he loves you too. You just hope you’re not too late. That you haven’t wrecked this—haven’t ruined what it was, or what it could’ve been.

Finally, he blinks and drags in a breath. “You... you’re in love with me?”

You nod. “Yeah. With you.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, like the words won’t come. Like his brain can’t catch up.

You let out another shaky laugh, wiping fresh tears from your cheeks. “Yeah. That’s why I was crying.”

His voice is hoarse. “Because... of me?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say quickly. “I’m just... overwhelmed. I mean, you try realising you’re in love with your roommate—”

“I did,” he cuts in, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You narrow your eyes. “You didn’t let me finish.”

He doesn’t argue.

“You try realising you’re in love with your roommate—who also happens to be a certified man whore with a dating history that reads like an anthology series. Every damn episode worse than the last.”

Jake presses his lips together, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“Man whore?” he echoes, raising a brow.

You give him a flat look. “Don’t even try to defend yourself. I’ve witnessed the carnage firsthand.” Then your breath hitches. “Why do you think I’m so scared?”

His smile fades. “Scared?”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice cracking as another tear slips free.

He stands up and steps forward without hesitation, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you tight against him. Your head finds its place beneath his chin, your cheek warm against his chest, the fabric of his shirt growing damp with tears.

“I swear to God, Jake Seresin,” you mumble into him, “if you break my heart, I’ll rip yours out and feed it to piranhas.”

His laugh vibrates through his chest. “Noted.” Then his voice softens, dropping to a whisper. “I’m not going to break your heart.”

Your chest tightens, overwhelmed by something fierce and fragile all at once. Love rises slowly, heavy and aching, filling every corner of you—for this man, this maddening, breathtaking man who has become everything you never expected.

You stay wrapped in him, suspended in that quiet moment of calm and certainty, until finally Jake pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. One hand finds yours, the other cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his with gentle intent.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet, his eyes impossibly soft.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Good.” He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead—so careful, so reverent it nearly undoes you all over again.

When he pulls back, he lingers just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His hand still cradles your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek like you might vanish if he stops touching you.

“We can take it slow,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with restraint. “Whatever you want.”

But you can see it in his eyes—that barely-contained hunger. The way his gaze keeps dropping to your lips, the tension strumming between your bodies like a live wire.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. He doesn’t even have time to react before you place your hands on his chest and give him a gentle push. He stumbles back a step, then another, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he drops onto it with a startled huff.

“I want to save a horse,” you say.

He blinks up at you, confused. “What?”

You reach for the cowboy hat perched on his bedpost, fingers curling around the worn brim. Then, with deliberate slowness, you step between his knees and place the hat on his head, tilting it just right.

“Save a horse,” you repeat, your voice dropping as you lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Ride a cowboy.”

You barely finish the sentence before Jake grabs your hips and pulls you into his lap.

Your knees hit the mattress on either side of his thighs. The cowboy hat slips slightly askew on his head, but you grab the brim and straighten it with a grin, settling in with your hips flush against his.

“Jesus,” he breathes, eyes dragging slowly down your face, your neck, the curve of your chest like he’s cataloguing every inch for later. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You lean in close, lips brushing his. “You wish.”

And then you kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s all tongue and teeth and breathless sounds caught between gasps. You grind down without shame, feeling the thick press of him beneath you, hard and eager and very much not trying to play it cool. One of his hands slides under your shirt—fingertips rough and greedy—while the other fists in your hair, holding you there like he can’t risk you pulling away.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth, bucking up beneath you, chasing the friction like a man possessed. “You keep that up, and I’m gonna—”

“What?” you pant, rolling your hips again, slower this time. “Lose that legendary control of yours?”

His breath stutters. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

He’s gasping now, eyes dark, lips swollen from kissing, and you can feel the desperation clawing at him. Every muscle in his body is tense beneath yours, like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

You rock your hips again, deliberately filthy, and his head falls back with a curse.

“Baby,” he growls, voice wrecked, “we’re gonna open a whole goddamn rescue ranch with the amount of horses you’re about to save.”

You let out a breathless, wicked laugh and drag your mouth along his jaw, down his throat. “Then I guess we’d better start tonight.”

And if the next hour alone is anything to go by, this ranch is going to need a whole lot of fencing.

END.

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s Princess P.5

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ Fluff, i’m really in love with this, if you guys have more ideas for this series tell me :D

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your baby girl stands up for you just like her daddy

Masterlist

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The exhibition was yours, a surprise Rafayel had organized in secret. A sprawling, ocean-themed gallery titled “Muse in Bloom”, filled wall-to-wall with pieces you never even realized he’d finished. Every canvas whispered a different part of your life: the way your silhouette looked in morning sun, the softness of your hands holding sea glass, the quiet glow of your laughter beneath the stars.

Rafayel, dressed in a pale, high-collared shirt that made his eyes seem even stranger than usual, put was leaning lazily against a glass column, sipping something coral-colored, deliberately letting his hair fall in that effortlessly messy way. His expression was unreadable, as always.

But all attention was on the real star of the show: your two-year-old daughter. A tiny thing in a puff-sleeved white dress, her purple curls bouncing as she proudly waddled through the gallery with the pomp of a seasoned hostess. She was practically glued to your side, one chubby hand always gripping the skirt of your dress.

