#i know how to you know... make things work in the game

[anonf1writer]

Lando gives you his 4 tally mark necklace so everyone knows you're his 😍

──────────────────

written. 3,1k words. warning: suggestive language. +18. note: this took me almost two months to get done. I'm so, so sorry! I hope you're still around to read it, and I hope I didn't disappoint. Thanks for the request, it means a lot to me!

──────────────────

The context of your relationship with Lando was easy to describe: you two had met through mutual friends less than a year ago, started casually hooking up right away, and had been officially dating for over six months now.

Giving the nature of Lando’s occupation, and the attention his every move got, things were still pretty private between you, meaning that the general public new nothing about your existence yet. Or of what was happening behind closed doors. Like the fact that you had met each other’s families, that you were comfortable around each other’s friends, and that at this point your visits to his apartment had been frequent enough for you to consider his place a little bit yours, too.

For the most part, when he was traveling and busy being a Formula 1 driver, you spent your time at your own place, doing your own thing. But on those weekends when he was back, or during those rare two or three days off in between races, you joined him in a blink of an eye. No invitation needed—not anymore. Both always on the same page when it came to making the most of it, as in everything, together.

On that particular Monday night, the one that set this storyline into motion, it wasn’t any different. You and Lando were at home, his home that was slowly becoming your home, and one of your closest friends was over for some wine and food. The two of you enjoying each other’s company in the living room, laughing and gossiping on the couch, while Lando distracted himself and livestreamed with his own friends behind closed doors. Nothing big, nothing new.

Sometimes, as you two blabbered and laughed, he would pop out of the room to get a snack, to go to the restroom, or just to check up on you. Just to say hello. To make a silly joke and move on. Never a big deal. Never anything that interrupted the conversation that was going on between you and your friend. Not even when the topic shifted to your new co-worker, a guy who had joined the company you worked at less than three weeks ago, and had quickly developed a not-so-subtle crush on you.

“What about that guy from work?” your friend asked, synced with the opening of Lando’s game room door. “Is he still texting you at random hours?”

Busy chewing the last remains of your pizza, you just grimaced and shook your head. Then watched Lando cross the living room and disappear into the kitchen.

“I think…” you said, then stopped to swallow the food, “I think he finally got the message.”

“Good...” Your friend nodded, and took a sip of her wine. “What was his name again?”

“Vincent.”

Mimicking her earlier movements, you leaned in and grabbed your half-finished glass from the coffee table. And then, as you were sitting back and bringing the wine to your lips, a tiny snort left your nose, and you shook your head. All to yourself.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing... He just followed me on insta the other day.”

“Shut up...”

“Mhm…”

You sipped more of your wine, watching your friend frown as you did so.

“How did he even find you?”

“I don’t know…” You shrugged. “But he did, and then he liked a bunch of my older pictures.”

“Noooo!”

“Yeah…”

“Oh my God! Can a guy ever read the room?”

A soft chuckle left your mouth.

“I didn’t follow him back tho, so again, I think he got the message.”

“He knows you’ve got a boyfriend, right?”

You shrugged again, then shuffled on the couch, pulling your legs up and making yourself comfortable.

“Everyone at the office knows, so maybe someone told him? I don’t know.”

“Wait, so you didn’t tell him?”

“I  didn’t even tell him my name, let alone the fact that I’m dating someone I can’t really talk about.”

Your friend rolled her eyes, and then sighed. “Look, I think it’s lovely how consistent you two are on keeping each other a secret, but just this once I think you should tell him you’re dating and therefore not available.”

At that, it was your time to roll your eyes. “Or... He could realize I’ve done nothing to suggest I’m interest and back off because I don’t want him.”

“Right,” she laughed. “You’re talking about a guy that’s been acting like a creep.”

“Exactly. So if he bothers me again, I’ll raise a complaint to HR for harassing.”

You changed the topic after that, and a few minutes later Lando stepped out of the kitchen, the salad he had ordered in hands. He paused to chat a bit with you two, then kissed your temple and made his way back to the game room.

Eventually, your friend said goodbye and left Lando’s apartment, and you took a moment to clean up the mess left behind. Lando was still busy in his own world, his loud laughter vibrating through the walls and making you laugh along from time to time.

It was on your way to the bedroom that you decided to stop by. Just to let him know.

You knocked on the door once, and then another two times—the code you had unintentionally created to avoid interrupting his livestream and getting caught on camera.

“Yeah?” he shouted, but you knew better than shout back at him. Instead, you cracked the door open slightly. Barely. Only enough for you to peek inside and glance at him.

Lando’s eyes were already waiting for you, his head turned to the side while he fully leaned back into his chair.

“Heyyy…” he breathed out, lips curling up into the cutest, softest smile while he stretched his arms up in the air.

“Hey...” you whispered back, lips curling up as well.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you said quietly. “Just saying hi before I get to bed.”

Lando dropped his arms and placed his hands on his lap, then tilted his chin towards the computer.

“It’s muted,” he said. “No need to be quiet.”

You raised your eyebrows, not changing the volume of your voice as you answered, “That’s what you said last time.”

Lando’s smile got bigger, and his eyes wrinkled at the sides. Mischief and playfulness taking all over his expression at the mention of that chaotic memory—when a female voice laughed loudly in the background of an allegedly muted livestream and caused a very serious online meltdown.

“I checked twice,” Lando said, turning back to the camera and giving a thumbs up. “Right, chat? You can’t hear me right now, can ya?”

He leaned in, then, squeezing his eyes to the screen.

“See? They are all lecturing me. Lando, we can’t hear you. Mic’s off, Lando. Lando turn your mic on. Lan—”

“Okay, okay.” You rolled your eyes and pressed your temple against the frame, but a soft chuckle still left your chest at his silliness. “Got it, yeah.”

He leaned back and turned his head to you, smugness written all over him. “Told ya. I learn from my mistakes.”

He winked. And, once again, you raised your eyebrows.

“They can still see tho, can’t they? So don’t get cocky.”

“You’ve barely opened the door,” he laughed. “Not even I can see you, I doubt they’ll be able to.”

“Yeah? Just watch them read your lips or start analysing who you’re talking to so late at night.”

