#i hope to have at least these up and one if not both of the currently in progress button sets at the same time ^^

[geminiwritten]

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captain,” you reply, nodding. 

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

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

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She quick?” he asks. 

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Sorry?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.” 

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.” 

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

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans. 

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. 

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

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

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

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.” 

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

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles. 

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

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

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

“The usual?” she asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred. 

“Does it matter?” 

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

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

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

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

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him. “Do what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “Yeah, right.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind if I play next?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.” 

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

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

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

Your mouth drops open. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.” 

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All from a look. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks. 

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

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

“Pizza?” 

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?” 

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

You stop walking. “With who?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

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

Good. 

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

Good? 

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

Good. 

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

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

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

BOB FLOYD 

📎 [Image attachment] 

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

And there he fucking is. 

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

Holy fuck. 

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

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

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

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

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with? 

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

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

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

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

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

A little notification pops up beneath your message. 

Read. Immediately. 

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

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

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

But first… 

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

- 

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

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

But you can’t stop thinking about it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.” 

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly. 

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

“Did I beat Hangman?” 

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

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

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

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So… a baby sim?” 

“Basically. You’ll be fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming in,” you mutter. 

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he says, grinning now. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sim bucks suddenly. 

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

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

But it’s too late. 

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

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…” 

“You eject,” you say dryly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless. 

“Now keep her steady.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know, not what Fanboy did.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin. “Nice shot.” 

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

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

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back. 

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. 

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

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

He does so without hesitation. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing. 

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

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

“You sure?” 

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

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

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

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

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE. 

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

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

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

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

He falls forward. 

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

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

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

“Are you okay? Your head—” 

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

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

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

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

Your laughter fades, breath catching. 

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

And then— 

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shame. Still hot though, right?” 

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

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

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

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

“What, you’re not into her?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. Hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. That. 

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

Because it was Bob. 

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

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

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

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd. 

Fuck that guy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you don’t look at him at all. 

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

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

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

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

“That thing work?” he asks. 

“What thing?” 

“Your phone.” 

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.” 

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

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

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

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer. 

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

“What’d you watch?” 

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something?” 

He frowns. “What do you—” 

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

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod once. “Yep.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Mickey replies. 

“Copy,” Bob mutters. 

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

“Hangman, you ready?” 

“When you are, boss.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy that. Repositioning.” 

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

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

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.” 

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

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

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

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn. 

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

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

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

“Pilot ready?” you ask. 

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.” 

You nod. “Run it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows something’s wrong. 

- Bob - 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob glances up. “Hm?” 

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

“I don’t know, I just—” 

“Is this about Lucky?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters. 

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

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

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob frowns. “Where?” 

“Hangman’s birthday.” 

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

“I don’t know, it—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cute? You called him cute. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’ 

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’ 

‘She only uses Morse code.’ 

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then... there’s you. 

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

So you did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh. 

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

- You - 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All for you, baby.” 

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

“Show me the way.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea. 

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

Bob. 

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

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

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

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

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline. 

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

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

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

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

Bob. 

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

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

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving. 

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

And you feel it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he’s there. Beside you. 

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

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls. 

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

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

You blink. “Excuse me?” 

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

“What’s your problem?” you bite back. 

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

“Doing what?” you demand. 

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s the most confusing part.  

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why would you say it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he’s on you. Everywhere. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he grinds against you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again. 

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then— 

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried. 

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches. 

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask. 

“Bob…” 

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.” 

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis. 

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.” 

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be. 

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too. 

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.” 

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?” 

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his. 

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need. 

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant. 

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking. 

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.” 

You’re just about to kiss him again when— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?” 

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.” 

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?” 

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock. 

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist. 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?” 

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?” 

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.” 

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all. 

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.” 

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor. 

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing. 

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?” 

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.” 

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist. 

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.” 

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?” 

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass. 

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?” 

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?” 

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.” 

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red. 

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted. 

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away. 

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!” 

[marauroon]

hellooooo! hope ur doing well :)

could i request a james fic where they are kind of the golden couple in school and everybody either envies them or wants to be like them because they just seem so affectionate when they are with each other and entertaining to be around and not so much of an annoying couple despite the fact they'd probably seem like they would be but when they are alone they are really quiet with their affection and they have quiet love for each other, showing their love with helping each other make pastries or one of them lying their head in the others lap while they read and it's all kind of shocking when the marauders find them quietly reading or something because they seem so hyper and fun but in reality are soo quiet-cuddly. thank you!

── . ☀︎ 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝘁. (𝗷.𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿)

you and james love each other loudly. even when there’s nobody else around to see it.

james potter x fem!reader 1.7k fluff masterlist.

AN | the lover boy of all lover boys

You’re used to the stares by now. They start the second you and James step into the corridor, your fingers laced with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world—which, for the two of you, it is.

The stares don’t faze you. They’re always there, the curious glances, wistful smiles, outright envy. You’re the golden couple. The couple. The one that first years whisper about and teachers look at with a kind of nostalgic longing, like maybe they once had what you do and let it slip away.

James Potter at your side, head thrown back in a loud laugh at something daft you just said, is an image burned into half the school’s mind.

You’re not trying to be enviable, honest. It’s just that loving James feels like a loud, bright thing sometimes. Like a firework. He talks too much when he’s around you, makes ridiculous jokes, and doesn't stop grinning. And you’re no better. You talk about him like he hung the stars in the sky—and to be fair, he may as well have.

“You want to know the secret?” you said once to Marlene, when she caught you smiling like an idiot after James kissed your cheek before Transfiguration. “He actually did hang the stars. Or at least, he’d try if I asked him to,”

Marlene rolled her eyes and muttered something like “disgusting”, but she was smiling when she said it.

James carries your books. Always has. Sometimes in his arms, most of the time levitating them just behind you with a casual flick of his wand like it’s second nature. You used to insist on carrying your own things until he said, “But why would you? I want to,” And you melted. That’s how he gets you—he always means it.

It’s always you and him in the Great Hall. James sits so close your knees knock under the table and he steals food from your plate like it’s a basic human right. You’re the kind of couple that never runs out of things to say. Half the time your friends have to tell you both to shut it during dinner. But they don’t really mind. You’re entertaining.

Together, you’re a show—but not a performance. That’s the difference. There’s no artifice. The handholding and the giggling, the way James lifts you into his arms to carry you across the muddy courtyard when it’s raining—none of it’s for anyone else. He just doesn’t want your shoes getting ruined, and he’s strong enough to do something about it.

When you laughed as he twirled you like it was a ballroom and not the entrance steps to the castle, people didn’t roll their eyes. They sighed. Because Merlin, wouldn’t it be nice to be loved like that?

But the thing that really makes you both the “blueprint”, as Sirius once so dramatically called it, is what nobody sees.

Or at least, what they’re not supposed to see.

—

You’re in the Gryffindor common room, curled in your usual corner, and the fire is soft and crackling, casting gold across James’s face. His head is in your lap, his glasses pushed up into his hair. You’re reading. He’s reading. Well, trying to. His eyes flutter closed every few minutes but he insists he’s not tired.

“You’re blinking like a cat,” you whisper, brushing a curl off his forehead.

“M’not,” he mutters, though the slur in his voice betrays him.

You smile, soft and fond, and go back to your book. His breathing evens out moments later.

You know you should wake him, but he looks so peaceful. So quiet. Nobody at school really knows this version of James—the boy who presses kisses to your temple in silence when you’re working on essays, who reads over your shoulder and murmurs corrections without teasing. Who rubs his thumb against the back of your hand absentmindedly, like he needs the contact just to think straight.

When you help him draft his Potions theory or he stays up with you past midnight working on Arithmancy, that’s love too. Not the flashy kind. Not the kind that gets you looks in the corridor or earns you snide comments from Sirius (“For Merlin’s sake, take a breath between sentences, you two,”).

No, this kind is deeper.

It’s in the gentle way James whispers, “You’re brilliant, you know,” when you manage to explain something he’s been struggling with for days.

It’s in the way you always keep a spare quill for him because he never remembers, and the way he always keeps your favourite chocolate in his satchel, just in case you’ve had a rough morning.

There’s something sacred about that kind of love. Quiet. Undemanding. Steady.

—

One afternoon, you and James are in the library, an unlikely occurrence if someone doesn’t know you properly. You’re sitting next to each other, your foot pressed against his shin under the table. There’s an open Charms text in front of you and a notebook filled with both your scrawls. He’s trying to come up with a mnemonic to remember a particularly finicky spell.

“Alright,” he says, tapping his wand against his chin. “Swinemuzzle Ensnare… Memory Eraser… Wormwood. That’s SEW. Sew what?”

“Sew a—” you pause, blinking. “I don’t know, a hat? A memory-hiding hat?”

James grins. “Ridiculous. I love it,”

You both laugh quietly, shoulders shaking, your laughter muffled by the thick library air.

And that’s exactly when the Marauders walk in.

They were probably looking for something—Remus’s notes, a textbook Peter lost, or maybe they just wanted to cause mischief in a new location. But what they find is the two of you hunched over a notebook, James’s hand lightly covering yours where it rests on the page, your eyes scanning lines of text, completely silent.

Sirius rolls his eyes fondly. “Gross, they’re revising together,”

Remus shushes him before Madam Pince can.

You look up, startled by their entrance. James blinks at them like he’s just woken from a nap.

“Oh. Hey, lads,”

Sirius stares at you like he’s seen a hippogriff do ballet.

“Why are you revising?”

James smirks, stretching. “What, you thought I was illiterate?”

“Honestly, sometimes, yeah,”

You snort and close the book. James sits back in his chair, the image of a smug, secretly cuddly boyfriend caught in the act.

Remus, ever the perceptive one, tilts his head. “So… She promised to shag you later if you actually focused?”

“Something like that,” you say, letting your fingers trail down James’s arm, not an ounce of embarrassment in your tone.

It’s not even true, but there’s no use in denying it.

Later, Sirius calls it “your secret language”.

“You two talk loud enough for the whole bloody castle, but then you’ve got this weird telepathy thing when you’re alone,”

James doesn’t even argue. Just nudges your knee with his.

You don’t think it’s weird. You think it’s love. Real love. Not just noise and theatrics, though you’ve got plenty of those. It’s in the silence. The comfort. The way you fit into each other’s lives so neatly it feels like you must have been built from the same material.

—

That night, you’re asleep before he is. Half passed out on one of the sofas in the common room by the time he returns from Quidditch practice, hair damp and messy, cheeks pink from the cold.

He finds you curled under a blanket with a book half-open in your hands.

“Hey,” he whispers, brushing your forehead.

You open your eyes sleepily. “Hi,”

James sits beside you on the couch, nudging your legs until you make space for him to lie down. You shift and let him rest his head against your chest, your fingers already finding his curls.

He exhales, long and slow, like the world has been holding its breath until now.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

You smile, bending low to kiss his forehead. “Love you more.”

And no one’s around to see it. No one to whisper about the golden couple or how perfect you look together. It’s quiet. And that’s when it feels the most real.

[liahaslosthermind]

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞!

Azriel x Historiographer!reader Summary: Azriel and his mate tried to tell his family about their mating bond. Unfortunately, arsonist nephews, tired (and frankly, scared) generals with a single eyebrow, and stressed out parents made the task seemingly impossible. Warnings: Inner Circle is obtuse, Nyx is vengeful, Rhys is kinda an asshole A/N: Reader’s job has little to nothing to do with the story, I just hate using “y/n” so I come up with loopholes to address the reader without using it. 

It had been 3 months since the Spy Master of the Night Court and Velaris’ Head Historiographer had stopped dancing around their feelings, 2 months since the mating bond had snapped between the two, and approximately 1 hour since they decided to tell their family. 

“They will be excited for us, my love.” She cooed, trying to fix the perpetual frown that adorned her mate’s face. “They will be annoying of course, they always are,” she grumbled, “but they will be happy. And they will finally stop worrying about whether or not you are going to die alone.” She teased, combing through Azriel’s hair as she tried to push it back, a style he hated but she absolutely loved. 

“I don’t see why we have to make it a thing.” Azriel replied, fixing his hair the second her hands left his head.

“A thing? You mean our mating bond? The one you prayed for every single day of your 500 year long life? You don’t want to make telling the most important people in your life into a thing?” 

“I just thought… maybe a surprise mating ceremony would be better.”

“Azriel, how do you think that will play out? ‘Surprise, we are mates and this is our mating ceremony! But don’t make it a big deal, we don’t want it turning into a thing!’” 

“Well, at the end of the ceremony we will disappear and go on vacation before they can say anything. That way they have time to cool down and we get to have a nice relaxing time together without their antics.” Azrel justified, or at least tried to.

The small smile that adored his lips while thinking about said vacation instantly dropped when she started laughing at him. 

“And what do you think will happen when we get back? If they don’t manage to crash our honeymoon just to get answers, then there will certainly be hell to pay when we come home. And I promise, it will end up being a much bigger thing than if we just told them tonight at dinner.” 

Azriel grumbled in response. She was right, of course, but it didn’t mean he looked forward to telling their family. He wasn’t ashamed of her, nor of the bond between them, how could he be? But Azriel never liked attention, it’s why his work was so perfect for him. But his family… they were nosy. They would make it a big deal and while, quite frankly, it was a big deal, Azriel wasn’t looking forward to the show. 

Fortunately for him, the Inner Circle was also far too obtuse at times, though this time it wasn’t really their fault.

Feyre and Rhysand had recently discovered that Nyx could Winnow. This happened about a month prior when Feyre went to wake her son up from his nap and found his cradle to be empty. After 45 minutes of panicked searching alongside Rhys, Mor, Elain, Lucien, Cassian, Nesta, Azriel, and a few of the priestesses, Feyre found her son in the arms of Amren, who had discovered him in front of her apartment door an hour prior. 

Baby Nyx loved his aunt Amren more than anyone else, much to the chagrin of his parents and the rest of their family. 

In the past month, various wards had been implemented to stop the High Lord and Lady’s child from disappearing again, but they have also had to deal with the various other abilities that seemingly manifested since. 

When Azriel and his mate finally made it to dinner, Cassian had one eyebrow and an already healing burn, Mor was missing a couple inches of hair that had seemingly been singed off, both Feyre and Rhys had eyebags like never before, and a very content Nyx was sat on the lap of a gloating Amren. 

“I hope we didn’t miss all the fun!” the historiographer joked, hoping to lighten the tense mood in the dining room. 

“Oh, you missed the show, but I’d be more than happy to recount the details for you.” Nesta spoke up, cackling when she looked at her one-eyebrowed mate who hadn’t stopped pouting since the incident. 

As the two late comers sat down and started to eat, the tension in the room didn’t cease. In fact, it seemed to get worse every time Nesta broke out into giggles when looking at Mor and Cassian. 

After far too many seconds of painful silence, Azriel received a kick on the leg from his mate. Looking at her, she hissed what he assumed to be a few “encouraging” words about him growing a pair. 

After taking a deep breath, Azriel cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the entire table. 

“We have been meaning to talk to you all about something. Now, I know things around here have been… rather tense. But hopefully this good news will-”

“One second-” The High Lord interrupted as a note appeared before him. Upon reading the missive, he groaned before passing it to Feyre, the letter eliciting the same reaction from her as well. “Madja got us in touch with a healer who specializes in High Fae child development. He says that this thing with Nyx is normal at this stage, especially with powerful parents, and that the powers displayed might not even stay. It's like the Mother is testing which abilities Nyx will have, and we haven’t even gotten to the worst of it yet.” Rhysand grumbled, his hand going through his uncharacteristically unruly hair. 

“Well when the two most powerful fae in Prythian love each other very much…” Mor started. 

“They curse the rest of their family by creating the most vengeful baby the world has ever seen.” Cassian hissed. After a kick on the shin from Feyre, and a smack on the chest from Nesta, he quickly added, “Not that we don’t love you Nyx. You are the light of all our lives and blah blah blah.” After an additional glare from Rhys, Cassian yelled: “He can’t even understand me! It's not like he knows what I am-” the general abruptly stopped talking when his salad caught on fire, causing the baby on Amren’s lap to start laughing. 

After the Shadows made quick work out of putting out the fire, Azriel spoke up once more, “As I said, I know you all have a lot going on right now-”

“No kidding.” Nesta interrupted. “I keep having to fight the camp lords to allow my Valkyrie to compete in the Blood Rite and I swear every time I bring it up they find new ways to make our life harder.” 

“I am sorry to hear that Nesta, but like Azriel said I think this news will-”

“The Illyrians are a backwards group that won’t respond to being asked to change their ways. I keep telling Rhysand he needs to be harder on them.” Azriel interrupted his mate. She would have been more upset had she not known how sore of a subject Illyrians and their beliefs were for her mate. 

“Azriel, we have discussed this before. You are letting your hatred of them get in the way of logical thinking. They won’t respond to abrupt changes either, you need to let me do my job.” Rhysand argued. 

Before Azriel could argue back, he felt a supportive squeeze on his hand from the female beside him, gently guiding him back on track. “Look, I am not here to discuss Illyria. If you all could just stay silent for a moment then-” 

Fire seized Cassian’s shoulder, most likely in response to the lighthearted glares he had been sending his nephew. While the leathers protected his skin from the heat, a chunk of his long brown locks had not been as fortunate. 

“Alright, clearly this isn’t working out for Nyx. It’s past his bedtime anyway, maybe we should call it quits.” Feyre spoke up, sending an apologetic look to Cassian. 

“If you all would give me just a moment-” Azriel started.

“Look, it's been stressful around here for us, Az. I promise I will listen to whatever shit you need to complain or argue about another day.” Rhysand interrupted. While the silence that followed would have given Az the opportunity to correct his brother’s, rather rude, assumption, his mate stopped him before he could speak up. 

“You know what, you’re right, tonight isn’t the night for any family discussions. We wouldn’t want to bother you all with our lives. Have a good night.” In the many years Rhysand had known the Head Historiographer of his court, and the many years since they had become friends- almost family, he had never heard her speak in such a tone. But before anyone else could get a word in, her and Azriel had disappeared into the shadows. 