People cooed at her as they passed, the resemblance was uncanny: her mismatched eyes gleamed just like Rafayel’s, but softer and warmer, and when she frowned, it was a perfect miniature of his trademark unimpressed stare.

You’d barely made it to a painting of you resting on a seashell throne when it happened.

A man, an overly talkative critic type with round glasses and a too-loud laugh, walked over, gesturing flamboyantly at the piece.

“Oh, how quaint! He’s really leaned into the whole ‘ocean siren housewife’ thing, hasn’t he? Honestly, the saccharine domesticity is almost a parody—”

He didn’t even get to finish his sentence.

From below, a small voice rang out like a warning shot.

“Don’t say mean things about Mama.”

Your daughter had positioned herself between you and the critic like a tiny guardian lioness. Her arms were crossed, her cheeks puffed up, and her tone was deadly serious in the way only toddlers can manage.

“She’s not a pwetty shellfish,” she declared with a tiny stomp, “She’s Mama Queen. And Papa painted her ‘cause he loves her so much and she’s soooo sparkly.”

A pause. Then she turned to you and added solemnly, “You sparkle way more than mermaids, Mama.”

Gasps of adoration echoed through the gallery.

Rafayel, who had silently approached during the commotion, tilted his head and regarded the man coldly.

“…Normally,” he murmured, setting his drink down, “I’d do the slicing. But seems I’m being upstaged tonight.”

The critic quickly stammered an apology and made a swift exit.

You bent to scoop your daughter up, kissing her flushed cheek as she wrapped her arms around your neck like a protective koala. She sniffed proudly.

Rafayel trailed a finger under your chin and whispered with a wry smile, “She’s already better at public relations than Thomas.” Then, with a more amused tilt, “But I’m going to need you to tell her to stop stealing my lines. That smug little head tilt she did? That’s mine.”

Your daughter, still snuggled in your arms, glanced over at him and stuck her tongue out.

“…Definitely mine,” he added under his breath, glowing with the kind of secret fondness he reserved only for the two of you.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The gala was immaculate, an event hosted in Zayne’s honor for his recent surgical innovations, drawing in elites from all across Linkon City. Chandeliers glowed like constellations overhead, and a full orchestra played softly as servers moved in practiced synchronicity.

You stood beside Zayne, your hand nestled in the crook of his arm, draped in a custom dress he had personally commissioned and altered to your figure. He hadn’t let anyone else near the fittings. His glasses caught the light as he dipped his head to quietly murmur something dry and affectionate in your ear.

But your other arm? Occupied by a much smaller escort.

Your two-year-old daughter stood at your side like an adorably serious bodyguard in her tiny formal dress—a deep green number with a satin bow that matched her hazel eyes perfectly. Her black hair had been combed neatly (by you, Zayne refused to let anyone else touch it) and clipped with a velvet ribbon. She looked exactly like her father, down to the faint frown of concentration on her little face as she clutched a plush toy Zayne had “absolutely not” won at the Claw Machine but secretly had.

The three of you were picture-perfect: intimidatingly elegant and quietly untouchable.

Until someone touched.

A woman, a young socialite known for her family’s hospital donations and worse for her gossip, sauntered up and gave a too-long glance down your dress, then at your wedding ring. Then, very sweetly:

“Oh, this is the famous wife? You’re… certainly prettier than I expected. No offense, I just thought you’d be more… distinguished, for someone married to a man like Dr. Zayne.”

You blinked once, stunned.

Zayne had already turned, fingers twitching at his cufflink, hazel green eyes narrowing behind his glasses in that terrifyingly calm way, but your daughter beat him to it.

She stepped forward like she’d been rehearsing the moment for weeks. Plush toy dropped. Chin raised. And in her softest, deadpan voice:

“Are you always this boring?”

The woman blinked. “I—”

“Because Mama said we don’t talk to boring people. They get wrinkles faster.”

Then, quieter, eerily Zayne-like:

“…And Papa said if someone’s rude to Mama, they don’t get to be in the next gala photo. Or the next gala.”

Zayne, standing at full height behind her, didn’t even try to hide the amusement flickering across his otherwise impassive expression.

The woman flushed a shade too deep to recover from, muttered something about needing air, and all but fled.

You bent down, scooping your daughter into your arms, trying not to laugh into her ribbon.

“You’ve been listening to Papa again, haven’t you?”

She gave you a solemn little nod, pressing her nose to your cheek. “Mama’s too sparkly. I protect.”

Zayne finally stepped close, slipping a hand around your waist as he looked over his daughter with a small, approving nod.

“…Efficient delivery. Cold stare. Minimal emotion. I’m proud.”

Then, softly to you, “You know I would’ve ended her faster, though.”

Your daughter squinted at him. “No. I win.”

He looked at her.

She looked back.

You stood between them, watching your stoic husband and your deadpan toddler have a full silent battle of pride and pettiness.

“…God help me,” you sighed, “I’ve married myself into a generation of assassins in dress shoes.”