“C’mon…” he laughed again. Head tilting back as he faced the ceiling. “Don’t be si—”

“Ooookay…” you snorted and stepped back from the door, a little too tired to get into one of his playful arguments. “I’ll save you from finishing that sentence.”

“What? C’mon… I’m just teasing.”

“I know. You’re having fun while I’m worried trying to protect your wishes. Then tomorrow you’ll be snapping at me because someone found out you’re not alone and I’ll have to watch you overthink while trying to find ways to prove I don’t exist.”

The world paused around you.

Time paused inside the room.

You watched the moment his face fell. How his expression changed along with the drop of his shoulders. As if some unknown truth had been thrown at him.

And just like that, regret dawned on you, a tight knot twisting low in your gut as you tried to make sense of your words. Of your abrupt change of mood.

You looked down to your feet and sighed, your voice coming out like a whisper when you spoke again. “Sorry… I don’t know why I said that.”

Lando nodded.

You noticed his movements, the way he turned back to his computer and leaned forward to reach his keyboard. How he typed, then clicked a few things, and then how everything went off. Heavy silence easily filling the room.

“C’mere,” he said, once again leaning back into his chair, then fully turning it towards you. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and Lando tilted his head slightly to the side. “Please?” He stretched his arm to you. “I’m not streaming anymore, I promise.”

You checked the screen, just to be sure, then dropped your arms to your sides and sighed. Embarrassment taking over your chest—and flushing across your neck and cheeks—as you walked towards him.

Lando didn’t wait for you to stand in front of him before reaching out for your waist, hands grabbing your sides and pulling you down to his lap with the easiness of someone who had pulled that move hundreds of times before.

You gasped, even squealed a little, a smile curving your mouth as you adjusted yourself to sit on his thighs. Body to the side and legs hanging in the air. Arms circling around his neck. Eyes settling inside his gaze.

Silent.

Comfortable.

Easy.

“Sorry,” you said. Again. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know,” Lando smiled, placing your hair behind your ear, then cradling your cheek. “I never tried to prove you don’t exist. You know that, right?”

“Of course, yeah.”

“Is it how I make you feel, tho? Like I’m trying to hide you or something?”

“No... C’mon... I understand why you’re so... Protective. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Ok…” He nodded, arms settling around your waist, pulling you a bit closer to him. “Just making sure.”

“Sorry for making you end the stream.”

Lando smiled. “Thank you for making me end the stream.”

A smile grew on your face, too.

There was a pause, in which he held your stare in silence as he moved one hand to the back of your neck.

“C’mere,” he said, then pulled you in, his lips brushing over yours once, then twice. Slowly. Softly. As if it was the first time he was getting a taste of them. As if he wasn’t really sure he was allowed to do that.

Your chest fluttered, and you leaned into him. Melted into him. Eyes falling shut and hands moving to curl tightly around his jumper. To hold onto its neckline like you were afraid he would suddenly stop and leave. Like he could vanish.

A low, contented hum escaped him, almost like he didn’t mean it. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he was melting into you, too. Hand pressing on the nape of your neck and arm anchoring around your waist, guiding the pace while he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

You exhaled through your nose and followed his lead. Stomach flipping and thoughts blurring. Getting lost into the tenderness and casually of it. Into how personal, intimate, and affectionate it felt. How soft, how steady, how electric it was. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he tasted. How he treated you with respect and carefulness, like you were the most delicate and precious thing in the world, and yet made you feel breathless and powerless, like you could die if you didn’t get more of it. Of him. Or this.

And then, Lando pulled away. Panting. Hand still holding the back of your head and lips still brushing yours when he asked, “Who’s Victor?”

Your lips searched for him, unwillingly. Automatically. Your body craving for more before his words clicked inside your mind.

He didn’t stop you, kissing you back and allowing your mouths to ghost over each other as you spoke between kisses. Never quite gone.

“Victor?” you asked.

“Mhmm…” His nose bumped against yours, and he slipped his hand between your hair, making sure you wouldn’t lose the pace.

“I don’t… Hmm… I don’t know… Shit… Who’s Victor?”

“I don’t know…” he repeated. “Someone that’s been hitting on my girlfriend… Or so I’ve heard…”

You blinked your eyes open and flinched back. Just an inch. As far as he allowed you to. Only enough to meet his eyes.

“What?”

Lando shrugged, and you licked your lips. Trying to gather your thoughts. Trying to make sense of what the heck was going on.

“You mean Vincent?”

He rolled his eyes and pulled you back in, his lips barely touching yours before he was tilting your head back and moving them down your jaw.

“Potato, patahto,” he murmured, his warm breath hitting your neck while he kept smothering your skin. Your throat. “Still hitting on my girlfriend.”

A smirk grew on your lips, and you closed your eyes, feeling his lips kissing your sensitive spots. Feeling his tongue getting its own taste, his teeth grazing right behind.

“Didn’t know you were listening to us...”

“Was I supposed not to?”

He sucked onto your sweet spot, and you gasped. Thighs clenching and fingers twisting even tighter around his jumper.

“Fuck…” you breathed out.

“I know…” Lando murmured, brushing the tip of his nose up and down the same spot. “I wonder how many until I leave a mark…”

“You never leave any…”

“Maybe I should start…”

He kissed you again, softly, moving his mouth and making sure no inch would go unattended.

Heat built low in your belly, slow and relentless, and you shuffled on his lap—even though the position you were in didn’t allow you to feel much of him.

“Jealous?” you managed to ask.

Lando snorted and pulled away, guiding your head so you would look at him.

“Just annoyed… Pissed, actually… Why is some random guy texting you and going through your photos? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

You smiled, hands loosening up around his clothing and moving up through the back of his neck. Fingers tangling with his curls as you said, “Someone who stopped texting after I left him on read, and who never got a follow back from me…”

“Hm…” He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut while you ran your nails up and down his scalp. “Can’t say I’m not happy to hear that.”

You chuckled. “Did you think I’d react differently?”

“No…” he said, eyes meeting yours again. “But as confident in our relationship as I am, can’t ever get too comfortable, can I?”

You tilted your head, not really knowing what to say at that.