Back at her apartment, Azriel watched as his mate, seething in anger, paced in front of the fireplace. 

“I cannot believe he really insinuated all you were trying to do was argue or complain when you specifically said it was good news! What a childish, egotistical, brat!” 

“My love, he is going through a lot with Nyx right now-”

“That does NOT give him the right to talk to you like that! If he were to speak to Cassian that way, Nesta would have bitten his head off. I mean how many times had he lost it when Nesta and Feyre fought? Gods, I should have really laid it on him. It is totally unacceptable that he-” Her impassioned rant was suddenly cut off by an equally as passionate kiss. 

Suddenly, she couldn’t have cared less about what the High Lord had to say. All that existed in that moment was her and her mate. 

When the two separated, all negative emotions had been depleted, the only care being the golden string that attached one soul to the other.  

“How about this,” Azriel spoke, still breathless from the kiss the two had shared, “We can make a game out of it. We tried telling them, how about now we just make it as obvious as possible without explicitly stating anything, and see how long it takes them to figure it out.” He suggested.

“And if they are truly too obtuse to catch on?” She asked.

“We can give them the time it takes to plan a proper mating ceremony. If by then they still haven’t figured it out, then we can go with my original plan. That way they can’t be upset because it would be their fault for not catching on, and we get to have fun.” 

“A part of me kind of hopes they don’t catch on now.” She giggled. 

“Oh, trust me, unless we spell it out for them, they won’t know a thing.” Azriel replied. 

A/N: I have ideas for part two, but I also have 1,000 other ideas and projects half written, so let me know if you would like a sequel!

[littlcdarlin]

let you wash all over me

summary: you spend a well earned day of rest at a lake with Joel, away from Jackson and your responsibilities. warnings: age gap (unspecified), my attempt at southern slang, unprotected p in v, I'm too tired to tag this properly but it's mellow and sweet

note: for the lovely anon who requested this – I hope it's what you imagined <3 inspired by Ethel Cain's Family Tree

"C’mon, sweetheart, gotta get there early."

You don’t argue with Joel, because you know he’s doing this for you – well, and for Tommy. You haven’t been in Jackson long, and with summer on the brink of arriving this trip is long overdue. So you let Joel help you onto the back of the horse and run your fingers through its satiny fur, so white in the rising morning sun it almost hurts your eyes. Joel hands you a backpack and you put it on, then scooch to make room for him. Perhaps another day he will teach you how to ride, too, so you don’t have to burden the poor animal with both your weights in this heat.

The sound of the hooves on the soil is soothing as Joel guides the mare trough the woods with steady hands. You’re both quiet, not because there’s nothing to talk about, but because that’s the sort of effect these morning hours always have – everything is waking up, still sluggish from the dark, fresh and new. You close your eyes, the flecks of sunlight painting a mosaic of color on the insides of your eyelids, and rest your cheek against Joel’s back. Here, away from prying eyes and judgmental stares it’s easy as breathing, and from time to time you feel Joel’s fingers ghost over your knee, as if to check you haven’t fallen off.

It’s still cool enough to enjoy the ride, the breeze and shade of the trees offering solace from the heat. You sleep with your windows wide open each night to let the house cool down. You get to do that now. It took a while to sink in, but after a couple of months you didn’t fear the immediate outside anymore, only what lies behind the wall. But even now, even outside of Jackson, you can’t bring yourself to be afraid, not with your arms wrapped so tightly around the body you trust the most in the world. Perhaps you should be more alert, but there haven’t been a lot raider attacks recently. With the weather always comes an abundance of food, so even the most unfriendly of people in the woods don’t need to cause trouble right now. You’re protected by the seasons, at least until this new luxury of food practically running right into your mouths loses its effect. They’ll want something again, weaponry for instance, but if you’re lucky you get to spend this day with Joel in peace.

You press a kiss against his plaid-covered back, hear him hum contentedly in response. Even grumpy Joel Miller melts a little bit in the sunshine. You smile to yourself, open your eyes again and watch the blackbirds in the trees, singing to announce the start of a new day that doesn’t include a fight for survival.

"I’m happy," you whisper, aware that Joel can’t hear you over the sound of the woods. Your face is turned to his bad side, the one he always tilts just slightly away from you when you speak, so as to hear you better. Your happiness feels like a secret, like something you’re not entitled to in his world, but it’s real and glowing and warm and wears Joel’s scent and colors.

"Won’t take much longer now," Joel tells you, his voice softened by the peace of the past hour, and although you’re not particularly looking forward to learning how to fish, any time spent alone with Joel is precious to you.

He was right – after ten minutes you arrive at a little clearing and when you peer past Joel, you see the lake Tommy described to you, fed by a small river glittering in the sun. It’s so untouched by humans you feel almost guilty for disturbing it with your clumsy limbs and too loud voices. But when you slide off the horse, you spot a squirrel and its marble eyes are unafraid. You might be clumsy and human and loud, but you’re a part of this earth, however much humanity tried to rebel against it.

Joel guides the horse towards the lake, lets it drink languidly and ties it to a nearby tree so it can rest in the shadow. He pats its neck gently, a quiet thank you for getting you two here safely, and turns around to look at you.

"What?" he asks when he finds you already looking at him with a smile on your face.

"You like that horse."

Joel doesn’t seem embarrassed anymore when you notice these things about him, just turns towards the animal again and runs his big palm over its fur.

"Yeah, I do. I like you, don’t I? You’re a good girl," he mumbles, watching as the mare starts sniffing the ground in search of something edible. 

The two of you sit down by the lakeside for a couple of minutes and you get out your water bottle, offering it to Joel, but as always he lets you have the first sip. It’s not yet warm from the day as you let it run down your throat. Joel watches you quietly.

"You ready to fulfill your duty to Jackson?"

 At his question you shrug, eyes drifting over the lake.

"I’m not overly fond of hunting," you admit. Joel chuckles.

"You’re the only girl still alive who has a problem with killin’ animals."

He’s right and you know it makes you soft. But you just can’t imagine running an arrow through that squirrel you saw, not when animals are so much better than people these days. You aren’t above violence, wouldn’t be here if you were, but living in Jackson means you have the luxury of morals again, and you’d rather work in the greenhouses or kitchen than hunt or fish, though you you’d never turn down a hot meal. It might be hypocritical to eat but not want to kill them, but you don’t care. Joel’s hand finds your waist, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

"I like that about you, honey lamb."

That nickname he started calling you not too long ago, when your relationship turned into what it is now. It reminds you of where he’s from, his life in the south before the world turned cruel, and you know it takes a lot for him to bare that side of him so incidentally. You rest your forehead on his shoulder, inhale his sweat and soap, let him pull you close to him.

"How about we spend the day just swimmin’, hm?"

At that you look up and into his kind whiskey-eyes.

"Tommy would kill us."

"Ain’t no need for Tommy to know. I’ll take you again next week, tell him you need a bit more practice."

A whole day in the sunshine with Joel, swimming and eating the food he packed, without worrying about fishing or food or raiders or patrols. It seems too good to be true, but you won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, you press yours against Joel’s, his graying beard scratching your skin softly, and run your fingers through his hair.

"Alright, hoss."

Joel laughs, cups your face in his hands and kisses your forehead.

"Take off your clothes, then, little lady."

You raise an eyebrow, cheeks pulled taut with your smile, and Joel shakes his head.

"You got a dirty head on your shoulders. Can’t go swimmin’ in jeans, can you?"

"Can’t go swimming at all," you admit, "I don’t know how."

For a beat, Joel just stares at you. Then he gets up, joints cracking, and crosses his arms I front of his body.

"You tellin’ me nobody’s ever taught you how to swim?"

You shrug, then shake your head. Joel holds out his hand to you and pulls you to your feet.

"We can’t have that," he says decidedly, and runs his finger over your cheek. "Can’t have my girl drownin’ on me."

***

"Alright now. First thing, you ain’t gonna sink. I gotcha."

Joel’s hands are on your waist, you’re in the water to your bellybutton. It’s cold, but not cold enough to drown out the heat of his skin on yours.

"Don’t let me go," you mutter, your torso tense with anticipation, and Joel squeezes you just once.

"Not gonna let go, I promise. You don’t gotta trust the water if you trust me. Just ease on in, I’m here."

You breathe in and focus on the warm feeling for Joel you harbor in your chest, then let yourself sink into the water. It’s shallow, you know you could always touch the ground with your feet, and Joel’s hands hold you steadily, dependably. But suddenly something slimy touches your foot and you flinch, your arms and legs paddling wildly. Joel wraps a strong arm around your middle and pulls you towards him, until you’re upright again, your back against his front, though you won’t let your feet touch the ground.

"’S just a weed, sweetheart."

"It – it wrapped around my leg!"

"Might be a fish tryin’ to flirt."

The amusement is evident in his voice and you aim a kick at his shin, which earns you a rumbling laugh in response.

"Easy, baby, you’re okay. Ain’t nothin’ down there that wants a piece of you, I promise."

Slowly you extend your legs again until your toes dig into the soft sand. You breathe out shakily and Joel paints soothing circles into your skin with his thumb. You try again, now reassured that Joel will catch you if you panic, and this time you stay afloat for a couple of seconds with Joel still holding you securely.

"Good, that’s good. Now kick them legs, baby, and sweep your hands through the water. That’s it, easy does it."

It works – you’re moving through the water on your own, Joel still holding onto you and walking next to you, but more for reassurance than to help you stay afloat. It’s an exhilarating feeling to glide through the water like a fish, to trust that you will float.

"See? You got it."

He doesn’t let go just like he promised, and when you kick your legs towards the ground and turn towards him, he pulls you close to his naked chest. His eyes flicker downwards and he thumbs the strap of your bra.

"That thing turns see-through in the water," he informs you, his eyes light and twinkling with pride and something else.

"Does it now?" you breathe, legs still kicking with the effort of staying afloat. Joel hums, then pulls you up and towards him so you’re half lifted out of the water. His lips touch yours, and he tastes like lake water and sunshine and so distinctly like home. You melt against him, trust that he will hold you, and go still in his arms. Joel moves his mouth over your cheek to the point right below your earlobe, over your neck up to the soft part beneath your chin so you crane your neck for him.

"Wanna have you right here," he mutters, "give the fish something to talk about."

You chuckle, but his words barely register with how quickly Joel’s mood changed, how quickly he has you unravelling in his arms.

"Please," you mumble, and Joel moves his hand towards your crotch, pushes the fabric of your panties to the side, and runs his thick fingers through your folds. He prods at your entrance softly, rubs your clit lazily until you’re pliant and relaxed for him, then pushes two of his thick digits inside of you. You put your forehead on his shoulder and wrap your arms around his neck, panting into his wet skin. As always he’s slow with it, and for once you really are unhurried, even though it’s the middle of the day. Your fingernails dig into his neck when he curls his fingers against that spot inside of you, your wet chest pressing against his.

"There we go," Joel mumbles, working his fingers relentlessly until you barely register coming, your orgasm an easy flutter deep in your stomach. You whine when he slips his fingers out of you, and instead reaches inside his boxershorts.

"You ready to come like you oughta?"

"Yes," you answer breathily and feel him align himself with your entrance. There’s no slippery mess between your legs like usually, not while you’re in the water, but it only hurts for the first couple of seconds. He pushes into you slowly and you ease your hips towards him until he’s fully sheathed inside of you, letting you breathe for a moment. It’s quiet around you, the only sound the water whenever you move and the birds in the trees.

Joel fucks you slowly, and your eyes fall closed after a couple of thrusts, the sensation of the cooling water on your skin and his cock deep inside of you relaxing you completely. He’s soft with you, letting you go limp in his arms and doing almost all of the work, his hold on you secure.

"Hm, honey lamb? You gonna come for me again?"

His voice is so close to your ear you shudder and he presses a kiss to the shell, little groans floating right out of his mouth and into your ear.

"Yes," you moan softly, angling your hips as Joel’s thrusts hit your spot every time, and he reaches down to rub at your clit with one hand, holding you up with his other arm.

It doesn’t take you long, and you bite into his shoulder when you do.

"I love you," you mutter into his skin, and as always those three words are what gets Joel there. His hips stutter and he pumps his load deep inside of you, cock twitching and throbbing and not pulling out.

"I love you too, my darlin’."

***

The rest of the day you lie around on the sun-warmed flat rocks at the edge of the water, letting your underwear dry and Joel ogle you freely, not another soul in sight except for your horse. He feeds you slices of apple and bread, traces the little flecks of sunlight on your bare skin, kisses your eyelids when you drift off some time in the afternoon.

When you wake up again, he is swimming, his strong shoulders and legs moving through the water and exuding power the way a big cat does. You watch him dive, come up again and shake his head like a dog, then float on his back for a while. He’s enjoying this day just as much as you are, you can tell. Head of patrol, brother to Tommy, partner to you – he has got a lot of responsibility. You’re glad he gets this day to relax and in the quiet of the afternoon you think he might be humming to himself, though he’s too far away for you to be sure.

He gets out of the water when he notices you’re awake, dripping all over the rocks, and you shriek when he reaches you.

"No – no, Joel, I just dr-"

But he’s already on top of you, his full body weight pressing into yours the way you like it, and his lips find yours. Your protests are muffled and even though you shiver from the cold water, you melt under his mouth. He kisses you for what feels like hours, drags his mouth over your shoulders and collarbone down to your ribcage and stomach. You let him, close your eyes again and are half asleep when his mouth finds your core.

It’s not really about coming, more about closeness, as he sucks on your clit, your brain halfway between pleasure and sleep. It’s lazy, indulgent, slow. He nips at your inner thighs, spreads one big palm over your stomach. You sigh, and weave your fingers through his locks of hair.

When you’re done, he kisses you again, and you taste yourself on him, as he slowly pushes his tongue into your mouth. You spend ages like this, perhaps years or millennia, you aren’t sure.

"I love you," he mumbles into your mouth. "Gonna take you here every year."

You smile.

"Gonna tell Tommy I forgot how to fish each year?"

Joel hums and drags his nose over your neck.

"Gonna tell Tommy to fuck off and let me have a day with my girl."

You chuckle and kiss his cheek.

"Alright, hoss," you say again, just to hear him laugh at your impression of a southern girl.

"Alright, honey lamb," he answers.

[ild-rllrcstr]

Offline, Online part 1

Lando Norris X You / slow burn / 3.1K

part 2 (coming soon)

Summary Online, you know him as your constant racing rival and friend who talks about everything. Unawareingly, offline, he's Lando Norris, the charming, frustrating driver you’re assigned to style, who somehow makes every workday a challenge. At work, you don’t like him. He doesn’t take you seriously. But behind the screens, you both vent about each other without knowing who’s who. Slowly, late-night races and shared secrets start to blur the lines between friendship and something more. As reality and virtual worlds collide, feelings sneak up when you least expect them.

Warnings swearing A/N Had this idea for a while, just was trying to figure out how I can make it work, that's why it's taking me a while, hope you like this!

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Growing up with two older brothers obsessed with cars, your childhood was shaped by the sound of engines and the thrill of competition. Your favourite family pastime? Sim racing. From clunky old Nintendos and chaotic rounds of Mario Kart, to the sleek playseats that came later, your childhood home even had a room dedicated just for it. Glowing screens, the occasional shouting match, it was your version of bonding.

Now that all three of you have moved out, the playseat came with you. It sits proudly in the corner of your apartment, slightly scratched, a little worn, but updates throughout the years have made it special, it’s yours. Whenever life lets you breathe between lectures, meetings, or deadlines, you’re in that seat, headset on, world off. It’s the only place where your brain quiets down.

Every vacation, like a sacred ritual, your family meets for real karting. Nothing fancy, just cracked helmets, adrenaline, and way too much post-race trash talk over greasy burgers. 

That same energy followed you online. What started as a few family Discord races evolved into a tiny, anonymous sim racing community, just a handful of players, most of whom you've never met, but know like clockwork. You race together. Chat late at night. Share playlists. Sometimes vent. No real names. No real identities. Just usernames, shared laps, and the comforting hum of familiarity.

Hanging behind your name on the ranking is always @mclateagain4, You don’t know who he is, not really.

His voice always crackles through your headset most nights like static and safety, confident, teasing. Always one second behind you, always threatening to beat your lap. 

He’s funny, in that low-effort way that feels real. He never pushes. But when he really talks, there’s a weight to it. Like someone who spends too much time pretending he’s fine. But lately, you're starting to think about him more than you used to.

Not in a crushy, hearts-in-your-eyes kind of way, at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. It's just... he’s always there. Same time. Same lobby. Same teasing drawl and last-minute overtakes. You’ve started noticing things. You noticed the way his voice softens when he’s tired, how he breathes heavier when he’s frustrated. He somehow always knows when you’ve had a rough day, even when you say nothing. It should be weird. But it’s not.

You don’t even know his real name. He only ever said to call him “Late.”Just Late.

Which you did, until one night, maybe out of tiredness, maybe just to see how he’d react, you called him Lando.

There was a pause. Then a low laugh.

“Do I really sound that much like him?”

“Exactly like him,” you replied, with a small smirk he couldn’t see.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess. He’s kinda hot.”

You snorted. “Your favourite driver is going to get all flushed if he hears that.”

“Well, I think he’ll graciously accept that compliment.”

And that was that. A joke. A deflection. But still… something lingered.

Even your brothers brought it up once or twice, half-serious, half-mocking.

“If that is Lando, you could technically say you beat a Formula 1 driver three nights in a row.”

“If that is Lando,” you rolled your eyes, “he should be embarrassed.”

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You weren’t supposed to care.

This was a job, just another freelance gig. High-profile of the year, sure, but temporary. You’d worked events before, styled minor names, built up your portfolio. This was no different.

Except, it was.

Because the second you saw his name on the call sheet, your stomach flipped. Lando Norris. The same driver whose race wins you’d cheered, whose Monaco onboard laps you’d rewatched more times than you’d admit. He was a big part of your journey watching F1. But now, none of that mattered.