Zayne leaned down to kiss your temple with the barest smile, murmuring against your skin, “And yet, you glow like it’s the happiest mistake you’ve ever made.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The annual Deep Space Hunter Association Gala was nothing short of otherworldly. it shimmered with translucent panels, suspended gardens, and starfields projected beneath a glassy floor. You stood at the center of it in a custom gown Xavier had chosen, soft pearl white, almost glowing under the lights, with lilac gems woven into the bodice like scattered constellations. He’d said it reminded him of how you looked when he first saw you in the starlight.

Your two-year-old daughter clung gently to your hand, wearing a tiny layered dress of violet and silver that almost matched your own. Her long, silvery hair had been half-pinned with a moon-shaped clip, and her sleepy blue eyes were locked on you like a little satellite, unmoving, vigilant, and completely unimpressed by the pomp of the gala.

She looked exactly like Xavier. Same expressionless stare. Same otherworldly softness. Same unnerving stillness when she didn’t want to be touched.

And just like her father, she was terrifyingly observant.

You were in the middle of a quiet conversation with an Association chairwoman when a young pilot, fresh from some flashy mission, swaggered over with a glass of bluefire in one hand and way too much ego in his voice.

“So you’re the famous wife,” he said, eyeing you with a grin that had no place at a gala this elegant. “No offense, but I thought Xavier’s girl would look a little more… well, dangerous.”

Xavier, standing behind you, blinked once. That slow, unreadable blink that always came right before he uncoiled.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Because your daughter, who had been holding your skirt with one chubby hand, walked forward slowly. Silently. Her tiny soft-heeled boots made no sound. She stared up at the man with her blank blue eyes and expressionless face.

Then, in the calmest, quietest voice imaginable:

“…My Papa sleeps with his eyes open.”

The man blinked. “What?”

She tilted her head.

“He doesn’t talk first.”

The man laughed nervously. “Uh—okay?”

She stepped closer, tugged on his uniform coat with the tiniest fingers, and said with chilling softness:

“If you’re mean to Mama again, I’m gonna tell him to wake up.”

Pause.

“…Then you go where the bad stars go.”

Dead. Silence.

Xavier, entirely unbothered, knelt beside her. “That’s not true,” he said softly, resting a gloved hand on her head. “You don’t have to tell me to wake up.”

Then, still with that deadpan expression:

“I was already listening.”

The pilot quietly excused himself.

You knelt to kiss your daughter’s forehead, heart full. “Where did you learn to say that, sweet pea?”

She pointed vaguely at Xavier. “He say it to scary man last week when he touched Mama’s dress.”

You looked at Xavier.

He blinked once. “Technically true.”

She nodded, satisfied, and then promptly asked for a nap snack.

Later that night, you’d find her fast asleep in your lap on the skystation balcony, curled up in a throw blanket as Xavier sat beside you with his head against your shoulder, one eye lazily open, fingers curled protectively around both of yours.

“…You made a terrifying little moonbeam,” you whispered with a grin.

He murmured, “She’s just like you.”

You blinked. “How?”

“I loved you first. She just loves you faster.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The ballroom was dripping in blood-red roses and gold light, your daughter’s second birthday, and somehow, Sylus had turned it into an elite spectacle that looked more like a coronation than a kid’s party. Crimson banners detailed with crow motifs framed every arch. Live string musicians played a refined arrangement of a lullaby she liked. The cake was a sculpted castle surrounded by edible glass ravens.

It was supposed to be her party.

But everyone in the room knew this wasn’t just a celebration.

It was a statement.

Sylus had invited only the most powerful, wealthy, and influential people, politicians, weapon developers, media barons, and you. You, the centerpiece. You, his beloved wife and queen, dressed in a cascading black-and-crimson gown he commissioned weeks in advance. You were glowing. Loved. Untouchable.

And beside you, your two-year-old daughter sat in her high-backed velvet throne, legs swinging lightly, curls pinned back with the tiniest red brooch to match yours. She looked like Sylus had split in half and handed you the softer one.

…If by “softer,” you meant deadlier at knee height.

Because just as you were thanking a weapons diplomat for the gift he brought your daughter, some absurdly expensive robotic pony, he turned to you and, in a too-casual tone, said:

“You look lovely tonight, though I must say… motherhood’s softened you. I imagine you’re far less fiery than when Sylus first—”

He didn’t get to finish.

There was a sudden thud.

Your daughter had launched herself off her throne.

And now she stood at his feet, glaring up with the most chillingly Sylus expression possible on a toddler. Red eyes narrowed. Tiny fists balled.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t need backup.

She just hissed:

“Don’t say ugly things about my mama.”

The man blinked, laughing awkwardly. “Oh—I didn’t mean it like—”

“You did.”

She pointed her tiny finger up at him like a dagger. “You’re not on the list anymore.”

Pause.

“…What list?” he asked, visibly sweating.

She tilted her head, voice eerily soft:

“The safe one.”

Behind you, you felt Sylus lean against the balcony doorframe, watching the scene unfold with immense amusement. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even looked up from the little raven-shaped wine glass in his hand.

“Darling,” he drawled, “you’re losing your touch.”

You turned and raised a brow. “She beat you to it.”

Sylus sipped lazily. “I didn’t want to ruin her party by making someone disappear. But she—”

He gave his daughter a look of genuine pride.

“She just revoked diplomatic immunity like a proper little empress.”