Thankfully, Lando didn’t give you too much time to think about it before he added, “Don’t want him to think you’re single, tho.”

“We don’t know if he thinks that.”

“Then I want to make sure he knows you’re taken.”

You smiled. “I’m taken, huh?”

Lando rolled his eyes, hands sliding down your spine while he stretched his back and got taller underneath you.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice an octave lower and fingers reaching to the hem of your sweater. “Just like I’m yours. Yeah?”

You nodded, curling your body to place your forehead against his. Feeling his bare touch pressing on your lower back, warm and needy.

“Yeah... You know I am… Yours.”

“I know… I want him to know, tho. Not just him, everyone.”

“Lan…” you sighed. “If this is because of what I said, you don’t have to—”

“Not saying this because of what happened,” he said. “I’m saying it because I love you and because you’re beautiful and I don’t want stupid wankers hitting on you when I’m not around.”

“Well… That’s not really fair, is it? I can’t stop girls from hitting on you while you’re not around.”

“Babe, not one single girl has flirted or—”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. Loudly enough that you had to bring one hand to cover your mouth.

Lando smiled. And you noticed how something softened inside him. How he dropped his shoulders. How his touch went from greedy to affectionate. Still pulling you closer, still holding you in place, but with a different intention behind it.

 “I mean it, tho,” he said. “I don’t want to keep hiding it anymore. I heard when you said I’m someone you can’t really talk about, and I don’t want you to feel that. I want you to say ‘I’ve got a boyfriend’ and throw my name into a conversation if you feel like it. Just… Y’know… Want it to be natural.”

You pressed your lips together and sighed, pushing the playfulness aside to understand the seriousness of what he was suggesting with that.

“Okay… But just so you know, this feels natural to me. I don’t have to say ‘my boyfriend Lando Norris’ for me to talk about you. People who know me know I’m not single, the only reason why I haven’t told Vincent it’s because I haven’t really sat to chat with him. He saw me twice and decided it would be a good idea to get my number without even asking me about it.”

“Fucking idiot.” 

“Right?”

“Can’t really blame him, though… Kinda hard to look at you and not to fall in love.”

“Oh my God…” You rolled your eyes, but also smiled, shoving his shoulder playfully before hugging his neck. “Shut up.”

He did as you told, busying himself by kissing you instead of talking again.

From then on, the kissing melted into something more. The chair becoming uncomfortable to hold so much want and so much need from both of you, and your touches and steps guiding you blindly to his bedroom. To your bedroom. To your bed. Clothes getting lost along the way.

“I love you,” he said, over and over again.

Stealing your breath away.

Making you forget your name.

How you got there in the first place.

Until you were shaking and falling on top of him, his hips digging and pushing until he got the last bit of pleasure out of you. Of him. Of both.

Erratic. Intense. Everything.

The next morning, Lando left earlier than you. You didn’t even hear him, didn’t even feel him. Tangled and sprawled in the sheets. Blissfully happy. Satisfied.

You saw it when your alarm went off, though. His tally mark necklace, his number four shining in the sunlight. Right on top of his pillow. And a post it right in between the two.

For you. So everyone knows you’re mine ;) Love you. LN.

And that’s how it happened.

That’s how you ended up clasping his necklace around your neck.

And that’s how now, every time you think of him, you bring your hand to your chest and hold onto him. How you know he’s always there, like a part of you. Loving you. Whether everyone knows it...

Or not.

──────────────────

[paulyenvol6]

One Good Reason

Based on this lovely request! I'm sorry it took me so long and I'm sorry in advance because the next two requests might take me a while too, but I'm on vacation in London right now and don't find so much time to write. Anyways, enjoy :)

Contains: smut, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (m receiving), deepthroat, edging, fingering, orgasm denial, creampie, punshiment, dirty talk, dumbification, clueless and subby reader, jealousy, possessiveness, degradation, crying, dom!Joel, nicknames like slut, little aftercare, gagging

Wordcount: 5,365

Masterlist

Joel's jaw was tense. Too tense.

"Sit," he said, his tone commanding and cold, making you shudder. With big eyes you sat down on the couch and god these eyes were driving Joel insane.

"Joel. You said we – "

"Quiet," he hushed you and now you were officially confused.

"Joel," you tried again, your voice much more quiet and careful, but your thoughts loudly racing in your head.

Was he angry with you? Had you upset him?

"I said. Quiet."

With pouty and slightly trembling lips, you watched him, your palms resting on the couch to your left and right and your legs dangling off the edge. You found that you had no choice, but to wait for him to tell you what was going on, so you patiently watched him, but couldn't hide the light fear your face was drawn with.

Joel briefly clenched his hands into fists, rubbing over his palms before slightly spreading his legs and eyeing the way you played with your hair – looking all innocent and sweet although you were a naughty thing. A naughty thing who couldn't stop herself from getting into trouble all the time.

"A-Are you mad at me, Joel?" you eventually asked, thoughtfully furrowing your brow and chewing on your bottom lip.

"Jesus…," he groaned, closing his eyes only to straighten up and massage his temple.

"Can't get that dumb 'lil brain of yours to think for a second?"

"I – I don't know what you mean. Are you – is it 'cause I forgot the limes when I went grocery shopping? Because I already apologised and I thought – "

Joel raised his hand, glaring at you with piercing eyes, which was enough for you to shut up.

"No. You seriously have no idea? You got no fuckin' clue why I could be angry with you?"

Your eyes rounded up even more if that was possible, your lips so pouty and soft as you bit down on the inside of your cheeks.

"No… I don't think so," you stammered, helplessly searching his face as though the answer could be found in his small eyes.

"Oh you stupid 'lil thing… You can be fuckin' glad you got me 'cause I don't know how you would make it without me. Now get the fuck over 'ere."

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to approach him or you were avoiding physical closeness, but because your brain was working so hard, your head began to throb. Images from the past days appeared before your eyes, the town meeting on Saturday, your dinner on Sunday, the game night with Maria and Tommy on Monday and the breakfast at Joey's diner as well as the stroll through the park today. You couldn't find anything suspicious and seriously wondered whether Joel was making fun of you right now. But his eyes seemed sincere, his eyes still narrowed and hard when you approached him and awkwardly stood in front of him, waiting for further instructions.