Because now, you were here to work.

You remind yourself of that as you step into the studio with your clipboard in hand. Your job? Coordinate styling for an event he’s part of for the quarter of the year. Keep everything on schedule. Be precise. Be professional.

No fangirling. No mistakes. You kept it professional. That’s what mattered.

But he showed up twenty minutes late, hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses on indoors, and laughing at something on his phone. He apparently overslept.

Even if he acted like it was no big deal. Like everyone would wait. Like time bent for him.

You’d worked with big names before. Actors. Models. Musicians. But something about Lando Norris, the real, in-person version of him, rubbed you the wrong way.

It wasn’t his fault, really. Not completely. He was polite enough. He said “Good morning” to everyone when he walked in. Smiled when the assistant handed him water. Made a joke to the lighting guy that had everyone laughing.

Everyone but you.

Because this wasn’t a joke. You were here to make sure he looked camera-ready. That the angles matched, the pieces sat right, and the vision stayed intact. That meant time. Precision. Focus.

And Lando, apparently, focus was not his best strength outside of that car.

He slouched during fittings, fidgeted during test shots, messed with his hair between takes. When you gently asked him to sit up straighter or stop undoing buttons, he just grinned, like it was a game.

You didn’t argue. Didn’t complain. Just kept your head down and finished the job.

"All good?” he asked once, noticing your silence while you fixed a collar.

“Yeah,” you said. “We’re on track.”

He nodded, but something in his expression flickered, like he noticed your tone and wasn’t sure how to read it. You didn’t clarify. You weren’t here to make friends. Just clothes fit.

That night, you finally kicked off your shoes, sit onto your race seat, and threw your headset on like it was armour.

Late was already in the lobby. His little car was idling on the screen like always.

"You sound tense today." He heard your sigh.

"I had the longest day with the most unbothered human alive."

You hit the track. The familiar hum of engines instantly started quieting your thoughts. But not enough.

"What happened?" He asked, the both of you warming up for the game.

You sighed again, "I’m on a new project working with this guy today, he was the main person for a campaign. Shows up late, makes jokes like it’s a school play, just seemed to be very unserious."

"So… like, main character syndrome?"

"Exactly. I get it, he’s the star. But damn, the world doesn’t gravitate around you."

"Maybe he was nervous and covering it," he laughed a bit.

"If nervous looks like flirting with the interns and ignoring directions, then sure. Olympic-level nerves."

He laughed in that quiet way of his, like he didn’t want to admit he found it as funny.

"Sounds like he brought the whole circus with him."

"You’d think. But honestly, I think he just… performs too much. It’s like no one’s ever told him he doesn’t have to be “on” all the time."

"Huh." You could almost hear him thinking on the other end of the headset.

"Funny. I had the opposite kind of day. Worked with someone who made it feel like I was talking to my grade 3 literature teacher every single time."

You blinked at his description.

"I’m assuming you didn’t like your grade 3 literature teacher very much."

He chuckled. "Yeah. She hated me like I was stupid or something. The person today was just like that, ice cold. Super tight up. Like, painfully professional."

"Maybe she didn’t want to blur lines."

"Sure. But I wasn’t asking her to braid friendship bracelets. I just try to make a good atmosphere at work, and she looked like I kicked her cat."

"Maybe you’re not as funny as you think you are."

"Ouch, but you love my jokes."

"I do." You laughed for real this time, and he did too, like some weird balance had been restored.

You both raced in near silence for a while after that. Just engine sounds, key clicks, and the occasional breath shared through static.

He beat your lap time. You called him a menace. He called you a tyrant.

You didn’t say anything about how your chest felt lighter.

Neither of you knew you’d spent the whole day silently bristling at each other… only to find comfort in each other later, under different names, different masks.

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The next shoot was scheduled for Friday.

You’d already blocked it out on your calendar, triple-checked call times, and re-reviewed Lando’s sizing notes, though he probably wouldn’t wear half the things on the rack. You made your peace with that. It’s how the work is.

What you hadn’t made peace with was the fact that your stomach still flipped when his name showed up in your inbox. That same twist of nerves. Not from awe anymore, no, that had been crushed beneath a stack of moodboards and missed cues. Now, it was just tension.

You kept your head down all day.

You’d learned that trick early on. When things fall apart, stay quiet, stay useful. Control what you can.

Still, it didn’t stop the sting when the creative director barked that your notes were confusing, while it was obvious that he didn’t read any of your notes. Someone messed up the order of looks, but you took the blame. It didn’t stop the embarrassment when Lando, in front of half the team, cracked a joke about how tightly you clung to the schedule like it was life support.

You didn’t respond. Just gave a clipped nod, pretended your throat didn’t feel tight.

It wasn’t his fault. Not directly. He didn’t know what kind of morning you’d had. Didn’t know about the last-minute changes that no one told you about. Didn’t know that your work, your planning, your precision, was the only thing keeping the entire shoot from unravelling. And maybe that was the point.

He didn’t see you. Not really.

Later, you overheard him laughing with the photographer. Something about “people who take things way too seriously.” You didn’t stick around long enough to hear the punchline.

You left quietly without saying goodbye.

That night, your fingers hovered over your keyboard for a long moment before you typed.

You: Longest. Day. Ever.

"That bad?" His voice went through your headset like soothing

"Have you ever have one of those days where nothing technically explodes, but it still feels like you got run over emotionally?"

"Like a passive-aggressive train? Yeah."

You hesitated. Then just… let it spill.

"I got snapped at in front of a whole team for something that wasn’t my fault. Got told I was too ‘rigid’ when I was the only one holding things together. The person I was working with basically made me the punchline of the day."

There was a pause from him. "That sucks. I’m sorry."

"Yeah, well. That’s what I get for trying to be good at what I do."

"They sound like a bunch of arses."

"I don’t think they meant to be. He was just… doing his thing. Being chill. Everyone else liked him. I just… I don’t know. It made me feel small. And stupid in front of everybody."

There was a longer pause this time.

"That’s the worst. When someone makes you feel invisible but doesn’t even realise it."

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let his words sit there, heavier than you expected.

"I kinda feel that, had a crap day too." it was his turn to sigh.

"Yeah?"

"Worked with someone who I’m pretty sure hated my entire existence. Like, I was annoying just by breathing. Kept things cold, clipped. Acted like I was wasting their time just by showing up."

You blinked. Sat up straighter.

"That person sounds like an ass too."

"Maybe. Or maybe I was just too much. That happens sometimes." It was rare for you to hear the inconfidence in his voice.

You stared at the screen. 

"You’re not too much."

"You don’t even know me."

"For the times that we’ve raced together, I know how you race. I know how you talk when you’re tired. I know how you listen. I know you never miss when someone’s off. That’s not 'too much.' That’s human."

It took him a while to reply.

"Thanks. That means more than you think."

And something shifted after that.

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The next time Lando had a shooting, he was fitting with the director, laughing about lightening and something that has nothing to do with you. You were just arranging the space, folding pieces that had just come back from set, when the project manager approached.

“What happened with Lando’s jacket?” she snapped, not even lowering her voice. “That collar looked ridiculous in the wide shots.”

Your heart sank.

You had adjusted that collar three times. Each time, he’d shifted, moved, joked, then finally waved off the last touch-up before cameras rolled. But you didn’t say that.

You just stood there, mouth opening, then closing. Heat crawled up your neck.

“Seriously, wake up,” the manager added, already walking away.

You turned back to the rack slowly, biting the inside of your cheek. You stayed there longer than you needed to, pretending to refold a sleeve.

Lando was half-turned, frozen mid-step, having returned to grab his water bottle from the table. Watching the whole thing from the corner of the room. His face wasn’t playful anymore.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. Not then. But he saw.

Later that night.

He hadn’t brought up the moment, didn’t mention the manager, didn’t say your name. But something in the way he spoke was different, more hesitant.

"Have you ever felt like… You missed something important? Like, you saw it too late?"

You blinked.

"All the time. Why?"

"Just wondering."

You didn’t push. Instead, you let the silence settle. And in the quiet, you started drifting further into something fragile. Not a fall. Just… a shift in gravity.

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The event for one of the campaigns was running late.

The sun was brutal, the lighting was acting up, and the team was running on three cups of coffee and nerves. You were adjusting wardrobe pieces under the canopy tent, double-checking changes for the next setup. Nothing was sitting quite right on the new looks, and with how behind they were, everyone was snapping.

“I told you this was supposed to be a navy tone!” one of the creative leads barked, tossing a fabric swatch onto the table where you were laying out backup pieces.

You inhaled through your nose. Slowly.

“That's the navy one we talked about,” you said, as calmly as you could. “Lighting’s off because of the clouds, but under studio…”

“Don’t give me excuses, just get it fixed.”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it.

Lando had been off to the side, chatting with the photographer and sipping his iced drink. But the moment the words were thrown in your direction, you saw him pause. Look over. Then, surprisingly, walk over.

He didn’t make a big scene of it.

He just stepped beside you, picked up the swatch, and said, “This is the exact one we agreed on in pre-prod. I remember it. You even showed me. Let me try it on, it seems fine…” He smoothly put the watch on. “It’s perfect, see, right guys?” He looked around, asking, and people just nodded along.

You turned to him, caught off guard. You hadn’t even thought he’d noticed that moment, and barely anyone else had paid attention during those early meetings.

The creative lead faltered. “Well, we’re going with that then.”

“Maybe we can adjust the lighting before we blame the clothes,” Lando replied smoothly, his tone light but edged.

That was the thing about him. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.

He looked back at you, and for a split second, there was something different in his eyes. Not just amusement. Not just surface charm. It felt like recognition.

“I’m ready, let’s try it,” he said, and walked off toward the camera again, unfazed.

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to say. You just turned back to your rack, fingers suddenly a little shakier than before.

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The late-night sim racing banter stayed. The usual trash talk and late-night race sessions didn’t stop. But somewhere between lap times and playlists, the space between you and Late started to feel… tender.

He sent you a song once and said it reminded him of your voice. You saved it. You started typing longer messages, shared pictures of your setup, and a photo of your karting helmet. He told you once he liked hearing your laugh in his headset. You never said it out loud, but you started smiling more around him.

You weren’t falling. Not really. You were just leaning, ever so slightly, toward someone you didn’t even know. Or thought you didn’t.

Which is why it stung a little too much when one night, somewhere between qualifying heats and midnight, he asked "Can I ask you something a bit random?"

"Sure, we already know how weird you are, don’t think I’ll be any more surprised."

You both chuckled.

"Is it weird to be attracted to someone you don’t really know that well?"

Your pulse jumped. "I think it can be. Why?"

"Just… there’s this girl. I think I misunderstood her. I think the more I pay attention, I’m starting to understand why she did the things the way she did."

You stared at the screen for too long. Long enough that he sent a follow-up.

"Sorry. That was probably weird."

"No, not weird. Just… is that the girl at work?"

"Ehhh… yeah."

You swallowed. You stared at the message so long, your screen dimmed.

Of course it was someone else.

Of course this was just banter to him. Jokes and playlists and soft 2 AM confessions, just part of the game. You thought maybe, just maybe, it was something else. Something quieter and slower and real. Like every other time in your life, you thought something good was going on, well, it’s not.

But apparently, he had someone in real life. Someone he was trying to understand. It just further frustrates you that the person happened to be the person he’s been complaining about. And you supported him, you always support each other.

You took a breath. Decided to go with something sarcastic, something defensive.

" I think it’s not weird at all. If you’re starting to understand her, that’s probably a good thing."

"You think?"

"Yeah. Sometimes people don’t show who they are right away. Doesn’t mean they’re not worth trying to know."

There was a pause, he was letting your words sink into his mind..

"I knew you’d say something smart like that."

"Someone’s gotta balance out your dumb."

He laughed, his usual, low one that always made you smile. But tonight, you didn’t. Not quite.

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[divinepoints]

hi! 19 from the prompt list for reader x bob reynolds please :) but with reader saying it to bob? 🩷

ask and you shall receive!! hope you enjoy <333

wc: 779

prompt: bob reynolds + "i thought you were dead"

It wasn’t the tactful thing to say, but it was the truth.

“I thought you were dead,” you uttered to him the second you realized the face in front of you truly was Bob Reynolds.

When you thought of him, which was really not that often, you figured he was an unidentified body in a morgue or grave somewhere. After all, the last time you’d seen him he was a flighty drug addict with no family to speak of. Or, at least, no family he wanted to speak of. You weren’t sure which it truly was.

To be clear, you had not known him well by any means. It was spring break in Florida your final year of college, and he had merely orbited your obscenely large group of travelers for your time there. Afterward you had been in long-distance contact for all of two months before he dropped off the face of the planet. Ironically, his last text had simply read talk later, which you had not. You first figured he was high, then you figured worse.

Though you had worried briefly, you had also known there was nothing you could do. The police would have laughed in your face if you called from New York, saying you were worried because your Florida spring break hook-up wasn’t texting you back. In the end, it only bothered you for as long as you could see his text thread until it was drowned out by others.

He looked different now. Healthier. Taller, somehow. But also, shier. He looked at you so seemingly astounded that you began to think he didn’t remember you. (Really, it wouldn’t have been so shocking given how under the influence you had both been when you’d actually spent time together.) After a moment, though, he said your name. 

“Yeah,” you said, though it no longer looked like he needed confirmation. “You look…” You didn’t really know where to begin with that. A number of adjectives came to mind. Better. Healthier. Sober. “Good.”

A twitch of his lips was almost a smile. “You too.”

“It’s good to see you,” you offered then, which was mostly true. It was good to see that he was alive, though it left you with several mostly awkward questions.

He opened his mouth to responded but was interrupted by a barista calling his name. He held up one finger and then turned to collect what looked like a sugar-coma worthy drink from the counter. When he turned back, you half expected a dismissal. Instead, he fumbled into his pocket and withdrew a very brand-new looking phone.

He began cautiously, “I, uh, I stopped paying for my phone.” You nodded, though you had no idea where he was going with it. “Back then, I mean. I wasn’t really working and there was… other stuff I thought was more important.”

It did not take much imagination to figure what the more important stuff was, but you weren’t one to judge. You’d drained your savings and maxed out a credit card on your trip. Nowadays you weren’t so stupid with money, but you’d yet to regret your previous decisions.

“But,” he continued, almost uncertainly. You saw him swipe up on the phone screen and look briefly at it, “I really liked talking to you before, and I never thought I’d be able to again, but now…”

Now he could. Now you could. (And, you couldn’t help but think, maybe it was a little like fate?)

His phone slid into your hand the moment you offered up your palm. You thumbed yourself into his contacts, after which you happened to not-so-accidentally notice there fewer than ten other people in it. It was clean. Efficient. Much neater than your contact list full of a lifetime’s worth of people, most of whom you hardly spoke to anymore. College contacts. Old coworkers. All people you’d never purged but probably should have. And, among them, Bob’s old number floating around somewhere.

The barista called your name as you were about to send yourself a text from his phone. You handed it back to him. If he texted you, then you’d replace his old number. If he didn’t, you’d assume this had all been a fever dream and allow his contact to stay buried in a sea of all the other people you no longer knew.

“Talk later?” you offered. He only had time to nod as you stepped around him to the counter.

You gave him a wave as you passed once more, heading for the exit. He waved back with his phone in hand. 

You were only halfway down the block when your phone pinged. Is it later yet?

want a drabble? hit my inbox with a thunderbolts guy & a prompt from this list.

[knowinglewis]

Fading Lines

Part one/Part Two/Part Three/Part Four/Part Five

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: The lines between friendship and something more start to blur between you and Lewis when after invites you to his first race weekend with Ferrari, in Shanghai.

Word Count: 10,977

Warnings: Massive fluff with a TON of ANGST and yearning. Spiraling, anxiety, overthinking, and distance. No use of Y/N.

A/N: So umm...I lied. This will be the second to last part because I've decided to split the final chapter into two. It was getting insanely long and it's also 2am here, so I just wanted to get at least this part out and hopefully the FINAL final chapter in the next couple of days! If you'd like to join the taglist, please let me know and I'd be happy to add you! As always, thank you SO insanely much for reading, please let me know your thoughts! 🤍

The city of Shanghai passed in a slow blur outside tinted windows, the soft morning light shining over the quiet streets, like the world was still waking up. It was silent inside the car, the air full of the things you wanted to say and things you didn’t know how to put into words.

You sat close at Lewis’ side in the back seat, your legs brushing with each turn while his hand rested on your knee, his thumb stroking over your pants soothingly. His hoodie was pulled low, cap angled forward to shadow his face, but you could still see the soft tiredness in his eyes every time he looked your way, like even he didn’t want to blink and lose another second together.

The driver remained silent, hands steady on the wheel as he escorted you to the airport discreetly. The ride didn’t need any idle chatting, your bodies said enough in the way your fingers laced around his other hand across his lap and your head rested on his shoulder.

The closer the airport came, the harder it felt to breathe as the time between you ticked along to its end. You hadn’t known it would be this hard.

Maybe it was silly, after all, you’d come here knowing it was temporary, knowing this thing between you and Lewis didn’t have a name or a future mapped out in any clear direction. And yet, waking up in his arms, sharing slow kisses in the steam of the shower, laughing quietly as the water cooled, it felt like more.

Now you didn’t know what any of it meant.

Lewis leaned forward as the terminal signs appeared in the distance, speaking quietly to the driver. “Can you pull over somewhere private before drop-off?”

The driver gave a silent nod and turned off toward a quieter lane, easing the car beneath a shaded awning away from the main crowd. The car slowed to a stop, the sound of the engine soft in your ears.

Lewis unbuckled his seatbelt with a small sigh, then turned toward you fully while the driver stepped out of the vehicle. Though his shoulders relaxed, the shadows couldn’t hide the look on his face.

“You could still come to Japan,” he offered, voice low.

You looked at him with your eyebrows creasing together lightly, your heart squeezing at the sound of it. He wasn’t joking or teasing, he meant it. You could hear it in the way his voice softened, the way his eyes searched yours like he was hoping you’d change your mind.