Your daughter returned to you, lifting her arms expectantly. You picked her up, and she buried her face in your shoulder.

“…I don’t like people who say mean things to you,” she mumbled.

You kissed her cheek. “You’re just like your Papa.”

From behind, Sylus chuckled darkly.

“No, no,” he murmured, stepping in to wrap his arm around you both. “She’s much worse. You trained her to love… I’ll train her to conquer.”

You: “She’s two.”

Sylus, smug: “Exactly. Peak learning age.”

Your daughter, now calm in your arms, tilted her head toward the man who’d insulted you and said flatly:

“You can leave now.”

And he did.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Skyhaven Fleet Hall gleamed under rows of white lights, cold, clinical, and full of rank. It was a formal gathering: a high-level Fleet recognition ceremony. Uniforms stiff with medals. High-ranking officers and their spouses standing around crystal platters. A raised platform lined with flags of the outer countries. You stood beside Caleb near the front, his gloved hand resting lightly on the small of your back, always possessive, even when subtle.

You wore a flowing purple gown, picked by him, of course, that matched the accents on his ceremonial uniform. The room watched the two of you like you were on display: Colonel Caleb, Skyhaven’s strategic prodigy, and his soft, stunning wife.

At your feet, your two-year-old daughter clung to your leg, wearing a miniature version of your dress, tulle, silk, and a tiny military brooch clipped to the front like a toy badge. Her hair was a perfect dark brown halo and her eyes, Caleb’s piercing violet, scanned the crowd with a toddler’s serious judgment.

She was glued to your side. That had always been the rule.

But then it happened.

One of the wives of a Fleet officer leaned over toward another cluster of guests with a little too much wine in her system and just enough arrogance. She let her eyes wander to you.

“I mean… she’s beautiful, sure,” the woman said in a voice that carried. “But it’s obvious she married up. Colonel Caleb’s status is what makes her shine.”

It was a whisper meant to wound.

You flinched slightly, not at the comment, but at the feeling that immediately radiated from beside you.

Your daughter had heard it.

And she was already moving.

Before Caleb could turn, before the temperature could even drop into his usual cold-blooded “Colonel” tone, your toddler marched across the polished floor. No hesitation. No fear.

She stopped directly in front of the woman and crossed her arms.

“You’re mean,” she said, clear and high-pitched but fierce. “And dumb.”

The entire room paused.

“My mama’s pretty ALL the time,” she went on, cheeks puffed out in indignation. “Papa says so. Every morning. And every night. Even when she’s sleeping.”

The woman blinked, startled. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes you did,” she snapped, tone sharp enough to cut glass. She raised one tiny finger. “You talk like that again, and I’ll push you off the sky island.”

Gasps. Silence. A clatter of someone’s fork hitting the floor.

You were about to move, about to scoop her up and calm things down, but Caleb got there first.

He stepped beside his daughter and looked down at the woman, expression unreadable. No smile. No warmth.

Just a dangerous glint in those violet eyes.

“…I’d listen to her,” he said coolly, gloved hand resting lightly on his daughter’s head. “She may not have my rank yet… but she’s definitely got my judgment.”

The woman went white.

You caught your daughter’s hand and gently pulled her back to you. She turned into your skirt like nothing had happened, resting her face against your thigh again with a happy little hum.

Caleb leaned into you, voice low near your ear.

“She’s fast,” he murmured. “I was just about to use my Gravity Evol.”

You gave him a look. “She beat you to it.”

A small smirk played at his lips. “That’s our girl.”

And from her position wrapped around your leg, your daughter mumbled:

“Next time I’ll push harder.”

[theeafterparty444]

Quiet Hours

Remmick x Reader

Summary: You and Remmick were supposed to be a casual thing—no strings, no feelings, just tension and release behind closed dorm doors. But when he shows up outside your room in the middle of the night, needy and jealous, it’s clear something’s shifted. What was once just sex has turned into obsession. He doesn’t just want your body anymore—he wants you. And tonight, he’s not leaving until he’s sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

Wc: 5.7k

He shouldn't be here.

That’s the first thought in your head when you see Remmick leaning against your dorm door past 1:30 a.m.—hood up, lips red, fists in his hoodie pocket like he’s trying not to knock again.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” he mutters. “You were with that guy. From class.”

You raise a brow. “Are you jealous?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes.

“I just don’t like people looking at you like that. Or you looking at them.”

A beat.

“’Cause I know what you sound like when you’re under me. Know how you taste when you’re shaking. And he doesn’t.”

Your stomach clenches.

You unlock your door and say nothing.

He follows you in like gravity, like he’s trying to stay chill—but his hands are already twitching like he wants to wreck you.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, needy, a little reckless. You can taste the way he’s spiraling. His hands grip your face like he hasn’t touched you in weeks. Like you’ve been out of reach too long.

“You wore those shorts on purpose,” he pants against your lips, walking you backward. “The tiny ones. You wanted attention.”

“I wanted coffee,” you shoot back, tugging his hoodie off.

“Liar.” His lips move to your neck, biting just hard enough to make your thighs press together. “You knew I’d see.”

“Maybe I wanted your attention.”

He groans like it physically hurts.

“You’ve got it, baby. Fuck, you’ve got it.”