"Kneel," he barked, and you shivered. Okay, so this was definitely not him making fun of you.

"Joel, I really don't – "

He interrupted you, grabbing your hand and pulling you down on the ground himself, causing you to gasp as your knees hit the carpet.

"I recall tellin' you to shut up. You don't want this to become worse that it already is."

You were alarmed now, tears swimming in your eyes, but based on the things Joel had said so far, he wasn't in the kind of mood to let you wrap him around your little finger with a few tears and sweet words so you swallowed them. Instead, you placed your hands on your thighs, doe-eyedly glancing up to him and trying to keep as still as possible as Joel parted his legs wider to make room for you to settle in between.

"You really don't know… God, aren't you a dumb 'lil thing… If only you weren't so sweet while being all empty-headed. Useless fuckin' slut."

You swallowed hard, moving closer to his center while being so unaware of what your tiny gestures were doing to him. His throat was dry, his dick pressing up hard against his jeans and he wanted nothing more than to bend you over the counter, rip your panties and fuck you dumb. As if you weren't already.

"I don't know," you repeated, staring into space through hazy eyes. "I really don't, Joel."

"You said that already," he pressed through gritted teeth, unbuckling his belt and slowly shoving down his jeans and boxers just a little bit to take out his erect dick.

"But maybe you'll remember when you really have to. Why don't we try, babygirl? Why don't we try 'n' give your mouth somethin' to work on an' maybe it'll be enough for you pretty, dumb head to figure it out. Maybe you're just a little too calm right now. Or maybe you don't really want to make an effort."

You lifted your chin at once, almost indignantly furrowing your brow and pinching your eyebrows together.

"No. I did try. Please, Joel, just tell me. I really don't know and I – I don't know what to do to remember."

He hushed you, cupping your chin for a second or two and then taking a fistful of your hair.

"Yeah… But maybe you do in a second. Maybe you just need somethin' to remind you. Open your mouth."

You obeyed immediately, dropping your jaw and only just inhaling deeply before Joel fed you his dick, slowly sliding past your lips until he arrived in the warmth of your mouth, humming to himself in pleasure, but collecting himself quickly.

"You know what we're gonna do, little one? I'll shove that dick down your throat until I'm aaaaall the way in inside you. Then we're gonna keep it there for a moment to give you time to think and really work that brain of yours. And when I think you're ready, I'll pull out and you're gonna talk. You're gonna tell me what you did wrong and what you're gonna do different next time. And then we're gonna think about what you can do to make it up to me and please me. If you don't talk – Well, we're gonna do it over and over again until you do. Until you tell me exactly why you angered me. I mean, I want to know that you put in an effort and try to be a good girl. Not knowing why you're gettin' punished is not a good start, pumpkin."

Joel hesitated, sighing as he watched you with his head tilted. He could literally see the words fighting through your clouded mind one by one, a muscle around your eyes twitching when the content of his words really crept up on you. And god did you look pretty with your mouth full with his dick. You couldn't reply anyway, so a nod of your head was what he had to settle with, your eyes round as coins and your cheeks already flush.

Thus far, Joel had been halfway inside you, but once he had the confirmation that you had understood the rules, he jerked forward with his hips, driving his dick into your mouth until he was inside of you to the hilt. You almost instantly retched, spit leaking from the corner of your mouth and your head flinching away.

"Shhh…," Joel made, keeping his grip around your head steady to keep you from pulling away and potentially making everything worse for you. Because it was the first round, Joel relatively spared you, staying inside your throat for merely 10 seconds and then dragging himself out of your welcoming mouth.

"And?" he fizzled once his tip was brushing over your plump lips, his insides clenching at the wetness glistening on your chin, which suggested that he had fucked your face for half an hour rather than half a minute.

"I don't know," you whimpered, tangling your fingers and pleadingly staring up to him.

If only you knew what you were doing to him, Joel thought with a wry grin, trailing along your jaw line and pursing his lips at the way your eyes brightened up. But of course this wasn't to his satisfactory, which was why Joel slammed his dick back into your paradisiacal heat without even commenting your words. This time he made you suffer longer, keeping his balls pressed to your face for almost 30 seconds while giving you almost no space at all to adjust to his length stuffing your throat. His tip tingled at the back of your throat and simultaneously caused you to gag, your view blurry as your face was forced to be in this unnatural position.

When he finally released you, he rapidly slipped out of your mouth with a plop sound, a thread of spit hanging between your upper lip and his shaft. You inhaled greedily, almost choking on the fresh wave of air you forced down on your throat, but could get a grip on yourself in the last minute. Although Joel had let go of you, he instantly cradled your head again once you had caught your breath with the purpose of maintaining control and dominance over the situation and show you your place.

"I'm listenin'," he barked and blared his teeth. Your wrinkled nose almost made him melt on the spot, his heart fluttering as you thoughtfully averted your gaze and carefully shook it.

"I'm sorry. I don't – Please, just – "

You were caught off once more and could only yelp as Joel forced his shaft down your throat again.

"That's disappointing, babygirl… I honestly thought you'd do better. You wanna keep goin' like this now? Until your throat's fuckin' red and bruised? Or you're gonna put this brain to work now and really make an effort?"

You were unable to answer, hot tears coating your view and his dick muffling any noises or complains threatening to spill out of your mouth. You were trying so hard, reliving every moment from the past days, but you couldn't find anything unusual. It couldn't be too long ago, right? He wouldn't punish you now for something that had been more than a week ago, right? Joel had been much too nice for that and if you had really done something to seriously upset him a longer time ago, he wouldn't have waited until now to make you feel the consequences. You were sure he wouldn't even have been able to hide his anger.

Your hands grasped his thighs, nails scraping his skin as if it was a way to release the pain, but you only halfly succeeded. It simply was too much, his dick so deep inside your mouth that it seemed like all you felt was him. That all you could think about, perceive, smell and taste was him and his indistinct scent. This time Joel kept you flush against his center for almost a minute, but to you it felt like ten times the amount of time. You could breathe through your nose, your nostrils flared to force more air down your lungs, but you had to cough every few seconds and felt your stomach thrum with the need to throw up. When he pulled back, you blinked, teary eyes fluttering and your lips swollen from the assault. Joel didn't even have to ask you. He just lifted an eyebrow, cupping your chin and tightening his hand at your attempt to escape him.