“I want to,” you replied honestly. “But I can’t. You know that.” You tightened your threaded fingers, dropping your gaze to your joined hands. “I wish I could.”

You wished you could, so badly it hurt. The idea of just going with him, stealing another few days in this perfect little dream you shared, made your throat tight. But your life was calling, your job, your responsibilities, the version of you that existed beyond hotel rooms and paddocks.

“It was worth a shot,” Lewis chuckled as he reached up to cup your cheek with his palm.

Then, leaning forward, his forehead rested gently against yours, noses brushing with a shared breath. You turned your body toward him, curling your legs slightly in the seat, and leaned into him. His hand found your thigh again like a warm anchor, as though you both weren’t ready to let go just yet.

He tilted his chin to touch his lips to yours, his mouth soft and addictive as he kissed you slowly. Once, twice, another. The ache grew behind your ribs, not knowing when you’d get the chance to taste him again, so you savoured every brush of his lips, the whole world shrinking to only the space between you.

You didn’t ask him what any of this meant, not last night or in the morning. You didn’t dare, no matter how much your heart was already tangled in it, in him. The way he kissed you told you he felt it too. Maybe not in words, but the way his mouth lingered on yours, like he wanted to make this stretch as long as possible, like he wanted to memorise you. The way you tasted, the way you breathed, the way your fingers curled into his hoodie like you didn’t want to let go.

“I’ll miss you,” you whispered into his lips with a shaky breath.

“I already do.” You felt him smile as he squeezed your thigh, hesitant to pull away.

So did you, not just the physical nearness of him, but the gentle intimacy between you. The comfort, and the way he made space for you. The way he looked at you as if you were the only girl in the world and listened intently to every word you spoke. He made you feel important, special, like you mattered in every way.

“We’ll figure something out soon,” he murmured, cradling your chin between his thumb and index finger. “I’ll make sure of it.”

It wasn’t exactly a promise, but it was something.

The final kiss lingered like a wordless goodbye, his other hand sliding up your thigh to your waist as though you might slip away if he didn’t hold you just right. For a second, you let yourself believe that maybe you wouldn’t.

When you finally pulled apart, you felt the ache in your chest again, reality crashing over you with a heavy weight on your shoulders.

Another breath passed between you, then he reached for your bag beside him. “Let’s get you to your gate before I change my mind and make you miss your flight.”

You managed a soft laugh, your heart cracking just a little more as you opened the door. The driver was already at the trunk, retrieving your suitcase, while Lewis stepped out too, pulling his hoodie a little lower and slipping his sunglasses on, ever-conscious of watching eyes.

Still, he reached for your hand without hesitation. “I’ll walk you in.”

You didn’t argue, adjusting the collar of the hoodie he had gifted you around your neck, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you.

Inside the terminal, you stayed close to him, grateful for the lull in morning foot traffic. He assisted you in dropping your bags off, lifting the heavy weight with ease. At the departure board, he stood behind you, slipping his arms protectively over your chest and shoulders, resting his chin lightly on your head. The warmth of him, the weight of his hold, made you feel smaller in the best way, as if you didn’t have to be strong for a minute. Like you could just exist there, in your personal bubble among the mildly busy airport while the two of you scanned the board.

“Looks like your gate’s on time,” Lewis remarked, his voice low in your ear.

You nodded, your hands over his forearm at your chest, eyes fixed on the screen, even though you weren’t really reading it. You didn’t want to move, didn’t want to go through security and leave him on the other side of the barrier.

“We’ve got a few minutes then.” He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

The buzz of the airport blurred into the background, wheels dragging over the smooth floors, a child asking something too loudly, boarding calls echoing over the PA, but inside that small pocket of space with him, it all faded away.

His chest rose and fell slowly against your back, and you leaned into it. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your hair, the steady thrum of his heart. It calmed you, and hurt you, all at once.

Neither of you said anything. What could you say, really? There were still no labels, no promises, just your time together running out. It wasn’t as though you wouldn’t see him again, but the ache of not knowing when you might see him next, knowing his busy schedule, made it all the more painful.

When your boarding gate changed to ‘Gate Open’ he shifted, gently turning you to face him. His hands found your waist and his warm brown eyes, shielded by his sunglasses, trailed over your face, as if drinking you in, one last time. There was a soft crease between his brows, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

You didn't ask what he was thinking. You weren’t sure you were ready to hear it, not now, not when you had to walk away right after. So instead, you rested your hand on his chest, while the other reached to run your fingers along his beard, leaning forward towards his inviting lips. He dipped his head for a kiss, one that felt certain and real. A kiss you could carry with you in your memories, tucked safe in your pocket.

When you separated, he didn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours with his voice barely a whisper. “Text me when you land, okay?”

“I will.” You nodded and looked at him through your lashes, trying to steady the tremble in your chest. “You better text me when you land too.”

“Yeah.” His lips curled into a soft smile, planting his lips to your forehead. “Soon as I’m on the ground.”

Then he brushed his thumb along your cheekbone, lingering like he wasn’t ready to let go.

“Safe flight, sweetheart.”

The word caught you off guard. He’d never called you that before, not even last night.

“You too.” Was all you could manage as you nodded, lips parting like you just might, say something more, but you didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed the handle of your carry-on and turned toward security, giving him a small smile, before you moved into the line. You felt him quickly slip a small box into the outer pocket of your bag as you stepped away. You didn’t know what it was, but it made your stomach flutter.

You looked back one last time, and he was still there with his hands in his pockets and his cap sitting low, watching you the whole way.

Eventually, you made your way through security and boarded the airplane, settling into the plush leather seat of first class. You let out a quiet breath, the buzz of the plane’s engine a distant murmur beneath the soft clinks of glassware and muted conversations between passengers and flight attendants. You adjusted your seat instantly for comfort and pulled your carry-on bag onto your lap, as you remembered Lewis’ subtle gift.

Your hand dipped into the outer pocket, fingers closing around a small, wrapped box. The paper was simple and delicate, a thin ribbon tied around it. Carefully, you peeled back the wrapping, lifted the lid to reveal a bracelet you’d admired the day before, a bracelet your eyes had only lingered on a few seconds longer than others as you explored the stores in Shanghai. The tiny blossom charm sparkled in the soft cabin light as you traced your fingertips along the elegant chain.

Your heart fluttered behind your ribs, a flush warming your cheeks. It wasn’t just the bracelet, it was the fact that he’d noticed. That he’d remembered and gone back for it quietly, without asking or announcing it, as though he wanted to leave a piece of that day with you, something that could last beyond that trip. His thoughtfulness managed to steal your breath again that day, even when you were about to find yourselves on other sides of the world again.

A sudden buzzing startled you, your phone vibrating in your hand. You unlocked it quickly to see a message from Lewis.

Miss you already.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth, warmth flooding your chest. His words, the scent of his cologne on the hoodie you wore, the bracelet between your fingers, it all built into an urge to run straight off the plane and into his arms. You still had time before takeoff, but the itch was quickly diminished by the reminder of your reality when a notification from your job popped up on the top of your screen.

With a sigh of dread, you swiped the notification away and typed your reply to Lewis instead.

You’re so thoughtful, thank you for the bracelet. It’s beautiful, I’m going to wear it every day ❤️ And I miss you too

You hesitated only a second before hitting send, not because you didn’t mean it, but because of the truth in your words. Then, you gently fastened the bracelet around your wrist, fingers brushing over the charm like it might answer all the questions lingering in your mind.

You laid back in the seat, bracelet cool against your skin, and let yourself sink into the rush of takeoff. As the plane rose into the air, you glanced out the window at the endless sky, the world falling away beneath the clouds.

The goodbye had clung to you more than you'd expected.

You turned your face toward the window and closed your eyes, the soft blanket pulled up to your chin.

Your thoughts slipped back to the morning, back to the low, golden light spilling in through the hotel curtains, and the slow way Lewis had kissed your shoulders before you’d even fully woken. There was no rush in the way he touched you. He kissed your body as though you were the most precious thing he had ever held, almost like he was trying to memorise the feel of your skin before time ran out.

You remembered the way his fingers had threaded through yours under the hot water of the shower, how the steam curled around your skin as he pressed you gently back against the tiled wall. Despite your upcoming flights, his hands had explored your body without hurry, holding you close to him along with slow strokes inside you. He had kissed you like he didn’t want that morning, or you, to end. His strong arms held you steady, with his mouth soft and slow against your neck.

The memory sent a deep ache through your chest, the pain tight at your throat from longing, from the magical weekend you’d had coming to an end, but mostly from not knowing.

You hadn’t talked about what came next. You didn’t ask, and neither did he. Maybe it was just easier that way, or maybe you were just afraid to. Maybe that was what scared you most, that he wouldn’t bring it up either. That you’d go back to texts, glances, and half-smiles from a distance, pretending nothing had changed. Pretending that you didn’t know the feel of each other’s bodies and hadn’t shared the most romantic kisses you had ever known.

Yet now, staring out at the sky as the plane cut through the floating clouds, you couldn’t help but wonder. You didn’t know what this was between you, if it had the space to become something real, or if it was always meant to burn bright for one night and fade just as fast.

Something had shifted between you though, and you couldn’t go back now. You weren’t sure if you wanted to, but the most terrifying part was not knowing if he felt the same, not knowing if he’d carry this with him into whatever came next, or leave it behind as just a memory folded between race weekends.

You pulled the blanket higher, burrowing into the seat as if you could hide from the questions pressing at the back of your mind.

Was this the start of something beautiful, or had you already reached the end without realising it?

You told yourself you’d wait. See what he’d say going forward, see what came next as the days unfolded. You wouldn’t get your hopes up, despite the magical weekend. Not when you knew Lewis’ history, the effortless flings, the late-night sightings with some of the most beautiful women in the world. Models, actresses, girls who didn’t linger. Maybe that was the whole point. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if this was merely another weekend for him.

However, that had never been you. You felt too much, you always had, and now, after all this time of carefully not crossing a line, you’d stepped over it in the quiet dark of a Shanghai hotel, and the world felt different. That line had now faded, and you were left wondering if it was simply lust that had intoxicated you both into crossing that threshold, or if it came from something deeper.

You couldn’t bring yourself to ask, not that night, or that morning, because asking meant hoping, and hope was dangerous.

You adjusted yourself in your seat again, letting your eyes fall closed and tried to quiet your thoughts again.

Food had been served in courses throughout the flight, but you barely tasted it. There was too much on your mind, too heavy a weight in your chest to enjoy the luxury of it all. The food was good, the seat plush, the view incredible, and still, none of it felt quite right.

You curled back toward the window and let your breathing slow. You weren’t sad, exactly. Just…suspended. Like the flight itself, in motion, but not really arriving yet. Somewhere in-between.

Your last thought before sleep finally pulled you under was the way he’d said goodbye. His chin on your head, his arms around you, that last kiss, so soft, so real. Then, nothing but the sky.

Many hours later, you’d arrived back in your city and made your way home, exhaustion dragging your feet inside. You dropped your bag in the hallway and let the silence of your home fill your ears, a relief after the constant sound of the plane engine, along with the bustling airport upon your arrival. The weekend had felt like something out of a dream, one where time ticked differently, slower, sweeter. Now it was back to reality, back to work, back to responsibilities. The silence made it all feel farther away than it should.

You made it as far as your bedroom before collapsing onto the bed on your back, phone still in your hand. You flicked through your notifications, Isabella tracking your location and flight, and other notifications of friends liking your Instagram story. Opening your message, you typed out your text to Lewis.

Home safe x

You weren’t expecting an instant reply. He was probably just checking into Tokyo by now, or stuck in traffic, or possibly even halfway through a meeting. His schedule was jam packed and time zone differences made it even harder to determine what he might be up to. You busied yourself checking in with Isabella, who wanted to hear everything about your time with Lewis, sending photos and listening to her voice notes as she provided you with an update of her own.

However, not even five minutes later, your phone buzzed again. This time, it was Lewis.

Glad you made it safe x Got in a while ago, had a quick workout [1 image attached]

You nearly dropped the phone on your face when the image loaded, your eyes widening slightly as you lifted yourself into a seated position. Attached was a mirror selfie of him shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed in his Tokyo hotel room, his braids tied back, with a towel slung around his shoulders, track pants sitting low on his hips. His phone caught the angle just enough to show off the definition in his muscled arms, his tattoos on full display. The lighting was soft and golden, the glow from the lamps pooling across his skin.

Shirtless photos of Lewis weren’t new to you, he enjoyed posting them on his Instagram stories every now and then, making your breath catch when they would pop up on your screen as you scrolled. Except this time, the photo was only for your eyes to see, and there was something intimate about it.

You blinked, chewing your lower lip as you trailed your eyes over the photo again, trying to come up with a response that appreciated how insanely sexy he looked, while not coming off desperate for him.

Words reeled through your mind as you tapped against the screen, before typing your message.

I miss that view…

Your thumb hovered over the send button, staring at your message hesitantly. Then, you bit the bullet and tapped the button with an exhale, half regretting it already. You tossed your phone on the bed and smiled to yourself, warmth creeping into your cheeks. You were unbelievably gone for this man.

It wasn’t long before your phone vibrated again.

It’s not the same without you.

Your traitorous heart flipped in your chest as you took a breath. Sitting back against your pillows, you read the message again and tried not to grin like an idiot. You didn’t respond straight away, a part of you didn’t know how. The flirty tension had always been there, but it felt different now, loaded with what had already happened, what might still come.

The days and weeks that followed seemed to blend together into a blur as you both returned to your separate realities. Your work felt busier than ever, with an unfathomable number of meetings, deadlines, forgotten lunches, half-read emails. It often left your body exhausted, but your mind reeling and loud. You told yourself it was just a phase, that life was just catching up with you both, however, there was a growing silence between texts that began to feel heavier as time passed.

Lewis would still message sometimes, with a short call or some photos here and there, but it wasn’t every day, and not always when you needed him to. His name would light up your screen mid-meeting or just as you were brushing your teeth for bed, and your heart would react before your brain could catch up. Even a simple ‘hey’ could unravel you, tugging deep in your chest.

The truth was, it seemed as though you'd talked more before everything happened. Before Shanghai, before the kiss and that night together. Back when you were just friends, back when you hadn’t crossed a line that you now weren’t sure how to uncross, or if either of you wanted to.

Now, the space between his replies had begun to stretch for longer periods of time, and sometimes you’d stare at your phone wondering if you’d imagined the way he’d looked at you. Or worse, if it had all meant more to you than it had to him. Sometimes, it made things worse even when he did text, because it reminded you of what you were missing. Not just him, but how he used to make you feel.

Now, you felt like you were waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

Five weeks had now passed since Shanghai.

The first week, you watched the Japanese Grand Prix alone, curled up on your couch with a blanket and your go-to snacks.

You’d sent him a simple good luck message, with a picture of your TV screen displaying his handsome face in the pre-show, letting him know you were watching. You had always watched when you could, it was almost a weekend ritual for you at this point.

Lewis finished P7, climbing one place up from his starting position with a clean overtake, while the rest of the grid stayed mostly the same. The commentators called it a race which was difficult to overtake on, and it was mostly a ‘safe’ race, which you knew was their polite way of saying uneventful.

He hadn’t replied, but you understood, as you’d seen him during many race days before and knew he likely wouldn’t get a chance to even check his phone until hours after the race. Still, you sent a follow up with encouraging words.

Great job today. I know it’s not what you wanted, looked like the car was fighting you the whole time. Proud of you though❤️

He replied a few hours later.

Thank you x It was a tough one, still getting used to this car. On to the next.

On to the next. Always forward, never lingering. That was the way of the sport, the way of Lewis. He never let it weigh too heavily after the disappointment washed away for the day.

You stared at the message for a moment before responding in agreement and adding encouraging words to cheer him on for the next race in the triple header.

He reacted to your text with a heart, but didn’t reply after that, following only with a check in on how you’re doing two days later.

The second week, the Bahrain Grand Prix came and went in a haze of heat and shimmering fireworks as the cars darted around the track in a blur. You didn’t manage to catch the race live this time after work had flooded your weekend, but you’d kept an eye on the results throughout the 57 laps.

The sound of his voice on the radio in qualifying still ran through your mind, making your heart ache as he apologised to the team. However, Lewis managed to climb from P9 to P5 in the race, the podium teasing him as he inched closer.

You scrolled through photos on Instagram after midnight, his natural curls loose under his cap, his jaw sharp as always, and his eyes looked tired. Focused as always, yet distant.

You hesitated before sending your message this time, typing a few letters and deleting each time until you settled for a simple message.

You were amazing, looked like a tough race. Proud of you as always x

This time, his reply didn’t come until the next morning.

Yeah we’re slowly getting there. Hope your week has been good.

It was a kind, polite, but distant response. The kind of message you’d send to a colleague, or maybe someone you didn’t know how to talk to anymore.

You started typing.

It’s been a long week. I miss you.

But you deleted it, hesitant at the vulnerability of your words, then typed again.

Just the usual, super busy this week.

He didn’t heart it or reply this time.

Hours passed until the sun had long set, so you stared at the grey ‘Delivered’ status for longer than you should’ve, then shoved your phone under your pillow and went to bed with a tense headache building behind your eyes.

That night, you dreamt of the hands you missed, and the voice you weren’t hearing as often. The version of him that felt just out of reach, slipping away through your fingers and dragging your heart down with disappointment.

Week three came Saudi Arabia. You’d had dinner with Isabella that Sunday, and at some point between bites, she’d dropped the kind of casual bomb that left you distracted for the rest of the meal.

“By the way,” she’d said, chopsticks hovering in the air, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I saw Lewis at the Rimowa event the other night.”

You looked up from your plate fast. “You did?”

She nodded, chewing. “He looked good. He seemed distracted, but he said hi. We didn’t talk long though, but…”

“But?”

“He asked about you.” She put her chopsticks down and took a sip of her drink.

Your pulse jumped for a moment as you blinked in response. “He did?”