Your shirt is gone. Bra unclasped and flung somewhere. His hands are everywhere—palming, squeezing, thumbs rolling your nipples until you're arching under him.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “Barely touched you and you’re soaked, huh?”

He drops to his knees and shoves your shorts down, mouth open and greedy.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, eyes locked on your dripping pussy. “You’re fuckin’ dripping.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh slow—then licks one stripe up your slit that makes you gasp.

“Shit, baby,” he groans. “You taste like everything. I could live down here.”

And he proves it.

Remmick eats like it’s his last meal.

Messy, hot, tongue deep inside you while his nose presses your clit. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open as he moans against your pussy like it turns him on more than it does you.

“Let me hear it,” he says between sucks. “Let them fucking hear you.”

You’re panting, hips grinding into his mouth without shame.

Then he slides two fingers in, slow, and curls them just right.

You scream.

“Atta girl,” he growls, fingerfucking you steady while licking your clit like a man possessed. “Come on. Give it to me.”

You unravel—loud, legs trembling, pussy clenching around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop.

You gasp and writhe, trying to close your thighs.

He just growls. “One more. Be a good girl and give me another.”

He sucks hard on your clit and you snap—back arching off the bed as your second orgasm hits harder, messier.

You’re panting, dazed, but he’s already stripping—shirt gone, sweats shoved down, cock heavy and red and leaking against his stomach.

“Look what you do to me,” he pants, stroking himself slow. “I could fuck anyone on this campus and all I want is you.”

You crawl back on the bed, open your legs.

“Then come take it.”

He fumbles for a condom, but hesitates.

You blink. “You good?”

“I want you raw so bad,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ flutter.”

Your pussy clenches.

You reach into the drawer. “Wrap it up. If you go raw, I’m not leaving you alone again.”

He laughs, breathless. “Bet.”

He pushes in slow.

You both groan.

“You always this tight for me?” he grits, voice strangled. “Fuck—feel like your pussy’s choking me.”

You wrap your legs around him, pull him deeper.

He starts slow. Deep. Rolling his hips until you’re panting.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So wet. So fucking full. You love this, don’t you?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Say it.”

“I love your cock,” you gasp. “I love how you fuck me, Remmick.”

He curses and fucks you harder, hands gripping your hips.

You claw at his back, dizzy with the stretch.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he growls. “Mouth open, eyes all dumb, begging for more. This pussy’s mine.”

You nod again, barely coherent.

Then his thumb presses your clit.

“Gonna come for me again?”

You cry out.

“Come on, baby. Cream all over me. Let me feel you soak this dick.”

You shatter, clenching so hard around him he stumbles into his orgasm seconds after, grunting deep in your ear.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—Jesus—”

He stays buried inside you, trembling.

You both lie there, covered in sweat and each other, breathing hard.

Then:

“I hate seeing you smile at other guys,” he whispers. “Makes me wanna fight someone.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’re insane.”

He kisses your shoulder. “I’m obsessed.”

You stroke his hair. “I know.”

A pause.

“You staying?”

He doesn’t move. “Try and make me leave.”

The End ❤︎

@001-side, here's your slightly needy Remmick.

[bunnis-fanfics]

“Look, it’s a mini Pika!”

Yandere!Kurapika looked down at the small plush with disdain, frowning as you nuzzled your face against its felt head. “Why would you need a plush that looks like me? I’m right here.”

You pouted at him. “Well, you’re not exactly available all the time. You leave for business a lot and are gone for weeks. This little guy is going to keep me company!”

The blonde stared at the small plush, modeled after his own appearance. He disliked how close its tiny head was to your chest. “Do you have to hold onto it so tightly?”

“Yeah, it needs hugs!”

Kurapika huffed, sitting down before snatching it away. He threw the plush as you scolded him before pulling you into his arms.

“It’s just a stupid plush, you don’t need that when I’m right here…” he murmured, burying his face into your hair.

When you go to find the plush the next time Kurapika is away on business, it’s mysteriously missing…

[belli5]

⌗ . ᵎᵎ ⸝⸝ Current boyfriend .ᐟ ೀMC⁷¹

doing the current boyfriend prank on Mack, because you know how tiny bit sensitive he gets when it comes to you.

˚₊· ᥫ᭡ Macklin Celebrini x fem!reader ➜ Fluff. Note: Graduating tomorrow and dont know how to feel.. masterlist

You weren’t even trying to be mean. Really, you weren’t.

It all started that morning, laying in bed while Macklin was still passed out, hair messy, mouth slightly open, one arm sprawled across your stomach.

You’d been scrolling through tiktok aimlessly, sipping on iced coffee and trying to wake up, when you came across a video that had you nearly snorting it out your nose.

A girl was filming a video with her boyfriend, and mid intro, she casually said “I’m here with my current boyfriend,” like it was no big deal. To be honest, this was not your first time seeing this trend, so why not?

You grinned. It was dumb. But it was also, hilarious.

And now you couldn’t stop thinking about how your boyfriend might react.

Macklin was a softie, and just tiny bit sensitive when it came to you.

You weren’t planning on torturing him or anything—you just wanted to see his pout. Maybe the little frown he got when he was annoyed but too polite to say so. You’d kiss it away right after, of course.