"You ain't done here yet, babygirl. You're goin' right back to work unless you have something to say."

He lightly squeezed your cheeks. "Do you?"

"P-Please," you whined, simply ignoring the mess of a combination of liquids that made your cheeks sticky and glitty and only seemed to increase as time passed.

"I don't know. Please, tell me, Joel, I'm sorry. I tried, I tried to remember b-but I – I don't. I just wanna be good for you a-and I love you and I don't wanna make you mad."

Joel had to supress a genuine smile. Not because he was anywhere close to being done with you, but because you sincerely were the most stunning, adorable and sweet creature he had ever seen. The big deer eyes, the way you couldn't keep them open at times, the trembling bottom lip you tried to get under control by biting down on it, the strands of hair sticking to your sweaty forehead. You were a mess, but a beautiful, pretty mess that Joel couldn't get enough of. That made a part of him want to lift you in the air, push you up against his chest and hold you until your crying had stopped. Just run a hand up and down your back and get lost in your sweet, adorable nature. But of course he wouldn't because you had something to apologise for and as long as he didn't hear those words out of your mouth he wouldn't stop.

That was why he shook his head in disapproval, tracing your jawline and then pulling at your lower lip to make it snap back.

"It's too late for that, hon. Open your mouth."

You sniffed and gulped in order to fight the soreness in your throat, but once his tip went past your lips you immediately felt the same stinging ache in the back of your throat again.

"Shhh…," he purred, gripping your hair tightly and tugging when you squirmed too hard.

"Take it. Take it or tell me what I wanna hear."

Tears were clouding your view, making your eyes feel swollen and puffy. Your whole body was on fire, arousal pooling between your legs just like sweat was covering your thighs and back. It was a strange and odd mixture of discomfort that was borderning on pain from time to time and sheer and intense pleasure. Please that made you want to be good for him so badly, so he would finally make love to you in a way you knew you didn't deserve right now. If only you knew why.

You gulped and retched, grabbing his legs to ground yourself and Joel didn't seem to have a problem with it as of now.

"C'mon…," he growled, head thrown back and lips red from the way he chewed on them.

"10 more seconds."

You didn't know how, but you managed to push through it. By the time Joel withdrew, you felt the need to cough and fortunately he let go of you for a moment so you could turn away from him, clear your throat and wipe over your eyes with the back of your hand.

"C'mere," he snarled after a minute, taking hold of a fistful of your hair and pushing your head against his inner thigh.

"Nothin'?" he simply whispered, raising his eyebrows and giving you this look of disgust and pity and somehow it was hurting more than anything he had done before.

"Alright. Gonna try somethin' different," Joel suddenly sighed. Your eyes shot up, widening in hope as he twisted his lips and rose to his feet while still keeping your head still by your hair.

"Get up. An' then take your clothes off and sit down on the couch."

These were rather promising prospects, so you weren't hesistant when you quickly stumbled to your feet, legs wobbly and weak under your weight and your sore knees hurting at the new posture. You cursed your slightly shivering hands as you pulled down your shorts, your clumsy fingers struggling with the zipper, but after you had tossed your clothes on a chair you felt the most confident and strong you had tonight. You sat down with a bubbling coiling heat in your stomach, thighs pressing together and your palms hurting from the way you buried your nails into your skin.

"Sit against the armrest. Legs spread," were his next instructions and just as you had obeyed him, getting comfortable on your bare ass, Joel appeared before your eyes. You desperately searched his face for any sign that he had softened up, that his punishment might perhaps even be over now, but there was nothing. His jaw was flexed, a vein prominent on his neck and a crease between his eyebrows.

"I swear, Joel, I really don't know what I did wrong," you assured him once again, blinking to prevent yourself from crying.

"Shut up. You're not enhancing your chances by talkin' all the fuckin' time. Givin' me those sweet doll eyes is your best shot, babygirl. So look at me. C'mon."

You wrinkled your nose which elicited a heavy exhalation from him and then gasped as Joel took hold of your ankles, adjusting your sprawled out body on the couch. Then he climbed on top of you, settling between your legs and letting his eyes wander from your legs up to your face until his gaze lingered on your bare pussy. You shouldn't feel embarrassed considering that Joel had seen you naked a million times already, but under these circumstances, you feeling so vulnerable in comparison to his dominant and intimidating appearance, you couldn't help but blush under his flashing pupils.

"Pretty," he whispered, vaguely cupping your pussy, but his words had taken you out so much, that you merely noticed it.

"Too pretty for such a dumb thing. Too sweet 'n' adorable for such a stupid 'lil head. What am I gonna do with you, huh?"

Joel didn't look like he was expecting an answer, which was why you simply kept eye contact although your eyes were watering again, pursing your lips and audibly swallowing.

"I feel like I should tie ya to the bed, stuff you with a toy 'n' then leave you there until you've learned your lesson. Or until you work that pretty brain and remember what you done wrong." He leaned in so his breath was brushing over your temple.

"But call me weak or – or frail, but I won't be able to leave this fuckin' pussy alone."

You whined out as he began rocking his palm against your clit, the corner of his mouth twitching at your facial reactions.

"Yeah. Gimme those sweet eyes. Show me how sweet you can be for me."

Joel gently parted your legs wider, lowly growling as your breathing became heavier. Two fingertips prodded your hole, circling it at a pace that you would consider cruel and sliding his palm back and forth. In less than a minute the two fingers made their way inside your cunt, slowly and carefully as if Joel was scared to hurt you, entering you.

"Joel," you whimpered, close to tears again, although you couldn't quite grasp the source of it. "I'm sorry, I – I wanna be good. I just… I just don't know what…"

He hushed you with a single finger pressing down on your upper lip and then applied more pressure on your throbbing clit.

"I said shut up. Or do you wanna make me angrier? You're not in a good position here right now if you haven't notice already. You made me mad, couldn't remember why and didn't even figure it out while I punished you. I coulda made you suck my dick all night, but I didn't 'cause I had pity with you and now there's one fuckin' thing I expect from you, you dirty slut. And you can't even do that."