“Yeah. He said-” she cleared her throat, imitating his calm voice and his accent, “‘How’s she doing?’ It was very chill, but it wasn’t nothing. I told him you were okay, and that you’ve been busy.”

“Is that all he said?” You queried, poking at your food in an attempt to calm the small glimmer of hope in your chest.

“Well…” she gave you a knowing look. “He also said he’s been meaning to come see you, but things have been non-stop lately. He said that he’s sorry, and that he’s just…swamped.”

You chewed on your lower lip gently as you took her words in, releasing the breath that you’d been holding.

He still knew how to say the right things. He still sent emojis, still asked about you through your best friend, still claimed he meant to call or visit soon. But at the end of the day, three weeks after you’d last seen him, he hadn’t, not in any way that counted. If he truly meant to see you, to reach out to you, why hadn’t he just said it to you directly?

He was everywhere except where you needed him, all over the world, in conversations with everyone but you. Before, even when you were just friends, he’d always shown up for you. Now he sent simple and polite texts every few days and expected that to be enough. The worst part though, was that sometimes, it almost was.

You didn’t press further, but the words stirred in your mind as the night went on, and Isabella noticed your silence, but wasn’t quite aware of the distance growing between Lewis and yourself.

Later, you curled up with Isabella on her couch, the last of your drink sweating in the glass on the coffee table as the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix played out on her TV. The lights went out in Jeddah, but you barely said a word. Isabella scolded you for biting your nails as you watched Lewis defend against Lando, your heart racing despite the lingering emptiness you’d been feeling from his absence.

Lewis finished P7. It was respectable, but definitely not where he wanted to be. His post-race interviews were tense to say the least as he expressed his discomfort with the car. His cap sat low atop his curls, casting a shadow over his beautiful, yet disappointed eyes. You could see the way he was trying to hold it all together, especially seeing as his teammate, Charles, had finished on the podium.

He kept a polite smile where he could, but his answers remained short and his jaw clenched tight with every word. It made your heart twist with an ache, wishing you could reach through the screen to comfort him.

“Damn,” Isabella remarked as you continued watching the post race press. “He looks so…”

“Defeated. Yeah.” You completed her sentence with a low breath, reaching for your drink.

There was a long pause, the low sound of the TV filling the quiet. Engine noise and crowd roars blurred softly in the background, a replay of race highlights playing out on low volume. You picked at the edge of your sleeve, glaring down at the fabric. The warmth of dinner lingered in your stomach, but your chest felt strangely hollow still.

Isabella glanced over from where she was sprawled into the other corner of the couch, with half her attention on you, the other on the screen. Then, you felt her gaze burn into your side for a prolonged moment.

You sighed, meeting her eyes. “What?”

“You’re doing that thing you do,” she started, her tone soft but knowing. “Where you go really quiet and pretend you’re not spiraling.”

You retorted with a flat look. “I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re thinking about how he hasn’t messaged you in days.” She raised her eyebrows, scooting closer to you on the couch.

“He did text after Bahrain.” You tried to defend yourself weakly.

She tilted her head. “Yeah, once? Just a lame check in and no reply.”

You didn’t answer, dropping your gaze back to where you’d twisted a small thread from your sleeve.

Isabella leaned forward, setting her glass on the table. “Babe, that’s not enough. Not after everything that’s happened between you.”

You shrugged, but the motion felt small. “He’s probably just busy, as always.”

“He’s always busy. He was busy before Shanghai too, but he still made enough time to take you away for a weekend and fuck you.” She pressed gently despite her harsh words.

You pressed your lips together, your eyebrows knitting into a frown. “I just…don’t know what to do.”

Isabella sighed, standing and grabbing her phone from the kitchen counter. “Post that picture.”

You blinked in confusion with a tilt of your head. “What picture?”

“The one I took at dinner.” She clarified as she unlocked her phone. “You looked gorgeous. Like, beyond stunning. You should post it.”

You shook your head, shrinking back into your seat. “I’m not going to bait him.”

“Please. You used to post stories all the time before things got all complicated between you. Plus, this isn’t about him. It’s about reminding yourself of what you already know, that you’re a fucking catch and more.”

You hesitated at the thought. “It just feels a little…”

“He asked about you,” she added, quieter now. “He’s clearly been thinking about you, so maybe he’s not totally out of the picture, but that doesn’t mean you have to sit in the shadows waiting for him to remember you.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched as she tapped her photo gallery, and turned the screen toward you, displaying the photo she was referring to. You were mid-laugh, head tilted with your elbow resting casually on the table and the bracelet Lewis had gifted you around your wrist. The lighting was warm, gold and low, catching the highlights on your skin and the curve of your lips. You looked happy in it. While your smile didn’t completely reach your eyes, it felt like a version of yourself you hadn’t seen in a few weeks while trapped in your funk.

You looked confident and unbothered, even if that wasn’t entirely true. You stared at the photo for a few more seconds.

“You look beautiful,” Isabella murmured, looping her arm with yours. “Even if you’re a little heart sore.”

Her words pushed you over the precipice of your decision, a small rush of anticipation flooding your veins. You reached for your own phone and accepted the photo when she sent it to you. You chose a song that you loved over the top on Instagram, and after another breath of hesitation, you hit ‘Share to Story.’

The photo went up, with many likes from your close friends and family. Several minutes later, your phone buzzed again, three times in a row.

lewishamilton liked your story.

lewishamilton reacted to your story: 🔥🔥

You stared at your screen, your thumb hovering over the notifications, while your breath caught in your throat. Part of you knew he would see it and react, he always did without fail whenever you posted. This time, he hadn’t messaged you in days, but here he was, slipping back into your world like nothing had changed, and reacting to your life as though he was still fully present.

Then, another notification appeared on your screen. A text from Lewis.

You look beautiful

You felt your cheeks flush at his compliment, swallowing the tightness in your throat as you thumbed the side of your phone case.

Then, another.

Hope you’re having a good night

The three dots continued to wiggle as he typed, though it lingered for longer than you’d like. You wondered if he was either typing out a paragraph, or if your phone had just glitched. Until, a third text arrived.

I miss those lips

You froze, noticing Isabella’s eyes glued to your screen as the notifications appeared, reading each message quickly from your side. It was almost embarrassing for her to see the messages.

“Wow,” she breathed, tilting to look at your flushed face. “Okay, Romeo. Very subtle.”

You didn’t respond, your stomach had bottomed out, and your fingers trembled slightly with your phone in your grip as your mouth dried out. Words like that held a heavy weight, and from this far away, you didn’t know if he meant them in a moment of loneliness, longing, or just lust.

You missed him. You missed so much, but you also missed when it felt simple. When you didn’t have to wonder if saying something back would leave you more exposed than you already felt. Still, you typed:

It’s not fair for you to say stuff like that from halfway across the world

And before you could hesitate or take it back, you sent it.

The dots popped up almost instantly.

You’re right I’ll say it closer next time

A part of you lit up while another part dimmed as you read his response. You could hear your heart thudding in your ears, but another part of you almost laughed bitterly. Because what did that even mean? And when would the next time be?

When?

Your thumb hovered over the send button of the word you’d typed out. The question blinked up at you from the screen, small and hopeful, maybe a little desperate. You didn’t like the way it made your stomach twist.

Isabella shifted beside you, just close enough to catch the single word before you could tilt the screen away. She didn’t say anything though, didn’t tease or smirk or prod. Just let the silence sit between you for a moment as you contemplated.

Then you backspaced slowly, letter by letter until it disappeared. You set your phone down, face down on the table, and leaned back into the couch with a sigh you didn’t mean to let out.

Isabella watched, her voice low. “You okay?”

You nodded, but your voice was a little too quiet to be convincing. “Yeah.”

She didn’t press, only nudged her shoulder lightly into yours and reached for the remote, the two of you watching the post-race interviews fade into the low hum of background noise while your mind stayed wrapped around the unanswered question.

Week four came sooner than expected, with the Miami Grand Prix well underway.

The latest Vogue magazine had been sitting on your coffee table for a week. A clean, perfect copy that Isabella had handed off a few days ago with a knowing smile, “Figured you’d want this before the rest of the world gets their hands on it.”

Though you hadn’t asked for it, you also hadn’t been able to stop yourself from opening it. Lewis looked unreal on the black and white cover, in a polished Ferragamo suit tailored perfectly to his fit body. He was as handsome as ever, with his cleanly lined facial hair framing his lush lips and his piercing eyes staring back at you from the shiny cover. The same ones that had looked into your own so affectionately only weeks before.

The photos in the magazine were filled with the kind of effortless sex appeal that made your stomach twist, partly because of how good he looked, and partly because you knew him. The way he spoke softly when he was tired, the way his eyebrows creased a little when he was reading something, the way his lips felt on yours.

He wasn’t just a Formula One legend or a model in a magazine. He was yours once, if only for a weekend. If only in soft whispers, late night touches and sweet kisses.

Now came the day of the Miami Grand Prix, where you were wrapped up cozily on your couch watching with your cup in hand.

You’d watched the sprint the day before with a sort of detached curiosity, telling yourself it didn’t mean anything, it was just background noise while you cleaned the kitchen. Just racing, just another weekend.

Then, Lewis took P3 and then the press conference started.

You shouldn’t have watched it, you should’ve turned it off after the last lap and walked away, gone on with your day. Instead you found yourself leaning against the counter, half a dish in your hand, watching him on screen in just his black Ferrari vest and brown pants, his arms bare and golden against the cream white couch.

The camera lingered while he sipped his drink, his expensive watch catching the light and his muscles flexing as he scratched the side of his jaw, his braids neatly covered by his cap. He was happy with his result as he answered incoming questions, explaining where he’d found strength in the car. However, the way he looked while saying it was completely unfair. The vest shouldn’t have been allowed.

You stared for longer than you meant to, unable to take your eyes off him as the press conference continued.

Sunday’s race was another story.

He’d qualified P12, so the race started tense, and only got worse as the laps built up. Strategy calls were slow, losing Lewis too much time to catch up with the drivers ahead and leading to some strained radio messages playing over the race that made you sit up in your seat.

Lewis sounded agitated, with sarcasm dripping from his voice as he offered to let Carlos through from behind him. You could hear the disappointment in his tone over the messy communication, where they’d provided either too much information while he was in battle, or nothing at all when he needed it most.

Your jaw clenched as you fidgeted with the charm on your bracelet, wishing the ache in your chest away. It was his sixth race with Ferrari, and nothing seemed to be improving for him. The communication with this race engineer only seemed to get worse as the weeks went by.

Eventually, he finished at P8, with Charles at P7 just ahead. He remained polished and professional in the post-race interviews, keeping a smile on his face as he explained that he had enjoyed the race despite the tension in the radios. However, you could see the disappointment in the way his smile never quite reached his eyes and his shoulders tensed.

You didn’t plan on it, but after hearing his voice, your heart ached to make sure that he was alright, so you waited a while before texting him. Things had been somewhat quiet between you over the last few days, but you wanted him to know that you were still in his corner, even if it was from a distance.

Looked like a tough one today. You okay?

He didn’t reply for two hours.

You’d left your phone on the armrest and gone to make something to eat, half-expecting no response at all, but when the screen lit up, your heart jumped anyway.

Yeah it was a mess, but I’m okay I appreciate you

You stared down at the screen and suddenly hated how much you wanted to believe that it wasn’t just politeness or a routine response. You wanted to believe that he still thought of you when the adrenaline wore off, but it felt like you were only slipping further away.

You couldn’t bring yourself to reply at that moment. You couldn’t figure out how to without sounding like you were trying to fix something he didn’t even seem to notice was broken.

The next day however, came with the buzz of the 2025 Met Gala, in which Lewis was a co-chair. It was hours before the event when your phone vibrated with texts from Lewis.

You’d already been half-scrolling through your newsfeed, filled with teaser content from the Met. The carpet hadn’t started yet, but press coverage was building, the energy already pulsing from across the ocean.

You blinked down at the screen, a warmth spreading in your chest despite everything that had happened the last few weeks.

Attached were two photos. The first was a mirror shot, taken just moments ago in his hotel suite, and the second was a professional photo taken by his team. Lewis was dressed in a custom cream coloured suit, tailored perfectly to his body along with a sash embroidered in cowrie shells and a matching beret. He looked absolutely perfect, elegant, with the most beautiful symbolism displayed subtly across his entire look, encapsulating the theme of the night.

What do you think?

You stared at the screen for too long, breath still as you took in how beautiful he was. Lewis always looked amazing, and yet he still managed to blow you away with this look. Your fingers hovered before you responded.

You look incredible, have the best night

Your message was short and safe, but his reply only seconds later made your stomach flutter in a way that left you conflicted.

Wish you were here

It was tender and casual, but it didn’t match the distance you felt in the last few weeks.

The message felt like it belonged to a different version of you, one from a month ago, who still felt close enough to reach. A part of you felt as though you didn’t know if it was meant for you.

You pressed your palm to your chest, and breathed in. It hurt a little, in that way things hurt when you don’t quite trust them anymore.

Later that night, Isabella arrived with pizza and drinks, “Because the Met Gala and carbs go hand in hand.”

You watched the Met livestream together on her couch, pointing out the different outfits and rating them as if you were Anna Wintour herself. When Lewis stepped onto the midnight blue carpet, effortlessly cool and composed, your pulse raced.

He looked breathtaking. The cameras loved him as he made his way through and interviewers gushed over him. He deserved it all.

And yet, all you could feel was the distance, the sting of watching him belong to a world that felt so far from reach. A world that would never know you.

You didn’t hear from him again the following day, assuming that he’d gotten caught up in the rest of the night and most likely the afterparty. At lunchtime, you’d found yourself scrolling through social media again mindlessly, when your finger slipped and the app refreshed. New content surged to the top of the feed, and that’s when the ache you’d been feeling in your heart came to a climax.

The first post was a screenshot of a crisp editorial shot of Nicole Scherzinger from the Met Gala.

She looked stunning in the black and white photo, with that kind of unattainable beauty you only saw on perfume billboards and designer runways. Her gown was covered in pinstripes, her shoulders bare with a large black cape, a confident tilt to her chin as she stared down the camera.

You recognised her instantly, as everyone did. She’d been the WAG, the only one the world ever thought Lewis would settle down with, the only one he ever publicly claimed. Their seven year relationship had been splashed across headlines and red carpets. She’d even traveled with him and was regularly seen in the Paddock.

Beneath the photo, the poster had highlighted that Lewis had liked the photo Nicole had posted.

You told yourself it was nothing, a harmless liked photo.

Then came the second post, a fan edit, already with over 20,000 likes. A soft piano instrumental layered over clips of the two of them; Lewis and Nicole, laughing as they walked hand in hand, interviews together on red carpets, her tears in the Paddock, the famous helmet kiss when he had won. You watched him in the videos, the way he looked at her as though she was the moon and the stars. His soft smile, they looked so in love.

Your stomach turned, your mouth watering with nausea as the tight lump in your throat squeezed. The videos, the photos, and the comments all blended together to cloud your thoughts with all the reasons he should be with her.

You understood it, you really did. They looked like they belonged together. The kind of couple who loved each other deeply and were well on their way to marriage. It wasn’t just the fans that missed it, and you could see why.

However, the caption stung even more:

“She’s still the one. Idc if she’s engaged. They were endgame 💔”

You knew Nicole had been engaged for a while to a rugby player, so you breathed out, slowly in relief, trying to remain rational at the reminder. He wasn’t getting back with her, surely not. That part was over.

Then the third post hit, with a carousel of images. Three other women all dressed to kill, and all photographed on the Met carpet that night. Each one had, at some point in the last two years, been linked to Lewis in tabloids.

Flings, rumors, summer romances. Whatever name they’d given it, the meaning was always the same, it didn’t last.

And the comment section only made it worse.

“Lewis literally invited all his exes as the Met 💀” “He’s so unserious lol” “No way all of them are here by accident. This man is chaos.”

You locked your phone to take a breather, but the urge to continue was irresistible, and so you returned to scrolling where your feed was soon flooded with photos and rumors.

Nowhere in your message thread did Lewis say much beyond the suit and wish you were here. He hadn’t owed you a full itinerary and you knew that.

Yet still, you hadn’t expected to see her. Or the posts, the likes, or the way the edits kept pulling him into the same frame as the women he’d been linked to before, Nicole, Shakira, some model you’d never even heard of.

He’d sent you those messages, the photos, the softness, while being tagged in someone else’s world. It made everything feel hollow, as though maybe you’d just been another notch on his bedpost, another fling that only lasted a weekend.

You knew how this game worked, Lewis had always been beautiful, charismatic, talented. Women liked him, women flocked to him.

And you? You were just…you.

A friend, until you weren’t, a maybe, until he decided otherwise.

You refreshed the feed again to more photos, more headlines, more noise, feeling your breath become shallow. Then, the next wave.

Posts of Lewis photographed with Blackpink’s Rosé. They weren’t touching, but close enough to spark speculation. One photo showed them laughing, but the other was a stack of photobooth photos.

One with both of them smiling, side by side, another of them flashing peace signs. Rosé pulled a dramatic pout in the third photo, while Lewis touched a finger to his lip. Then the final photo, where she wore his sunglasses, and he gave a serious smoulder. It was playful and harmless really.

You knew the narrative was already writing itself before you even looked at the comments, but it didn’t stop your stomach from turning, because all you could think about were your photo booth pictures still tucked in your nightstand drawer.

The ones that captured the joy and excitement of that day. The ones that had snapped a moment in time of him kissing you. Those photos had felt private, like the memory inked into glossy paper.

Your mind replayed those flashes, but all you saw was how easy it was for him to step into the same frame with someone else. How not special it suddenly all seemed.

You hated how quickly the doubt crept in, how easily it whispered that maybe he just does this with everyone. You tried to shake the thoughts, but your eyes burned with tears brimming at your lash line. Lewis hadn’t been cold exactly, and he hadn’t ghosted you or given you anything to hate him for, but this limbo was its own kind of heartbreak.

The room suddenly felt too quiet, too loud, and way too small. You sat back in your seat, blinking at the ceiling like that would somehow help, like that would stop the way your chest ached as you tried to breathe through it.