So that afternoon, while he was out grabbing smoothies for you both, you set up your phone on the kitchen counter with the front camera flipped and a couple takeout boxes spread out like a casual mukbang setup.

Which Mack was already familiar with your spontaneous “we’re filming this” energy, so he wouldn’t suspect anything.

When he came home, wearing a grey hoodie and sweatpants that made him look unfairly good, he placed the smoothie cups down and gave you a sleepy smile.

“I got your strawberry one,” he said, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “They were out of boba though.”

“Still love you,” you replied with a smirk. “Wanna do a little mukbang real quick? Figured we’d do it and then chill after.”

He blinked. “Like a TikTok thing?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “Sure. Do I look okay?”

You bit back a grin. He always looked good.

“You look hot, babe.”

That made his cheeks go pink. He tugged the hoodie sleeve over his hand like he always did when he flustered. “Shut up.”

You got the phone set up. Mack sat down beside you, opening a box of fries, and waited. He even sipped his smoothie in sync with your breath like he’d done this a hundred times, because honestly he had.

“Okay,” you started, smiling sweetly at the camera. “Hi guys! Today, I’m doing a little mukbang with someone special..”

Mack smiled beside you, chewing. You continued. “I’m here with my current boyfriend,” you turned and pointed to him.

The chewing stopped. Mack blinked and then blinked again. “..what?”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh.

“What’d you just say?”

“What did I say?” You feigned innocence.

His face crumpled immediately into confusion, and then offense. “Current?” He repeated, his brows furrowed and mouth twitching in a way that was both endearing and heart wrenching. “Why would you say current?”

You shrugged, still trying not to smile. “I mean… I didn’t lie.”

He dropped the fry he was holding. “That makes it sound like there’s gonna be, like… a next boyfriend.”

“Nooooo,” you said, dragging it out teasingly.

He looked from you to the camera and then back, his jaw tightening like he knew you were probably messing with him, but couldn’t risk being wrong.

“So what am I?” he asked, voice soft now. “A temp?”

“Mack,” you laughed, finally letting yourself smile, “you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic,” he insisted, definitely being dramatic. “You just called me your current boyfriend. That implies there’s, like, a roster.”

“Not a roster,” you said, nudging his arm. “Just, like, a… timeline.”

He squinted at you. “You’re being weird.”

You lost it. Laughed out loud, leaning into him with your head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I saw this TikTok earlier where girls were pranking their boyfriends by calling them ‘current boyfriend’ and I had to try it. Your face was exactly what I hoped it’d be.”

Macklin groaned, face dropping to his hands as he slumped forward in betrayal. “You’re evil.”

You wrapped both arms around his middle, giggling into his hoodie. “But I’m your evil.”

He turned his head toward your phone, half heartedly glaring at it. “Delete that.”

“No.”

[urban-shade]

I think, Sebastian genuinely believes that his mind is unchanged from the experimentation. At least, besides the PTSD.

But we can see through his actions/writing that he has a bit of an inhuman penchant for violence. Especially for someone who.. didn't kill 9 people when he was 20, and was overall a pretty average guy!

It's weird to shoot somebody dead after them inflicting 2 mind numbing headaches via beacon. He could just kick them out of the shop! I think unconsciously, his predator instincts drive him towards hurting people. He's still a person mentally, but what he's ok with doing has been augmented.

It just feels so natural to hurt and kill these people who have done him so wrong in the moment that he is not going to reflect on why he does it until much much later. Even if he knows that Urbanshade employees get revived, only ONE of the Expendables does in-canon. He's sending these people to a permanent grave.

He's always been thankful that he managed to keep his mind/sanity through the experimentation, so the thought that he did lose just a tiny bit of himself wouldn't cross his mind until he's potentially cured in a good ending. He'd be oddly more relaxed in a way that's hard to pinpoint, he knows he's going to be relaxed for the obvious reasons, but there's that tiny little feeling there that Something is missing.. so he has to come to terms with the fact that Urbanshade affected his mind too.

He didn't start out as a killer, but he's been forced into the role, through experimentation, and the need to survive.

[revelboo]

So uh, Flatline huh? 👀 👉👈

He’s adorable. Sorry about the silence yesterday, got blindsided by a diagnosis out of left field

All At Once

Flatline x Reader

• Grimacing as he gingerly slides a servo under a tiny arm to lift it, he’s beginning to reevaluate his conviction that humans are a bunch of violent savages. Because the ones that keep getting brought in by their panicking partners have been docile for the most part. Some even nervously trying to chat with him. It would be so much easier to treat them with his secondary arms he keeps hidden inside his chassis, but those only come out during surgery when no one can see and judge. So he’s stuck trying to gently examine the humans with his main hands and at this point, he’s almost sure he’s seen every human on the Nemesis. And all for the same thing. Contusions on their soft skin, bruises. Though honestly, he’s surprised he’s yet to have one of the delicate, little organics brought in with broken bones. Knows some of his fellow Decepticons aren’t exactly gentle and still has trouble believing Cybertronians are interfacing with humans. Without breaking them.