A sob went through your body, your hands clenching and your brows pinching as the effects of his words took over. You just wanted to cry. You had disappointed him so badly and felt so helpless here, your head throbbing from the way you so strenuously concentrated on the events of the past days, but no matter how hard you tried, there was no progress. No idea, no suspicion and although part of you definitely couldn't think straight from the way Joel rubbed his hand against your core, you still couldn't believe that Joel was so angry while you had no hunch at all.

A little later, you wouldn't have been able to say if it was 5 minutes or 50 minutes, the first signs of an orgasm approached you, drops of sweat rolling down the inside of your thighs a warm, stouthearted pressure pulsing in your lower belly. By now his two digits were buried inside of you to the hilt, curled and determined as they repeatedly hit the soft, spongy spot hidden deep inside you. It felt so good, you wanted to scream and shout for him to go harder and stop him at the same time because something about his mood made you fear what was going to happen. He still seemed much too angry to just drop the whole thing so he surely wouldn't just let you cum like this and then send you to bed…?

Your suspicion was soon to be confirmed. A slight clench of your pussy and the way your eyes squeezed shut were all it took for Joel to stop. His hand was still resting on your center, but it didn't move any longer and his reaction to the rolling of your hips to create the much needed friction was a firm hand holding you down.

"Joel, please. Please, don't. I just – " He slightly withdrew, your hips frustratingly grinding against nothing.

"Say what you did wrong, babygirl," he whispered, sounding almost… amused? At least there was a light tinkle in his tone while he darted down at you, thoughtfully curling his lips.

"I can't, Joel, you know that I can't. I'm sorry. Please."

"And I don't think you've tried hard enough."

What were you supposed to do?

You believed that you couldn't go any further, that there was nothing left for you to try to satisfy him. He was so determined in his actions, so convinced of the fact that all he had to do for you to speak the truth was push you further, but what if you couldn't? What if Joel would never be satisfied and be mad about you forever? Okay, that might be an exaggeration, you had to admit, yet new tears welled in your eyes at the mere thought of it.

Before you could finish the thought, Joel continued rocking his palm against your clit, your legs involuntarily pressing together and your pussy eagerly throbbing for the return of his fingers.

"S'a bit disappoin', isn't it? I knew you tend to get all cock-drunk on me whenever I just take a look at that pussy but this really is a new level, hon. An' your sweet eyes and that pout don't change anythin', baby. They might be nice for me to look at, but don't think for a second that they're gonna help you get out of your punishment."

In a record breakingly short amount of time, you were dangling dangerously close to the edge of a orgasm you were yearning for so badly again. Joel's two fingers were penetrating you, his lips occasionally leaning in to kiss you on your cheek or neck and his palm rough and fast as it stimulated your clit. You were a trembling mess underneath him, sweat sticky on top of your thighs and your nipples stiff.

"Please," you soon whispered, equally scared that Joel was going to stop and that he would be mad if you didn't tell him that you were close.

"What. Give me one good reason why you deserve to cum."

Suddenly something shifted in his face. His eyes were briefly flashing, pervaded by a dark glimmering light and his jaw was clenched, his mouth nothing more than a thin line. Before you were able to reply, you were suddenly flipped onto your stomach, your hands reaching for the armrest to hold on to something as Joel parted your ass cheeks.

"Maybe this'll work on you… Maybe you just need a dick to destroy that 'lil cunt o'yours in order for you to remember how to use that mouth to talk."

Your fingers grasped a pillow, squeezing tightly as you prepared yourself for the slight inevitable stretch, but when he slid in, there was no trace of discomfort. Joel was thick and he certainly didn't go slow, but you were so drenched that there was no restriction at all.

"Next time it'll be your fuckin' ass. I'll fuck that tight hole of yours and maybe through your cryin' you'll tell me your apologies in a way that's gonna make me content. And now you're 'lil cunt better squeeze me tightly or I'll have to put my attention elsewhere. And there's no fuckin' way you'll cum tonight, so you better not even try. I don't care about your sweet whines 'n' pleas. I'm fuckin' serious."

He grunted and bottomed out, filling you to the hilt and starting to pound you at a steady pace. He wasn't even able to hide his fury in the way he was fucking you, his balls slapping against your cunt and producing obscene smacking noises and his tip hitting your cervix whereas he usually was so careful with not going too deep and possible hurting you.

"J-Joel," you whimpered, reaching behind you not because he was seriously causing you pain, but because you craved his presence so much. You just wanted him to hold your hand and brush over your knuckles and the fact that you wouldn't be getting it until you remembered this damn thing you had done wrong made you want to cry out.

"Shut up. M'gonna cum inside of you now 'cause I don't know what else to do with ya so you stop actin' like a dumb 'lil puppy an' then we'll go to bed and you rest that head of yours. Now look at me and keep those eyes open. I know you can be such a pretty puppy for me if you try hard enough. So get over it 'n' at least try to be good."

Joel spanked your butt once, his nostrils wide and his breath hitching as you looked over your shoulder and initiated eye contact.

"I wanna be good," you whispered, gasping at his forceful thrusts.

"Yeah you do?" he asked and grabbed a thick strand of your hair.

"Show me then. You're gonna keep still 'n' stop complainin' and lemme fill that pussy 'til my cum runs down your thighs. C'mon, babygirl. Lemme feel how bad she needs me," he growled and groaned as he stopped inside of you for a moment, pushing you up the couch and changing the angle so he could go as deep as possible.

"I'm gonna cum, Joel. Please. I really need to," you whimpered, squeezing your eyes close and praying for him to be mercyful. You had suffered for long enough and if only Joel saw it the same way…

"No. You're not gonna cum. You messed that up earlier in the fuckin' park and then you did it over and over again. Not bein' able to tell me what you did wrong, cryin' and moanin' 'cause you didn't get what you wanted but you didn't make an effort either."

Your thoughts were racing, your mind so absent that you even forgot about his punishing pace for a moment. The park…? Joel must have sensed the way it worked behind your forehead because he tightened his grip in your hair and pushed you into the cushion.