Your wrist felt cold with the metal of your bracelet, Or maybe it was just your brain, but suddenly the bracelet felt wrong. Heavy where it had once been warm, like it didn’t belong there anymore. You stared down at it, toying with the edges of the flower.

You’d worn it nearly every day since he’d given it to you, but now it just felt cold on your skin.

The thought hit you so hard, it knocked the air from your lungs; What if none of it ever meant as much to him as it did to you?

You tugged it off, your fingers fumbling, shaky as you unclasped it. It fell into your palm with a soft clink, and you just stared at it, like it might give you an answer, but it didn’t.

None of this made sense. One minute, he was sending you photos, saying he missed your lips, that he wished you were there. The next, he was lighting up timelines with women the internet adored, laughing in photo booths, liking his ex’s photos like history hadn’t even blinked.

You felt…stupid. So stupid.

This wasn’t new to you, the girls, the speculation, the edits. You’d known what world he lived in, raced in, breathed in, but you’d let yourself fall anyway.

Now, sitting alone in your quiet apartment with that damn bracelet digging into your palm, all you could think was that maybe the world was right. Maybe you were just another passing face, a detour in his life as he continued to live his dreams.

You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t that deep, that you were reading into things, that there could be another side to this.

You closed your fingers around the bracelet and made your way down the hall with purpose, where there were a few too many reminders of Lewis. His jacket that he’d given to you, the Ferrari merch, and that last hoodie he’d gifted you still sat on the back of your desk chair.

You sat on the edge of your bed, every movement suddenly extra careful, as though if you moved too loud the whole memory of him might collapse. You picked out the photobooth strip from Shanghai from your nightstand and slipped them out gently.

One strip with four frames. Your fingertips grazed the glossy paper, tracing each square like they might give you a clue or a sign that you’d missed. For the first time in weeks, you let yourself ask it out loud:

“What happened?”

It sounded hollow in the room.

You’d thought you were careful, you’d been friends for some time, and you hadn’t let yourself fall for him immediately. Yet, somewhere in all your conversations, in the hours spent getting to know each other, in the way he’d held you that night like you were everything he wanted, you’d let yourself believe that you weren’t just a moment, that it wasn’t just a weekend.

Now he was in photo booths with someone else. Now the world was posting even more edits of him with his ex. Now you were left trying to make sense of the silence.

You pressed your hand to your chest, like it might soothe the pain. All it did was remind you that it was real. Maybe all of this had been a dream you’d woken up from too late.

You barely remembered the rest of the day or falling asleep that night as it all blurred together in a numbness that had taken over your mind, but in the early hours of the morning, the vibrations started.

At first, you turned over with a groan with your face pressed into your pillow, desperate to stay under as you thought it may just be your alarms going off that morning. However, your phone didn’t stop buzzing. It kept lighting up over and over with the screen flashing like it was trying to drag you out of the only bit of peace you’d managed to find.

You squinted at the screen as you reached over, your aching heart already skipping. You had twelve missed calls from Isabella, with a load of texts, and an unfathomable amount of notifications from your social media platforms.

You flicked through the messages from Isabella.

Babe please wake up It’s everywhere WAKE UP NOW Call me asap WAAAAAAAAAAAAAKEEEEE UUUUUPPPPPPP

Your stomach dropped so fast it made you dizzy as you sat up in bed, the covers falling away. Your fingers trembled as you unlocked your phone, the screen nearly blinding you in the dark. You opened the link Isabella had sent, and it hit you like a punch to the chest, your stomach dropping to a pit while heat rushed up your neck.

Photos. Of you, of Lewis.

The first showed you and Lewis at the Shanghai airport, standing beneath the departure board. His arm slung over your chest and shoulders like it belonged there, his lips at the crown of your head from behind. You were leaning into him slightly, eyes up at the screen, the kind of moment no one was supposed to see.

The second was worse.

It was mid-kiss. His hands at your waist, holding you close, while yours touched his jaw and chest. It was intimate. The way your fingers held his face like you knew the feel of him and his lips were on yours, like it was a goodbye that had weight.

It felt like you were seeing yourself from the outside, except this time, the world was seeing it too. The photos weren’t completely clear, they looked like someone had recognised Lewis and snapped them quickly.

The comments were filled with speculation, insults, compliments, and invaded your privacy to levels you had never known possible.

“That’s def Lewis. You can see the tattoos on his hand.” “She’s literally wearing his hoodie” “Wait, is that the girl from Australia? I swear she was in the paddock.” “Yeah, and she was at the China sprint too.” “Isn’t she friends with that girl who does PR for F1? PR vibes tbh.” “She’s literally sucking his face off ew.” “It’s kind of nice that he’s with someone not famous.” “I think I found her on Linkedin.” “They actually look so cute I love this!!” “He literally liked his ex’s Met Gala pic yesterday, lmao. She’s def another fling.”

Each post felt like a stone hurled at you. Some comments were kind, or confused, while others were brutal. They picked apart your looks, your job, your worth, like you were a stranger they’d been handed permission to judge.

Your mouth dried out and your lungs felt tight. You couldn’t tell if your heart was racing or if everything around you had just gone eerily still. Panic settled into your bones and you felt frozen, paralysed by the insanity playing out. Your life had suddenly been blasted into the spotlight. People knew who you were, what you did, who you were friends with, and they saw you with him.

You hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet, the duvet still tangled around your legs. The morning sun slowly poured in, the sting in your eyes burning from fear.

You swiped away from the post, you couldn’t even think. You just needed someone, so you pulled up Isabella’s name and hit call. She picked up instantly.

She picked up before the first ring even finished.

“Thank god,” she breathed. “Are you okay? Are you…did you see it?”

“I-yeah. I just woke up,” you managed to speak out, your voice rough, like it had been dragged out of your throat. “The photos.”

“I know.” Her tone was careful now, steady but edged with worry. “It’s everywhere. I think it started spreading sometime after midnight.”

You rubbed your forehead, pacing your room like it might help you process what was happening. “But why now? I thought Shanghai would be…quieter. Aren’t paps illegal over there?”

“It was probably a fan who got lucky. He had the hoodie and sunglasses on, but it seems like the tattoos gave him away. And people are pulling receipts, paddock photos, Australia, the sprint…”

You stopped pacing. “They know who I am, Iz. My name. Where I work.”

“I know, girl. I’m so sorry. You need to make your accounts private. Like, right now.”

You sank down onto the edge of your bed, numbness flowing through your skin. “They’re calling it PR and saying I’m only there because of you.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Isabella hissed from her end of the call.

“The comments are brutal too, I…” You trailed off, unable to say the words. “My whole life is out there now.”

Isabella’s voice softened. “I saw them. They’re wrong, you know they are. But I get it, it’s a lot. It’s too much. I wish I could take it away.”

You swallowed, throat thick. “It’s just, on top of all this, I didn’t even know what this was yet. We didn’t have a chance to make sense of anything. And now everyone has something to say.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, babe.”

You sat there in silence for a moment, the kind that sits heavy, unsaid words building between breaths. Then your phone buzzed again, and this time it was a call.

Lewis.

The name blazed across your screen, as if the light had changed temperature, hot and cold all at once.

Your heart stuttered with a spike of panic, dread, confusion, all flooding your chest. You couldn’t move at first, like your body was frozen, suspended in a moment you weren’t ready to deal with.

“He’s calling,” you whispered, barely able to suck in a breath.

“Lewis?” Isabella asked, her tone shifting.

You didn’t respond right away, you just stared at the screen.

His name pulsed across it, as if mocking you with every soft vibration. You could practically hear his voice already. The calm, deep voice that used to make you feel safe and steadied your heart every time. Now it made it race for all the wrong reasons.

Isabella’s voice came through again, firmer this time. “Are you going to answer?”

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.

“I don’t know.” Your voice cracked. “What if he’s upset? What if he thinks this is my fault? What if-”

“He wouldn’t,” she replied, quick and certain. “And if he does, then you’ll hang up. But I don’t think that’s why he’s calling.”

“What if he doesn’t care?” you asked, even softer. “What if this really was just a weekend to him and now he’s sorry it got out?”

Isabella’s voice was soft and comforting through the speaker as she coaxed you. “Then it’s better you know now. Talk to him.”

The phone vibrated again with Lewis’ name flashing across the screen. You took a shaky breath and answered.

You could barely bring yourself to speak, your voice trapped in your throat, but you managed a meek hello.

“Hey.” He greeted after a breath.

That one word made all the strength you’d been holding together crack. Lewis’ voice, while low and careful, was so normal it made the chaos of the morning feel even more absurd.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

The question knocked the air from your lungs. You weren’t even sure where to begin, you had barely had a moment to process your life being turned upside down. Your tongue felt like sandpaper in your mouth, your throat too tight to speak.

He said your name, this time a little lower, like he was reaching for you through the phone. “Talk to me, please.”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I don’t really know how to feel. It’s a lot.”

There was a silence, and then a sound that might’ve been a sigh, but it sounded more like guilt clothed in breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he started. “This shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve protected you from it.”

Your eyes filled again, too full this time and spilling over just a little. The sound of his voice cut through everything, the panic, the confusion, the noise online, the comments, the spiraling, all of it.

“I hate that this is happening to you,” he continued, his voice rougher now, like it physically pained him. “I should’ve been more careful. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

A lump swelled in your throat. It was true, you didn’t sign up for any of this. The comments, the speculation, the cruelty. Your name on gossip accounts and your face picked apart by people behind their keyboards.

“You don’t deserve it,” Lewis continued, quieter now. “I should’ve been more careful.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t know what to say. A part of you wanted to forgive him right there, but the other part didn’t know how to.

“Tell me what you need.” His voice was barely above a whisper, gentler this time. “Whatever it is, sweetheart, I’ll handle it.”

His words landed like a punch to the chest. Your fingers curled tighter around the phone, the ache behind your ribs had grown sharp and heavy. Though, underneath it all, your heart beat with something dangerously close to relief. He didn’t sound indifferent or distant..

“I need to see you.” He said suddenly.

You froze, completely lost for words.

“I want to be there with you,” he spoke again. “This isn’t fair to you. Let’s figure it out together. I’ll get on the first flight there, right now, if you’ll have me.”

“You want to come here?” you asked, softly, still stunned.

“Of course, I hate that you’re going through this alone.” His sincerity clung to every syllable.

Just like that, the pain that coursed through your veins eased, just a little, knowing that he was coming for you and that you would work through this together.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Okay.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just hang in there for me, alright sweetheart?”

“Okay,” you replied again. “I will.”

Eventually, the call dropped and you stared at the blank screen, his name now gone. You sat there frozen for a moment, your phone pressed to your chest, and the sound of your heart thudding in your ears.

Lewis was coming.

Taglist: @sltwins @ernegren @sher-ni @skzvibes-blog 🤍🤍

[bigmacari]

Could you do a Mateo x fem reader? Just a fluff cuddle session!

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Mateo Manta x Fem Reader

☆ You two cuddle up after a long day of taking care of the inaminals.

☆Warning(s) None

☆Author Note(s) Sorry if this is out of character. I have played through Mateo's story, I just kind of...forgot it? 😭 I hope you enjoy <3

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☆ You sighed, falling onto the living room couch, running a tired hand through your hair.

Today had been particularly harsh, leaving both you and Mateo to be incredibly exhausted and honestly? Kinda sore. It had been the inanimals grooming day, and like the lovely girlfriend you were, you decided to help Mateo. Little did you know, bathing, brushing, feeding, and nail clipping over twenty plus inanimals was a lot of fucking work.

Every single inanimal had their own routine, personality, and preferences. The amount of information you had to take in made your head spin a little. Of course, your boyfriend made sure to give directions clearly, which you're very grateful for, but that didn’t stop the dull ache that was forming in your back.

Honestly, you can’t even imagine how Mateo must feel having to do this every single day.

You know Mateo absolutely loves the inanimals, and wouldn’t trade the world for them, (that was one of the reasons you loved him so much after all), but you can’t help to wonder how stressed he must feel. This was not an easy job, after all, and you’ve learned that your boyfriend is stubborn when it comes to taking help from others. It's not like he takes many breaks either.

Now that you think about it, you don't think you've ever seen Mateo take a proper break. Sure, he's taken time to love on you and stuff, but you'd hardly count that as a break.

You were gonna have to change that.

With a determined huff, you get up to go find your boyfriend.

A few moments later, you see the back of the white-haired boy you were looking for. Mateo was currently playing with one of the dog inanimals, telling it to do different tricks and then giving treats after. You smile as he gives the dog some scratches on its head with a faint "Good boy."

You watch for a minute with a dumb lovestruck smile before deciding to interrupt the sweet moment.

"Hey, Teo!"

Mateo looks over his shoulder, halting his praise for the inanimal. Once he sees you, a big grin spreads across his face.

"Well, look who it is, my favorite human." He turns to you completely after giving the inanimal two more pets, then starts walking over to where you're at.

You immediately take the opportunity to wrap your arms around Mateo's neck, pulling him closer to you. He then slides his arms around your waist, enveloping you completely.

You two stay there for a while fitted like two puzzle pieces. Mateo gives a hum of satisfaction, rubbing his hand up and down your back.

"I wanted to say thank you again for helping today, I know it can be a lot, but it helped more than you could possibly imagine." Mateo lifts his head from your neck and gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek. You suddenly feel your face get warm.

"You don't have to thank me. You work so hard all the time. The least I can do is help, especially if it means you can catch a break." It was now your turn to give him a small kiss. "Which reminds me, are you free right now?"

Mateo, now sharing the same blush as you, lets you go (much to your despointment) and crosses his arms.

"Yea, I just got done feeding all the inanimals, actually. Though, now that I think about it, I probably should- ah!" Mateo feels a sudden pull on his sleeve.

"Great! Now, come-come!" You pull him to the couch, falling down on it dramatically while Mateo chuckles at your at your actions.

You hold out your arms for him, inviting him to come sit with you. He, of course, accepts and leans against you, wrapping a padded arm around your waist pulling you closer towards him.

Mateo lets out a soft sigh, and relaxing into your touch. It seems like he needed this more than you thought.

"I really should make sure the inanimals are alright..." Mateo says after a while, his voice soft and light.

You run a hand through his hair, making sure not to pull any knotts he may have.

"Mateo, I promise I'll keep an eye out, just take a rest okay?" You plead tenderly.

You give him kiss on the forehead, then another on the nose, and one more on the lips. Mateo returns the kiss, putting a gentle hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb back and forth. When you pull back, Mateo is looking softly at you, a blush very prominent on his tan skin.

"Alright, just for you, mi vida."

...

You're so good at this.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎

[saeamy]

RELAX

sae itoshi x reader

summary ۫ ꣑ৎ you're sick from stress, so sae helps you the best way he can content: fluff! slightly sick fic(?) one suggestive comment at the end wc: 810 a/n: just finished exams so will try and write as much as i can! not a big fan of how this turned out tho but hope you enjoy x

sae sits down on the edge of the bed, glancing at your shifting form under the sheets.

your skin was sweaty, your hair sticking down to your neck and forehead. sae pushes your hair back and placed the wet cloth he held in his hands on your forehead. he lets out a sigh, and if you had the strength to, you would have rolled your eyes. 

“i thought i told you to take breaks.”

sae helps you to drink from the teacup filled with green tea. it should help you relax, at least a little bit. “it’s not that bad sae,” you say tiredly. 

“you say that all the time yet you end up spending around 2 whole days in bed.”

you didn’t have the energy to argue back, and he was kind of right after all. you sip your tea slowly, glancing at your boyfriend. you always get anxious and stress yourself so much at school, especially around assignment deadlines and exams.

sure it’s normal for everyone to feel a semblance of anxiety, but you often feel like the world is caving in on you, hence you work overtime to try and make up for any lost time. which there isn’t any. and then you end up heavily sick and unable to do anything, making you feel worse.

“you need to relax, you always do fine. no point in working yourself to death. i can see your grey hairs already.” 

he takes your teacup down on the bedside table, and moves to lay beside you. “easier said than done. you’re talented and already have your career set for you…” 

sae hums and shifts, so that he’s also under the blankets with you. he pulls you close, letting your head snuggle into his chest. sae looks down at your face while his hand trails up and down your spine gently. 

“hmm. i guess i do. but you don’t need to work as hard as you do now for yours. you’re capable of getting good grades even if you study less.”

his hand moves from your spine to your face, slowly petting your hair. “but what if i don’t? what if i fail and mess up any plans?”

sae’s hand stills on your head. “you don’t need to study. i can always provide more than enough for the both of us.” 

there it was. his blunt, unfiltered responses. you suppress a smile, feeling slightly better. “no thanks, as much as it sounds appealing, i want to have a secure job for myself. what if you tragically die or something?” 

“i wouldn’t ever let that happen.” he continues his motions on your head, pressing you tighter against him. “now rest. you’re gonna meditate and do yoga with me in the morning.” 

“huh?” 

but his eyes are already closed, and you just decide to let it go, drifting off yourself. 

the next morning you’re woken up by someone blowing into your ear. “the hell are you doing sae?” you say, voice scratchy after being asleep for so long.

he completely snatches the sheets off your body, causing you to whine. “we’re going to do some yoga. now get up.”

you thankfully have more energy this morning as had rested relatively peacefully in sae’s arms the entire night, so you’re able to give him a sufficient eye roll and protest against him.

unfortunately he doesn’t let up. after making sure you had eaten a light breakfast, he unrolls 2 mats on your messy living room floor, not before throwing you a few jabs to tidy up.

“do we really have to?” you whine. you push aside some books with your feet, standing next to your mat. “yes. it’ll do you good. you get sick from stress and anxiety, this’ll de-stress you.” 

you feel like slamming your head into a brick wall to hopefully pass out and save yourself from your boyfriend’s yoga classes, however he wouldn’t let you do that. 

sae helps you get into a simple position and squeezes some of your muscles. “you’re really tense. like you’re about to snap into pieces. i’ll book us a session at a spa. and get you a chiropractor, too.” 

you do your best to take deep breaths and remain calm. well, you definitely wouldn’t mind a spa day, especially since it’s been a while since you could spend some time with sae. “that’d actually be nice.” 

sae squeezes slightly at your shoulder and you rise from your position, stretching slightly. he puts you into a low lounge next, and stares for a moment. “what are you thinking?” you ask with a raised brow. 