• “Are you in pain?” He asks, running the scanner over the tiny organic while their partner hovers close by, looking ready to snatch them up any klik. That one’s definitely infatuated and protective. When the human shakes their head with a tired ‘I told him it was fine,’ he turns to their partner. “Humans are delicate. If you grip them too tightly during interface, you’ll leave marks on their skin. I’d recommend letting them be on top until you can learn to not frag them so rough. They’re going to be sore,” he mutters aware of the other mech’s plating ruffling with a slight metallic rasp and he tenses waiting to see if the other Decepticon will take a swing at him. Relieved when the mech only snarls, scooping up his human and stomping off.

• Servos flexing, he imagines he can almost still feel the warmth of your little arm against his servo. The rest of the day blurs together, his patients surly Decepticons injured squabbling with other Decepticons. Nothing new there. Most of them temperamental enough and with a lull in the fighting, tempers are fraying. Leaving Medbay, he hesitates at the commotion in the hallway. A group of Decepticons arguing loudly and at the heart of it, Swindle. Whatever the little crook is up to, it looks like he’s about to have more patients. And then he hears a shriek when one of the jostling mechs grabs for something in Swindle’s hand and he’s striding forward.

• ‘Fifty shanix or a case of enjex for one joor,’ Swindle is saying, gesturing with a struggling human in his fist. Fragging Shockwave and his ‘educational material’ he keeps distributing and fragging Swindle for making him deal with this. “What do you think Megatron would say about this?” He growls and heads turn to look at him. “Or the high command? They’re rather fond of humans, aren’t they? I can’t imagine they sanctioned you renting one out as a frag toy.”

• And he braces, because he’s definitely not the biggest mech here and he’s not much of a fighter anyway. He’s a medic, his hands meant to heal not harm. And a shadow falls over him, the mechs surrounding Swindle backing away. ‘Hand the human over, Swindle,’ Bonecrusher snarls from behind him and he’s relaxes. Because the Constructicons have a human mate they’re extremely overprotective of. And Flatline cups his hands when you’re passed to him without hesitation, wide eyes staring up at him. Afraid, but not nearly afraid enough making him wonder what lies Swindle’s told you. ‘Hey, sure. No problem,’ Swindle says, grinning and he knows the little son of a glitch is just going to kidnap another human. He can’t walk away from a potential profit.

• Staring up at the new alien holding you, his red optics flick to your face as Swindle retreats. Just leaving you with this guy when he’d said he’d look out for you. ‘Are you hurt?’ The stranger asks and his voice is a deep, soothing rumble. Shaking your head, you look up at the giant looming over him. When Swindle had approached you, saying he had a once in a lifetime offer to get up close and personal with actual aliens, you’d been fascinated. Felt special for being chosen. But being pawed at by that crowd had been frightening. You wonder why he ditched you with this guy. He’d said you two were friends. “Hey, what’s a frag toy?” You ask as he growls and the bigger one starts laughing.

[delilahsturniolo]

ᝰ.ᐟ NEW CLASSIFIED MISSION FILE . . .

★ secretagent!chris x secretagent!reader

⋆˚࿔ “JEALOUS, SUNSHINE?”

in which . . . chris flirts with another girl on a mission, and you get jealous

contains . . . just a bit of angst but nothing more!

written by @delilahsturniolo, do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

view more of this au here!

it’s supposed to be a simple intel grab. you and chris are posted up at a rooftop bar in monaco, tails on a weapons trafficker with loose lips and a fondness for blondes. unfortunately, so does chris. you’re watching through binoculars from across the bar, tracking the target’s security detail. chris is supposed to be staying close, blending in, observing, ready to extract the guy’s access card when the timing’s right.

instead, he’s laughing. laughing with the target’s date. touching her arm. leaning in like he’s known her his whole damn life. you lower the binoculars so fast you almost knock over your drink. “he’s flirting,” you mutter into the comms, so people back at headquarters can hear. chris’s voice crackles back in your earpiece, all smug and easy. “relax, sunshine. just getting her comfortable.”

“you’re drooling on her.”

“can’t help it,” he says. “she’s got great taste in suits.” you grind your teeth. “you’re not even wearing a suit. you’re in a jacket that looks like it came from a clearance bin.”

a low chuckle. “jeez, sunshine. that sounded almost… bitter.” you stand up from the table, ignoring the pounding in your chest, and stalk across the terrace like you’ve got something to prove. he sees you coming. of course he does. you slide in next to him, offering the woman your most professional smile. “sorry to interrupt. shadow, i need a word.”

“can it wait?” he asks, lips twitching. “we were just getting to the part where she tells me her hotel room number.” you smile tighter. “nope. now.” he gives the woman an apologetic shrug and follows you toward the edge of the rooftop, where the city lights blur into gold. the second you’re out of earshot, you round on him. “what the hell was that?” he raises an eyebrow. “you mean me doing my job?”

“you were enjoying it.”

“yeah. that’s called charisma. it’s useful in undercover work.”

you cross your arms. “you touched her arm.”

“wow,” he says, eyes glinting. “jealous, sunshine?” you scoff. “please. i’ve seen you flirt with vending machines. doesn’t mean i care.” he steps in closer, not quite touching, but enough to make your breath hitch. “then why are your ears red?”

“they’re not.”