"Yeah, that's right. The fuckin' park… If you had used your brains for a second you wouldn't have talked to the guy like that."

"What guy?" it broke out of you, your eyebrows tense as you peeked over your shoulder.

"The guy that clearly wanted to fuck you. An' you acted like you didn't want anything more in your life."

Slowly the puzzle pieces assembled in your head and a picture started to form. Yet, once started, Joel didn't stop.

"The guy that fuckin' dropped his book just so you would bend over 'n' pick it up and he could get a good look at your ass. And you? You were playin' alone and gave him these stupid fuck-me eyes that only I am supposed to see. You behaved like you were just waitin' for him to rip your clothes off and it was goddamn disgusting babygirl."

You gulped and suddenly felt more than bad. Yes, it made so much sense now. How quiet Joel had been on the way back to the house and if you thought about it now, yes, the guy in the park had been very friendly. Too friendly, perhaps.

"Joel, I – " you started, but were interrupted soon.

"No. It wasn't that hard to come up with this, was it? An' you're tellin' me you couldn't think of this yourself?"

"I'm sorry. I really am, I didn't – I didn't think he was interested in me like that, I swear," you choked between his thrusts, your mouth struggling to form a coherent sentence.

"I thought he was just trying to be nice. He was. He was kind and – and I didn't question it."

"I know you didn't," Joel replied and rolled his hips a few times as he was inside of you, making you really feel him with every fibre of your body.

"That's why you're in this position right now. Arch your back," he added and pressed down on the small of your back.

"I'm gonna cum, babygirl. Deep inside of your pussy the way only I can. Not some guy in a park who probably has never seen a naked woman before. I'm the only one who gets to fuck this useless hole and fill you up with my cum. Understood?"

As quickly as possible, you nodded and stretched yourself toward him ever more.

"Yes, Joel. I only want you. No one else."

Apparently, this was all it took for Joel to release with a deep growl and despite not reaching your high yourself, you felt your view get cloudy at the feeling of his sticky, warm seed coating your walls.

"Oh jesus… Oh fuck, yeah, that's it… Oh fuck… Take it all, c'mon. Don't wanna see anythin' drippin' down your legs."

He pushed into you a few more times before gently stroking up the side of your body, briefly tracing the side of your breasts.

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl, m'proud of you."

You almost flinched at his words, your eyes frantically dancing as you stared into space and wondered whether he was genuine. Your eventual response was a muffled and broken whine that made Joel sigh.

"Lemme take a look at ya," he whispered, his tone low and soft and slipped his flaccid dick out of you only to grab you by your hips and turn you on your back.

"S'okay, babygirl…," he purred, hushing you as you sniffled a couple of times and brought a finger to your lips.

"It's okay. You took your punishment well. An' I think you got my point, didn't you?"

"Yes. I did, I'm sorry. I understand why – why you had to do it."

Joel smiled in satisfaction, lazily caressing the skin of your hips and bicep and smirking at the way you were barely able to keep your eyes open.

"Think you need some rest now, hon. Sleep if you want to. And I will make you feel good in the mornin'. Everythin' will be alright… I'll take care of ya 'cause you were good and behaved and now you deserve to cum too. Just wait until the mornin', we both need some sleep, okay? Is that okay for my princess?"

Princess.

Your heart fluttered and clenched at the nickname, your eyes big as you pleadingly stared up to him.

"Yes. I'm really tired," you confirmed and then grinned as Joel rolled off you to lay right next to you on the couch.

"Then sleep. I'll be right there next to you and if it's gonna be uncomfortable later, I'll carry you to bed. Just relax, sweetheart."

You exhaled, your breathing becoming steadily louder and more audible as you drifted off to sleep.

A quiet 'I love you' was the last thing you perceived before you felt yourself slipping away, body and mind finally utterly at peace again.

[chiya-eltanin]

hm. dont usually put my own two cents for theories but somethings been kind of annoying me recently so yeah. ralsei thoughts.

i really dont like the idea that ralsei is a specific object. especially not with newer stuff from chapters 3 and 4.

For starters, most people that try to figure out what ralsei is in the real world are basing it off of this appearance

however, I feel like there's plenty of evidence to point to this not being his real form, right? People have already pointed out that his original shadowed form isn't fully consistent. It's possibly the most obvious when you compare his singing animations in both forms. His hat form makes what was later 'revealed' to be his ears look more like hair?,

Ears don't really split the same way that hair does, and theres other examples of hatsei having this kind of spikyness to his 'ears' that hatless ralsei doesnt have.

even the fangamer plush makes his ears spiky!!

its a pretty major part of how hatsei looks, and its certainly been talked about before. And then comes chapter 3+4. And we have plenty of evidence that ralsei is a shapeshifter, and I have seen literally nobody talk about it????? huh?????

Oh, and the hat casting a shadow on him makes no fucking sense because he goes onto wear SEVERAL hats in chapter 3 and he's normal????

also I know its like. A funny bit, but HE TURNS INTO A HORSE

WHY THE FUCK WOULD KRIS'S HEADBAND TURN INTO A HORSE???? WHY WOULD A GREEN CRAYON TURN INTO A HORSE???? WHY CAN HE DO THIS????? THIS ISNT A COSTUME THATS NOT HOW THEY WORK????? WHERE WOULD HIS BODY GO.

not to mention that changing shapes was literally his ability in the legend of tenna game???? he plays it off like 'oh every character has abilities i can turn into a box' but he can also turn into a dog? since ralsei was the only one who read the manual it very well could be an ability given to him since the real Ralsei is also a shapeshifter.

It would also explain why ralsei draws himself in his hat form

thats closer to what his natural form is. Dont have any screenshots on hand right now, but he's got two lines in chapter four (if you leave him lying on the ground for too long, and right before they find the first fountain) about how much longer he can 'keep this body for' that make it very obvious that he's only using a form that looks cuter to appeal to us. Him being a shapeshifter would also explain things like

His face being a deliberately made abstraction would also make this interaction make a lot more sense. Pre chapter three, I assumed Ralsei based his face on Asriel to either try appealing to Kris or as fanservice for the player/red soul, however, now that we've slowly started learning more about Ralsei, it's beginning to seem more like Ralsei just wants to have a face and more distinct appearance, like the lightners do. However, because of how dark worlds work, he can only base it off of what already exists, with that already existing 'model' being Asriel, although with modifications to make himself cuter— pink horns and eyes, and his usual glasses. It's why Kris is always quick to point out differences between them, and why Ralsei is embarrassed at being told that they look similar, he didn't have a choice other than be based off something that already exists.