“this pose is good for flexibility, which will really help for when we‘re having -“ 

he lets out a choked breath at the way your foot immediately flew to make contact with his groin. “sae!” 

you both finish with your yoga after that.

© saeamy 2025 - do not repost, translate, copy or modify my works on any other platform!

[love-bucky-3000]

And You Are?... Pt 1 (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary:  After a mission gone wrong, Bucky doesn’t recognize you anymore. What will it take to get him back?

content: established Bucky X Reader relationship, fiance!bucky, angst with future hurt/comfort, slight description of blood, injuries and medical procedures

WC: ~2000

a.n. my first series in a while! I hope to have this updated at least once a week or when inspiration hits! If you have any prompts or suggestions on how this story should flow, please message/send an ask or comment!! i'm kinda writing this on the flow.

You waited impatiently for the Quinjet to make its arrival at the compound. No reports were shared with you about the crew’s 3 week mission, which isn’t uncommon since you were a civilian. You hoped no news was good news, but when JARVIS’ voice came over the speaker in yours and Bucky’s shared apartment, an uneasy feeling entered your stomach. Typically, you would know the team is on their way back before JARVIS alerted you as Bucky would usually contact you when a mission is said and done when he got the all clear for communication, but he didn’t this time. It startled you to hear the team was 10 minutes away without a word from Bucky. When it was announced, you gathered your phone and keys, leaving the apartment with a pet to Alpine’s fur. 

Here you are now. Trying not to bite the skin around your nails (Bucky is trying hard to break that habit) as you anxiously watch the doors to the hanger part. The Quinjet glided silently into the hanger and the bottom ramp dropped open with a quiet hiss. This is the part where you would normally run to your boyfriend before he could even make it off the ramp, but you weren’t met with the smiling faces of the Avengers, you were met with the bruised and bloody ones. Natasha was the first off the jet, her eyes filled with sorrow, seeking yours. She limped off the ramp and made her way to you.

“Nat, what happ-” Your question was cut short by a rushing team of medics, who swiftly guided a gurney up the ramp. You were staring wide eyed at the medic team, your heart beating rapidly. You didn’t notice Nat coming close enough to touch you and you jumped when a hand landed on your shoulder. She cleared her throat and her eyes didn’t exactly meet yours when you spun around to face her. “We don’t know the extent of his injuries yet.” But you weren’t really listening as the same group of medics came rushing back. Only this time, the gurney was occupied by your super soldier, still in his tac gear. One medic held an oxygen mask to his face and another was shoving gauze the the gash along his side, the white blanket underneath was already red.

You stood motionless as they rushed by, shouting medical jargon that you wouldn’t have understood even if you were thinking clearly (though the words, “Need blood STAT” unfortunately reached your ears). Nat kept her hand on your shoulder as they passed, her thumb rubbing circles, trying to keep you stable. You choked back a sob as the medical door swung closed behind Bucky, not knowing if you were going to see him come back through them.

Nat caught you as you collapsed. Something was said above your head, but you couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears and the crying. Apparently, Nat wasn’t talking to you because the next thing you know, Steve was picking you off the floor, bridal style. You buried your head into his shoulder, not caring about getting tears on his suit because it was dirty anyway. You peeked over his shoulder to see Nat and Sam following, looking like they lost a fight with a wood chipper. Cuts and scraps littered both their faces. You were sure Steve looked no better.

Steve didn’t say anything as he followed the same path the medic team did with you in his arms, using your feet to push open the door. You would have teased him for using you as a door opener if you weren’t currently sobbing your eyes out. Your thoughts were spiraling. What happens if he doesn’t come back? How were you going to take care of Alpine? How were you going to tell Alpine her dad isn’t coming back? The wedding? Oh fuck, the wedding. 

The thought sent a fresh load of tears to your eyes. It wasn’t the idea of not having a wedding that was hurting, it was the thought of your husband not being there to stand at the end of the aisle, waiting for you. You were supposed to spend the rest of your lives together, but what if this was the end of his? You hadn’t told him you loved him in weeks…

You barely felt Steve sit you down. You immediately crumpled into yourself and curled into a ball in the hard waiting room chair. Voices could be heard but no words were getting through to you. You felt someone sit next to you and a head rest on your heaving shoulders, slumped over to give you comfort and possibly from their own exhaustion. You both sat there for what felt like hours. Your sobs finally died down and you lifted your head with great difficulty, a migraine blooming behind your eyes.

You took in the white waiting room. Steve and Sam sat across from you, bandages placed over cuts along their face and arms. They had changed and if it wasn’t for the circumstance, they would look comfy, but the worry on their faces broke the illusion. The head that was on your shoulder lifted as you shifted and you looked to see Nat, still in her tactical gear and no bandage to be seen.

“Nat..” you tried but your voice came out croaky and weak. She reached for a bottle of water sitting on a side table and brought it to you. After a few sips, you tried again, “Nat, you need to get looked at.” She studied your tear soaked face. “I’ll go with you.” You knew she was about to deny so you volunteered to come along. You didn’t know what was happening with Bucky and you needed something to take your mind off of the topic for a minute. You and Nat became close once you and Bucky became official over five years ago. At first, you were jealous that she was the one lucky enough to get Bucky’s attention, but Bucky quickly shot that down, explaining the history between him and Nat. After that, you and Nat were almost as inseparable as you and Bucky were.

“JARVIS will let you know if anything comes up. Go get patched up.” came from Steve. It sounded like an order. This ordeal has him so shaken that he hasn’t been able to get out of his Captain mindset. Nat stood from the chair, stretched, and reached back with a hand out to help you up. Your knees cracked as you uncurled from the chair and Nat’s mouth lifted in a tiny smile. She usually teases you about that. You and Nat walked to the reception area and the nurse brought you both back. You looked for any signs of Bucky, but if there was any trace of him being brought through here, it had already been cleared away.

Nat sat on the hospital bed while you sat in the corner next to the monitors she was hooked to. The nurse took inventory of Nat’s injuries. Thankfully, they were mostly superficial, but the deep bruising on her torso had everyone worried about internal bleeding, so now you were waiting on test results. Nat said she would know if she was bleeding, which didn’t calm you down much, but you trusted her to know her body. As you waited for the doctor to come clear her, she started to speak. 

“It was the last base of the mission. Things were going to plan, but the base was more armed than the plans originally said. I was gathering data from their security base when I heard the explosion. The door to the office flew off and a group of Hydra came in. I handled them- that’s where I got the bruises from…” She cleared her throat and took a sip from the water cup. You stayed silent. “I heard Steve over the comms, telling us to get out. That we had enough of what we came for. I didn’t think much of it, so I left the base. I was waiting at the jet when the second explosion hit…” she was staring at the wall straight ahead, gathering her thoughts. “That’s when Steve started yelling for the Quinjet to be started. I got it started and, um, that’s when I saw that he had James across his shoulder and was yelling at Sam to get the med bed out. I’ve never seen Steve so scared.”

You silently wiped a tear at that, “Thank you for telling me, Nat.”

“I tried to get here as soon as possible, I should have messaged…”

“You did everything you could, Nat. Please, don’t beat yourself up. You got him back here,” you said. You stood up and gave her a hug just as the doctor stepped into the room. You wiped your tears again as the doctor gave Nat her all clear and handed her a pair of sweats and a t- shirt with instructions for bruise care, not that Nat didn’t already know that.

You stepped out to let Natasha change and you crashed right into a doctor, the one that held the oxygen mask to Bucky. “Hi, excuse me, can you please give me any information on Bucky?” The doctor looked back at you. She must have recognised you because she gave you a grim smile and brought you over to the nurses station. She said a few words to the other nurse and took a file from her. She scanned it and started speaking, “I know he’s stable. Whatever hit him during the explosion did a number on his head. They were able to clean the wound on his side and stitch it. He is responding well to the new blood. Unfortunately, we decided to keep him under a medical coma until his head wound starts to stitch itself back together, but with the serum, we hope it isn’t long at all.”

The doctor guided you back to the waiting room where Nat had joined Steve and Sam. All three jumped up as they saw you come through the double doors. The doctor repeated what she told you and added that he would be able to take visitors within the next few hours. You all nodded, thanked her, and sat back down. It was a long four hours before a nurse came out to get you.

You were almost asleep against Nat’s shoulder when the double doors opened around a nurse who beckoned you all forward. “He’s awake and stable, but the wound on his head is taking a lot longer to heal than we anticipated,” she walked you all down the hallway as she spoke, “so we ask that only one go in at a time so he’s not overwhelmed.” You internallyed sighed but understood. You wanted to go last so you would have the most time with him. 

You watched through the glass window as Steve went in. Steve managed a few smiles out of Bucky before his time was up. Sam managed a few eye rolls and Nat stayed long enough to wish him well before leaving him to you. You twirled your engagement ring around your finger as you stepped in. You were nervous for some reason. You thanked the nurse as she held the door open for you. She followed you in since it was time to check his bandages and check his vitals.You expected Bucky to say something when you walked in, but you didn’t notice the absence of words as you took him in.

You walked up to his bed, taking in all the wires stretching from his body and the bandage covering his exposed torso. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?” You said as you traced your eyes up his upper body until you reached your face. A smile grew on your face. Your Bucky was alive and breathing and you got to have another day with him. You expected to see his full smile, the one mostly reserved for you and the love in his eyes, but that wasn’t the case. 

You were met with a hesitant, fake smile and confusion in his eyes. Your heart dropped as you looked back at him with your own confusion. “Buck?...” you said hesitantly. You reached up to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes out of habit and the flinch he gave you broke your heart. 

“I’m fine, but if you don’t mind me asking…” he looked at the nurse, who had paused in her check up, before looking back at you, “who are you?”

[emeraldserenade]

hi!!! I was wondering if we could get a congresswomen!reader (Kinda Like Bucky?) with Joaquin? Like she's a thunderbolt (incorporate that however you want) and they are in love in secret

They are always stealing glances at each other and meeting up quietly even after the whole suing process

So imagine how the internet would react when two suppose 'enemys' are seen kissing (hugging if perfer). How would sam and bucky (my shaylasssss) react?

thank you so much in advance, you've been the only person who's actually done this request (if you do 🤞)

kisses, adria

Secret Lovers ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: You and Joaquín kept your relationship a secret for as long as you could

tw: fem!reader, reader's superhero name is Mystic, slight smau (there are some insta posts), cursing, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

Hi, Adria!! I love the secret lovers troupe so much!! I don't know why anyone wouldn't want to fulfill this request but here you go!! I'm listening to Smosh Reddit Stories and they are keeping me going with writing today!!

➽──────────────❥

You met Joaquín before the whole suing process started, you were just visiting DC for your job as a congresswoman. You ran into him at the grocery store, tired of eating out and wanting to use the kitchenette in your hotel room. You literally ran into him, full on chest to chest, fall on the floor run into him.

"I'm sorry!" You announced from the floor, embarrassment tinging your tone. "I wasn't paying attention where I was going," you added on, accepting his hand to help help you up.

"You're the one that ended up on the floor and you're sorry?" He teased, his brown eyes sparkling under the florescent lights. You noted how unfair it was that he still looked so good under the unforgiving lights. "I'm Joaquín Torres, by the way," he offered his hand and you took it. You offered your name before speaking again.

"I ran into you, it's my fault. So yeah, I'm sorry," you told him, fake outrage in your tone. One that was easily seen through and laughed about. "But really, I am sorry about running into you," you added on, seriousness lacing every word.

"Well, can I take you out on a date then? Just so you can prove how sorry you truly are," he questioned and you smiled.

"I'm only in town for a few more days," you told him and his smile just widened.

"Then we can go out tonight," he said and you had a twinge of guilt in your stomach for what you were about to say.

"Joaquín, I'm sorry but I've done nothing but eat out for the last few days. I was really hoping to eat something homemade, or hotel kitchenette made really," you told him but his smile didn't waver.

"You can come over to mine, I'll make us dinner," he offered and when he saw you about to argue he kept talking. "I have no other motive, I truly want to go out with you. And I'm a great cook, I learned from my mamá," Joaquín said and you relented at the handsome man's words.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

That dinner started your relationship, one you two kept hidden because of the public nature of both of your jobs. Or at least, it started as just the public nature of your job before he became Falcon, then it was both of your jobs. But then you were forced into being a New Avenger. Very publicly in fact, so public that Joaquín called you not even a few minutes after the press release.

"Baby, what's with this New Avengers thing?" Joaquín questioned, no 'hi' or 'hello'. No 'I miss you' or 'how are you'.

"Fuck if I know! Valentina Allegra de Fontaine is crazy! That man, the one in the blue sweater, he was apart of her human experimentation. I wasn't even aware there was press behind that curtain of rubble!" You ranted and you heard Joaquín sigh lightly.

"Baby, I miss you," he said and you relaxed, realizing he wasn't mad at you.

"I miss you too," you told him, ignoring the looks from the others as they walked closer to you. You walked farther away, trying to keep your conversation private. "How are you healing?" You asked, worried about his incident at Celestial Island.

"I'm ok, just wishing you were here to kiss my booboos better," he joked and you let yourself smile.

"I'll come visit when I can, I promise," you told him. "I love you so much, honey," you told him.

"I love you more," he told you before the line went dead.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Sneaking around with Joaquín got harder once Sam started to sue The Thunderbolts, you still refused to call yourself New Avengers. Your job as a congresswoman was put on the back burner by some higher ups so you could focus on the new team, and that made it harder for you to justify going to DC whenever.

You went anyway, claiming you were meeting with other people who wanted your opinion. But you were standing outside Joaquín's house as you waited for him to open the door. "Angel, you're here," Joaquín breathed out and pulled you into a kiss. You melted into it, running your hands up his chest, over his shoulders, and locking your arms around his neck.

"I said I was coming," you told him as you pulled away to breathe.

"I know, I'm just happy to see you," he said, pulling you in for another kiss.

You two were completely unaware of someone taking a photo of you two kissing on Joaquín's porch. But it wouldn't stay that way for long, both of your phones were blowing up not even an hour later. You were just trying to peacefully watch a movie together when you finally checked what was happening.

Lena: Care to explain this? Lena: Congresswoman and New Avenger Y/n kissing Falcon on his porch

Bucky: Y/n, what is this about you kissing that Torres boy? Bucky: I'm not mad at you. The opposite actually, you picked a good man if you're dating

Valentia: Not all press is good press Valentia: Star Crossed Lovers Falcon and Mystic?

You looked at Joaquín and he just showed you the messages from Sam.

Sam: Joaquín, are you dating y/n? Sam: I'm not mad Sam: I just need to know Sam: She's a good choice if you are dating

"We're fucked," you muttered before you had an idea. "We need to set the record straight," you told him and he looked at you.

"How?" His smile was still on his face.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by joaquíntorres, thefalcon, samwilson, buckybarnes, yelenabelova, and others

yourusername: Joaquín and I have been dating for years, long before I was a New Avenger and long before he was Falcon.

tagged: @/joaquíntorres

view comments

user2: I knew it! My ship is real!

user20: you were shipping real people? 😭

user2: They're my otp!

samwilson: I knew there was something there, he watches your press conferences too much for there not to be

yourusername: He does? 🥹

valentina_allegra_de_fontaine: So happy for you two!

yourusername: Sure...

joaquíntorres: @/yourusername can I propose now

yourusername: Not in my comment section!!

liked by yourusername, samwilson, buckybarnes, yelenabelova, and others

joaquíntorres: I can offically claim her as my girl

tagged: @/yourusername

view comments

yourusername: I forgot about those photos. God I love you, honey

joaquíntorres: I love you more, baby

yelenabelova: Fuck, you two are a hot couple

yourusername: Fuck yeah we are!! Look at my man

samwilson: How's we go from the wholesome post from @/yourusername to this filth?

joaquíntorres: I can't help it. @/yourusername always makes me horny

yourusername: Honey!! We need to put you through social media training

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You thought the fallout of you and Joaquín being together would be worse. But it seemed to fix a lot of things, Valentia was forced into letting you do a press conference without her there. You took that press conference to change the name back to The Thunderbolts, which ended the suing process. "And I want to clear up some confusion, we did not agree to be called New Avengers. In fact, we would rather be known as The Thunderbolts. Valentia Allegra de Fontaine named us without our knowledge or consent, so if you would be so kind as to call us by The Thunderbolts, we would greatly appreciate it," you gave them your practiced smile, the one that said you weren't changing your mind.

"You're one smart woman, y/n," Sam said to you as you walked off the stage; he was there with Joaquín while you did the press release.

"Thank you, Sam. I figured this would be a better use of my time instead of answering questions I'd rather not," you said right before Joaquín pulled you in by the waist to kiss you. You heard the clamoring of people behind you before the flashes and clicks of cameras went off. You smiled into the kiss but pulled Joaquín closer, if they wanted photos, you two would give them photos.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests If you want to be added to the tag list, follow the directions on my masterlist

[bewitched-hours]

Part 4 for the yandere aliens Elliot and Chance x Reader

@rhaine16 please accept this as my official apology for the third part- Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 (Warning: Smut)

Reader is still She/They and I swear this is gonna be the last part-

You awoke with a slight groan, sitting up in bed and rubbing your eyes.

You could feel a warming sting in your stomach as you looked over to the clock-

It's already noon...

Luckily it was an off day for the boys but waking up at noon?

You sighed, looking back to see your darling husbands curled up at your sides. It was oddly adorable to see.

But then you felt something at your legs...

Carefully, you lifted the covers only to be met with shock...

... You laid eggs... Like a goddamn chicken...

You remembered reading about this but it was strange having it happen to you...

You were about to freak out but felt Chance grabbing at your hand as he woke up. "Sweetheart, why're you awake...?" He asked in a groggy tone, sitting up to give you a kiss.