“they are.”

you look away, jaw clenched. “just keep it professional, chris. the last thing we need is you catching feelings for the first rich girl who gives you attention.” he laughs. it’s low and warm and a little infuriating. “oh, sunshine. you think i want her?” you glance at him. he’s close now. too close. “don’t,” you say quietly. “don’t what?”

“don’t call me that right now.”

he tilts his head, studying you. and for once, he drops the act, no smirk, no joke. just something real behind his eyes. “you’re the only one i call that.” you swallow hard, heart kicking up like you’ve just been thrown into a sprint. but you don’t say anything. you can’t.

he leans in like he might say something else, like he might do something, but then the comms crackle again. “target on the move. heading downstairs.” the spell breaks. you both step back, masks sliding back into place.

“i’ve got the keycard,” he says, tapping his pocket. “you take lead.” you nod, slipping past him, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, the thud in your chest, the fact that for one tiny second, it felt like he might’ve kissed you. and that you might’ve let him.

© delilahsturniolo

[chxseversion]

MAX VERSTAPPEN HEADCANNONS

Paring: Max verstappen x fem!reader

Summary: litteraly the title give it away

Warnings: IDK if you don’t like it go away (more just fluff tbh)

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend who would stare straight down a camera barrel with no emotion but his eyes would instantly jump to you the moment he heard you enter the room

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend who has a hair tie on his wrist for whenever you need it

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend who would know when you enter a room no matter how quiet you try to be

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend that would send you random photos of something in the garage that has no meaning to you and just say ‘people suck’ with a silly little emoji next to it cause he knows your laugh at it everytime

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend that would never let you carry a bag. You could literally buy stuff for yourself on your card but you do not hold the bag

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend that invites you to every race and always walks around with a slightly higher head with you next to him

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend that must hold your hand, pinky, arm or have you pulled against him and he walks at all times in the paddock

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend that has lifted you off the ground like your weight nothing and walk around while talking about random car things

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend that after every race, no matter win or lose always stands in-front of you with his helmet still on and wait for you to kiss it and then he’ll take it off

✩He’d be the type of boyfriend that has actually had a ring on him every day for the entire relationship just waiting for you to either walk away or he gets the courage to propose to you

✩ He’d be the type of boyfriend that tried to keep you as sheltered from the media as possible while still having you around until he proposed to you randomly after a WDC win without cameras around (only redbull admin knows 🤭)

✩ He’d be the type of Fiancé who has a tiny tattoo on the inside of his finger with you initial. so small that no one would know unless told or he showed it off

✩ he’d be the type of Fiancé who had a smile reserved for you and only you but if you asked him why he’d just stare with a look of pure love in his eyes

✩He’d be the type of Fiancé who mentioned it in an interview that you guys where actually engaged and then walk away while leaving everyone shocked (Redbull admin is giggling in a corner and kicking their feet)

✩ He’d be the type of Fiancé who, once announced, posted 5 different posts with the maximum amount of photos all of either you or your and him on his MAIN instagram with the same caption every time “my home, my soul, my world” and turn comments off

✩ He’d be the type of Fiancé that randomly takes your phone and takes a selfie to post of your insta story of just his face and write “IM BETTER” and then hand your phone back (he’s so silly sometimes)

[summerofofelia]

Ahem

I have to talk about the KimKenta scene with Alan. Not only did it deliver quite possibly my favourite moment of the series so far, but this tiny little scene also did such a great job at showing us just how far Kenta has come individually and how much Kim and Kenta’s relationship has developed. Seriously, Pit Babe has been doing a really good job at the “show don’t tell” screenwriting rule.

First of all, I love seeing that Kim is still someone in Alan’s (and, as an extension, X-Hunter’s) life. Alan’s angry and upset and who does he turn to? Kim. The resident Sensible Guy. I just love that Kim is clearly like this beacon of sanity that everyone seems to gravitate towards.

Next, look at this picture.

Kenta actively joined Alan and Kim. He’s not hiding in his room. He’s not avoiding them. At the beginning of season two Kenta was this dark figure lost in a plume of smoke, just looking to vanish after he told Pete Tony was alive. But now? He’s wearing slippers, sipping on tea and feels comfortable enough to join the conversation. The sheer domesticity of it all makes me want to scream.

I also think the fact that it’s just Alan also says something. Alan, the guy that always seems ready to give out second chances and collects strays and gives them a home. Mr Found Family himself. I truly believe Alan barged into Kim’s apartment and just treated Kenta like he’d always been there, which immediately put Kenta at ease.

And he’s concerned! As soon as Alan hurts himself he jumps up to help him. He beats Kim to it! He’s not passive. He’s an active participant in this scene.

Also I love this quick shot of Kim watching Kenta.

Like I just love how we’re seeing Kenta become a whole person outside of being Tony’s guard dog. And again, the writers/director/Garfield are doing a great job of showing, not telling.

In all the fan fics I’ve read, they always focus on Kenta being broken, and he is, and I love reading stories that explore that. But I also love seeing these other pieces of Kenta come into focus. Yes, he’s broken but he’s also someone that has an enormous capacity to care.

And then he catches this wild stray from Kim

And in the split second before he gets the phone call you can just see him eyeing Kim like, “exCUSE ME?”

Great stuff. No notes.