"First of all, it's noon... Second, I laid eggs in my sleep..." You tried to stay quiet for Elliot's sake at this point but Chance quickly removed the covers to see a pair of eggs sitting between your legs and you could've sworn you saw tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he rushed up shake Elliot awake.

Elliot got a bit startled, rubbing his eyes as he sat up to stare down Chance for such a rude awakening. "Chance what the fu-" He wanted to question it but Chance quickly grabbed his face and pointed it towards your eggs.

That made his eyes sparkle again as both him and Chance began to hug you with tears forming in their eyes. That made you feel a lot better.

"We'll be dads! Oh, thank you, [Reader]! We promise you this family is going to be the happiest ever!" You could tell Chance was pretty emotional for once... A stark contrast to how they acted just the night before.

And holding them in such a state... You finally noticed the joyful tears streaming down your cheeks as well.

You had two lovely husbands and now even two wonderful eggs that you were most proud of...

Maybe the motherly hormones... But you felt like you could tackle any situation moving forward with them by your side.

"You're seriously the best thing that's happened to us!" Elliot cried a little into your shoulder and you couldn't help but sniffle too.

"I'd say you two are the best thing to happen to me..." You chuckled a little, giving them both a kiss on the head as you moved your hands through their messy heads of hair.

The oncoming weeks were an absolutely hormonal hell.

Chance and Elliot were able to get time off work to take care of you as you recovered from the eggs slowly. It seemed similar to how pregnancy would feel back on earth...

Morning sickness, regular vomiting, highly sensitive body, etc etc...

But your husbands made sure at least one of them was always by your side and caring for the eggs with you.

You were... Surprisingly protective of them the first week and would barely even let Elliot or Chance near them despite their pleading.

But this was to be expected. This race is very protective over its children during the egg stage. It was common for new mothers to be overly attached and develop an unhealthy sense of protectiveness without a partner to calm the waters.

But you had two lovely husbands to do that for you and ease you into normalcy again. They were just happy to be fathers and followed every request you made to make sure you were happy.

After all, you did give them the miracle of a family which they're eternally grateful for.

Let's just hope they don't want more anytime soon... The twins will probably be a nightmare after hatching...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[deardaichi]

023. glances, crushes, and setups — iwaizumi hajime.

wc: 0.7k cw: f!reader. seijoh 4 friendship. iwaizumi is whipped. setups. getting together (kind of) a/n: iwa and the seijoh 4 supremacy. i hope you enjoy <3 anonymously requested

iwaizumi sees you everywhere.

not in a weird way, but in the way that happens when someone becomes part of the rhythm of your day — walking down the same hallway after class, sitting by the windows during lunch, scribbling something in the margins of your notebook with your head tilted just so. you’re not loud. you’re not trying to be seen. but iwaizumi sees you anyway.

he doesn't say anything. doesn’t know how to.

so he keeps it to himself — the way his eyes follow the shape of your smile, the way his ears tune in when you laugh. he learns to recognize the sound of your voice from three tables over. he knows when you switch your hair up. he notices when you wear your sleeves too long and end up tucking them back.

he doesn’t stare. not really. just…looks. like a habit. like breathing.

“you’re pathetic,” hanamaki says one day, halfway through unwrapping his melonpan. “it’s almost impressive.”

iwaizumi doesn’t look up from his food. “shut up.”

“you’re watching her again,” matsukawa adds, sipping from his juice box. “with that very intense face you do.”

“it’s not intense,” iwaizumi mutters.

oikawa leans in across the table, face too serious. “you look like you're calculating wind resistance to throw a volleyball through a moving train window.”

iwaizumi glares. “i’m not—whatever. leave it alone.”

but they don’t. of course they don’t.

on friday, they ambush him.

“you have to come with us,” oikawa says, already pulling him down the hall. “it’s very important.”

“this feels like a setup.”

“it is,” hanamaki calls cheerfully from ahead.

“but it’s for your own good,” matsukawa adds, which makes it worse, somehow.

they lead him to a quiet little corner behind the school, near the side gate no one really uses. and then they vanish — literally disappear around the corner, laughing like idiots.

and then you show up, turning the path with a little furrow in your brow like you were also asked to meet someone here.

you stop when you see him.

“oh,” you say, surprised but not in a bad way. “hi.”

“...hey,” he says, suddenly aware of his hands, the silence, the ridiculous pounding of his own heart.

you glance around. “were you, um. supposed to meet someone here too?”

he clears his throat. “yeah. but i think i got set up.”

your lips tug into a smile. “me too.”

you both stand there for a second — not awkward, exactly. just quiet. then iwaizumi shifts his weight and says, a little rough around the edges, “i’ve…kind of been wanting to talk to you.”

your eyebrows lift, surprised. “yeah?”

he nods. looks down for a second, then back at you. “would you maybe wanna hang out sometime? just us.”

you smile again. this time it reaches your eyes. “i’d like that.”

and before he can even register the warmth in his chest, the soft surge of relief—

“SEE?” oikawa shouts, poking his head around the corner. “THAT WASN’T SO HARD, RIGHT?”

“you’re welcome,” hanamaki says, stepping into view like he’s been waiting backstage. “we did you a favor.”

“a huge favor,” matsukawa adds, holding up a peace sign.

hanamaki turns to you with a grin, too pleased with himself. “he’s been admiring you from afar like a respectful stalker for, what, three months?”

iwaizumi makes a noise of pure betrayal. “hanamaki—”

but you’re laughing, hand half over your mouth, cheeks warm. “that long, huh?”

“at least,” hanamaki nods, unbothered. “we’ve had to listen to him suffer through it the entire time.”

iwaizumi’s still groaning. oikawa’s already planning the imaginary wedding seating chart. matsukawa is narrating the scene like it’s a nature documentary.

and you — you’re still smiling at iwaizumi like he hung the moon.

you bump your shoulder gently against his. “you could’ve just said hi, you know.”

“yeah,” he mutters, eyes flicking to you. “i’m starting to realize that.”

and honestly? you’re kind of glad he didn’t. because now you get to watch him turn red while hanamaki keeps talking, and it’s kind of perfect.

taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @tangerinelovr @oligbia @megapteraurelia@iwantfoodpleasebuymefood @dira333 @kcandyliciouss

© deardaichi | everything here is written with care — please don’t repost, copy, or alter my work without permission.

[beardedhotchner]

Paranoia?

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy, Amia xx

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Summary: You visit your husband whilst on maternity leave. Whilst in his office, your temporary replacement decides to run her mouth at you. Aaron doesn't let it slide.

T/W: Nursing/breastfeeding, newborn baby, angry bitch thinking she can steal Aaron.

You weren't checking up on Aaron. That's at least what you told yourself. Months on maternity leave had made you anxious and slightly paranoid, that's all. Standing in the elevator, your baby girl in your arms, you tried to convince yourself of that. That you were just tired from lack of sleep. That your temporary replacement wasn't hitting on your husband. That she wasn't declining your calls to his office phone. No. You were just paranoid.

The first person to notice you enter the bullpen was none other than Derek Morgan. The man shakes his head, standing in a instant, "Do my eyes deceive me or is that my other babygirl?"

Penelope's hair flips around as her head whips in your direction. "Ah it's the only other person allowed to share my title!" Derek holds his arms out to take Athena from you. As soon as she was settled with her uncle, Penelope's arms go around you, squeezing you lightly, "How are you?"

"Tired." You laugh as you pull away from each other. Spencer and JJ leave the briefing room, spotting you both rather quickly. JJ practically runs to you.

"There's my favourite agent." She calls out, bypassing you to hold your daughter, "Good to have you here." She says, that wide smile of hers on her lips. Spencer gives Athena a wave over JJ's shoulder.

"As much as I miss you all, I'm actually looking for my husband. Have you seen him? About yay tall-" Your hand goes to a rough height estimate of Aaron, "About yay annoying." You hold your hands out to a show a wide space, your unit chuckling around you.

"He's with Allison." Rossi answers, joining your small group with an easy smile. They don't miss the way your eyes roll as you pull Athena back into your arms. Emily, behind him, narrows her eyes at your reaction.

"Of course he is." You mutter, sighing lightly, They don't miss your tone, of course. Hard to hide emotions in a room full of profilers, even if you all said you agreed not to profile one another. Athena gurgles in your arms and you smile at her softly. "Can someone go get him? I'm gonna nurse in his office." You don't wait for anyone to reply, or to pick apart your tone. Instead, you head straight up the small stairs to his office.

Walking in, you can smell Aaron's cologne in the air, making you feel more at home. His blinds are open, so you pull the string as you walk past his desk. Sitting in his large chair, you sigh at the comfortability of it. You tilt it back slightly before undoing the front of your dress and the nursing bra. Athena latches with ease, and you sit back sighing, waiting for Aaron there.

A few minutes pass, you're stroking Athena's soft pink cheek as she feeds, and the office door opens.

"Oh my god!" A horrified voice fills the room, unsettling Athena instantly. The short crys of your baby girl making your heart sting.

"Calm down." You snap, lifting Athena to your shoulder to calm her, grateful for the small burping blanket you chose to put over your both. "You should've knocked." You finally glance up at what you can assume is Allison, the girls face red with upset.

"You shouldn't have your tits out in a federal building." She bites back. "Who even are you? Do you even have security clearance to be in here?" She glances around, her eyes going back to you, "there's confidential information in here. Who do you think you are?!" Her screeching voice and Athena's unsettled cries echo through the bullpen, drawing your husband and saviour into his office.

"Agent Michaels. What are you doing in here?" He asks, almost harshly. She baulks at his reaction, pointing to me. "Yes. I know she is here. I'm asking what you are doing here." You redressed swiftly, Athena blinking up at you sadly, soft whines from her.

"I saw your blinds were closed and came to check on you." She tries to press her chest against him, earning an eyeroll from you. You can't help but beam when Aaron pushes her back, walking over to you and Athena. "And she was just in here. Sitting in your chair. Her-" her voices drops as if she's almost embarrassed for you, "breasts out."

Aaron sighs, taking Athena into his arms, cradling her gently. He looks back to Allison, "Agent. One, its not your business to 'check on' me. Two-" He snaps, once again, raising his voice toward her. Athena had calmed in his arms, but was watching your face for your reaction. You stayed smiling at your baby girl, keeping her happy. "You're her temporary cover so watch your tongue. Three, my wife can come into my office all she wants, especially to feed our daughter. Hell. She can undress in the middle of the bullpen if she wants to. It's none of your concern."

Your hand goes to Aaron's back, murmuring calming words, "It's okay. We're okay."

"She's your wife?" Allison chirps out, obviously upset by this news.

You can't help but let out a smug, "Yep." Aaron rocked Athena gently, cooing at the small girl. He waved his hand to dismiss Allison.

Following her out to the landing, Hotch called out to the team, "Rossi. Morgan. Can you help Agent Michaels to pack? She's being transferred back to her old unit." Allison stares at Hotch in shock but she doesn't miss the short celebrations from the team in the bullpen. She turns on her heels, stalking back down the hallway to her- my office.

Aaron walks back into his office, smiling softly at your baby girl, "God she was a fucking pain." You laugh loudly at his words, Athena staring at you with wide eyes.

"Duh." You tease, your hand going to his chest, just under his jacket. Athena rests in his right arm as her left goes around your hips. "No one can do my job as good as me, baby."

"Now that-" he smiles, that sweet kind that shows all his teeth off, "is very true." He kisses you softly, basking in this small moment with you.

[revelboo]

I miss Thundercracker Boo, may we get an update of him, he needs to know he has a large amount of followers and I bet he's making money

Sure!

Better Open The Door Pt 21

Thundercracker x Reader

• Smiling as you loop your arm through Thundercracker’s, you catch your mom mouthing ‘blink twice if you’re in danger’ and you swallow a laugh, just shaking your head at her. And your dad? He’s absolutely not buying your story about falling madly in love and eloping with some guy you just met, his jaw working as he just glares at Thundercracker. To be fair, it could be the avatar, too, though. Because you’re not immune to that uncanny valley, uncomfortable prickling his avatar causes. Your brain screaming that it’s wrong.

• Struggling to keep his smile in place without edging into what you call his serial killer face. He’s pretty sure your parents despise him and your sire looks like he’s trying to decide where to hide his body. This somehow so awkward it’s physically painful as he struggles to make small talk. What does he do for a living? He’d told them he was a writer and they’d both just frowned. Your sire implying that you’re going to be the one having to support both of you in times of such disapproval he’d actually apologized to the man.

• Settling yourself in Thundercracker’s lap and dragging his arm across yourself, you try to appear like you’re so happily stupid in love that you’d just bail on all of your responsibilities to shack up with some guy you barely know. Who looks like he just wants to crawl into a hole and die as your dad’s frown deepens. Your mom at least looks like she wants to buy it, most likely hoping for grandkids. And given your story, soon.

• This is trial by combat. Your sire on the offensive, launching a never ending barrage of questions and getting angrier and angrier with his answers. How did you two meet? Where are you two going to live? When’s the marriage? You’re going to get an actual job, right? His lies feel too thin as he feels you shaking with silent laughter against him, hiding your face against his neck. And he’s struggling, obviously failing as your sire just scowls at him. Hating every word he says, making him feel like he really is failing you.

• You wonder if the holomatter avatars can cry, because your mate looks like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown. Not that you blame him, you’d known your parents, well, your dad, was going to be awful to him. And he didn’t disappoint. Can practically feel Thundercracker’s relief when you say you two have to go home and you have to dance around the where have you been staying, being as vague as possible as you pull Thundercracker along with you, making your escape amid hugs and your mom whispering in your ear to ask if you’re really okay to make you feel loved as you reassure you. “You good?” You ask once you’re out on the sidewalk and Thundercracker just stares at you in disbelief. “Well, they’ll probably mellow out some by Thanksgiving when we have to do it again with the extended family.” And you crack up at the look of horror on his face. ‘It’s going to be worse, isn’t it?’ He demands and you go up on tiptoe to press a kiss against his jaw. “You have no idea.”

Previous

Not as ugly as I figured a plush from AliExpress would be, but I did have to take an electric razor to him to try the fur down some. He was very wooly. He still is, but the cheap $10 razor isn’t quite up to the task

[shintaru]

Every time you close your eyes and feel his lips, you're feelin' mine

🪼m.list ♡ taglist ♡ recent fics🪼

Synopsis ~Jay Jo cheats on Shelly with long term crush Y/N

Tagging ~ @ravenwritten @bfwooin @kuchisabishiiiii @i-nssomniia @czyinlive @dzvelinaskebiyars @zyart-jpg @sylith

A/N ~ I’m sorry Shelly 😭😭😭 I don’t think Jay would ever cheat this is just to go with the song! The part at the end about sharing is to show after both parties were involved in Jay cheating on Shelly only y/n is blamed by rumors being spread that she likes to “share” men as in she’s a homewrecker.

You don’t remember how you started making out with the Genius rookie Jay Jo. You only remember drinking while playing spin the bottle now you’re having an intense make out with the super rookie. Sometime after you pass out from all the intoxication once you finally wake up you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, wake up?” He says. You get up and look and see Jay Jo. “What happened last night?!” You ask. “You two made out all night…” Minu says with a disappointed look on his face.

“How are we going to Shelly?!” You ask. “You don’t! At least not yet.” Minu says. You look over at Jay and he’s looking down playing with his fingers. He seems to be lost in worrisome thoughts. “I ruined my relationship with Shelly because I got drunk” he says, putting his head in his hands. “It was a mistake we didn’t mean to.” You say and Minu scoffs “do you hear yourself?! You sound like an asshole” he says.

The worst part was deep inside Jay Jo’s heart was that he now longs for you too. He had a crush on you even before dating Shelly but you never looked his way and he wasn’t confident enough to go against his mother to be with you until everyone in hummingbird helped change him. By then he was already with Shelly now he’s torn between the two women that mean the most to him in his life. He’s not even sure how you feel about him or how Shelly will react to the news. You left quite an impression, an unattainable addiction to be exact.

Shelly walks in with Owen looking for Jay and all three of you stiffen up not knowing how to break the news. You all hadn’t made it that far in planning to break the bees gently before she walked in. She hugs Jay the second she sees him with a huge smile on her face. Once she pulls away she notices the missing hummingbird necklace. “Where is your necklace?” She asks him and his eyes grow twice their size and he looks down. You can hear Minu choking on the air caught in his throat upon hearing the question.

“Ugh men” you think to yourself they do something wrong then they don’t want to admit it. If they you will “If you’re wondering why your gift went missing my body’s where it’s at.” You say while pulling the necklace from underneath your shirt revealing it. Jay and Minu don’t dare move a muscle and Owen seems to pick up on the memo much quicker than Shelly. “Why do you have it?” She asks. You turn a look at her and truthfully when you make eye contact with her you feel so horrible.

Her hopeful expression looking for a reasonable answer to this and knowing you don’t have one breaks you. Shelly is your closest friend. You never wanted to hurt her but you don’t know what came over you last night. Even if you were drunk you didn’t believe it was an excuse to make a move on her man. “Jay gave it to me after we made out last night while playing spin the bottle” you say as soon as it comes out the tension in the air is thick. Minu is wheeling himself backwards out the room slowly.

Shelly exits the room in tears and Owen has Jay by the collar ready to punch him but he gets shoved off by Jay. You watch as Jay runs after Shelly. Unclasping the necklace you hand it to Owen to give to Shelly you don’t stick around long enough for him to say anything to you. It’s been a few months and they worked it out and got back together you don’t even know how. Everyone made you out to be the villain to sweep the issue under the rug. You’re excluded from being a part of the team and anytime you come around they all stare and whisper.

You knew she wanted to marry him but you didn’t realize the extent she’d go to in order to do so. Even if they last forever she’ll always taste me when she’s kissing him. Everytime she closes her eyes and feels his lips against her own sges really feeling mine and every time she breathes his air I was already there she can have him if she likes thinking about it doesn’t mean I care everyone already knows I like to “share.”