Alright, so Ralsei is a shapeshifter. He still has to have some equivalent in the Light World though, since that's how Dark Worlds work. He was literally about to tell Susie what he was before getting interrupted, and Toby Fox is deliberately dancing around the topic.

However, I think the answer is actually pretty obvious. Ralsei is a being of 'pure darkness', which is why he can exist in any Dark World, unlike Lancer and Rouxls, who need to be objects that 'belong' in their respective worlds. His form is made up by the original dark fountain, and he describes himself as a 'Prince of the Dark'. Characters in the Dark World know about what happens to and around their real world equivalents, but Ralsei in particular seems to be especially aware of all of Susie and Kris's actions and movements. He doesn't need to be brought in by Kris like Lancer and Rouxls do, and he always appears in the Dark World a few moments after Susie and Kris do, while somehow almost always having pretty intimate knowledge of how the world came to be. Ralsei is also the most adamant on being depended on by Lightners, even more than people like Tenna. He talks about how a Darkners role is to be used by Lightners and to make them happy, and his character development in Chapter 3 especially goes into how he wants to be needed and how he's afraid he's slowly developing his own personality, and why he believes darkners shouldn't do that.

So, taking all of that into account, I feel like the most obvious answer for what Ralsei is is a shadow.

He's a literal prince of the dark. It explains why he can shapeshift, since shadows can be made to look like anything— I'm specifically thinking of things like shadow puppets, and why when he gets knocked out he seems to literally disappear, returning to the shadows. A shadow is also the most dependant on light, shadows literally cannot exist without light, or they'll just be darkness. It even explains his empty room.

His insistence that his only role is to help the Lightners, the way that people can never find anything notable about him (asking swatch for specials his suggestion for Ralsei is based purely on how he dresses and Queen literally forgets to get him a cage), and his ability to be in any dark world (since there's literally nowhere without shadows) all seem to point towards Ralsei being a shadow.

Ralsei being a shadow also means he's literally with you in the dark, could probably straight up not exist if the world was plunged into darkness, and also makes him a weaker version of a titan (explaining the 'prince' title. not quite king, but noble nontheless).

[wosospacegirl]

Stuck with you - part 14

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: kiss kiss kiss this is all I'm gonna say.

Word count: 4.6k

a/n: this chapter is all about Kika and Y/n <3

This is a triple update, make sure to read part 12 and part 13 first!

..

The game against Portugal wasn't heated. It was nothing like the one against Belgium.

Y/n didn't know why, but she was certainly more nervous during this game than she was against Belgium, maybe because this time she was on a pitch with Kika. And for the first time Y/n could remember, they were on separate teams. 

The grass on the pitch was still slightly wet from the rain. Y/n liked that smell, but she didn't enjoy how slippery it was to dribble (and how easily dirty her kit got). She could hear the sound of the fans chanting, a mix of Portuguese and Spanish that filled the stadium.

Y/n was playing as a defender, as always; Kika was playing as a forward. It was a rather interesting dynamic.

It was embarrassing how flushed Y/n got every time she got closer to Kika, how her heart beat faster whenever she tried to take the ball from Kika's feet.  She was blaming it on adrenaline, not love; never on love.

She also blamed adrenaline when Kika lost an opportunity to shoot and lifted the hem of her shirt and put it over her face in frustration, showing her very beautiful, very tan abdomen. 

Alexia had to elbow her in the ribs to get her back in the game, muttering something under her breath that Y/n pretended not to hear, but she was sure it was something about 'getting her head in the game'.

Y/n was right in front of Cata, standing in her position when Kika and another player came running in their direction. 

The sound of boots on grass was growing louder, the Spanish fans screaming for the defenders to do something. 

Y/n was used to Kika now, she could read her body language during a game, she noticed how she looked at her right side, and that she slightly shifted her shoulders, which meant she was going to shoot.

And she did, but Y/n was faster and, with a header, she took the ball away from their goal area.

There was a satisfying thud of the ball against her forehead, and then, for a brief moment, Y/n felt dizzy; she couldn't quite see what was in front of her, but then, in a matter of seconds, everything became clear again.

She saw how Kika rolled her eyes at her, but Y/n couldn't help but have the slightest smile on her lips. Y/n felt happy; she felt like she was in her element again.

In the end, Spain won. Y/n didn't stay on the pitch to commemorate. 

The sounds of the crowd felt distant and smaller as her ankle, the one she had twisted during the training session yesterday, sent sharp pain up her as she sat on the pitch. 

Y/n thought it was nothing, her physiotherapist yesterday told her it was nothing, but maybe she had overdone herself.

She thought about not telling anyone, but the last time she did that, things didn't work out. She got into a fight with Alexia, Olga, and, most important of all, with Kika.

That's why, while everyone was exchanging shirts and talking with the players from the Portuguese team, Y/n was sitting on the grass while the physiotherapist turned her ankle left and right.

"Does it hurt when I do this?" Ricardo asked, his hands firm around her ankle.

"No," Y/n answered as she kept her eyes on the field, watching as Kika picked Aitana up in celebration, both of them laughing.

The sight made her feel warm inside, and she smiled. "I can turn it just fine, but it hurts when I run."

Ricardo hummed. Y/n could see he was thinking. "What about when you walk?"

"It doesn't hurt, but it doesn't feel normal either," Y/n explained as she drank her Gatorade, eyes still very much glued on Kika. 

Ricardo put a spray on her ankle–Y/n didn't know what it was, but it had a sharp mint smell to it. It was cold too, which wasn't nice, considering her skin was still wet from the grass.

"I still stand by what I said yesterday," Ricardo said as he took an ice bag and put it over her ankle. Now Y/n felt even colder.

"It's probably nothing, but I think we should have left you on the bench today. I feel like your ligaments are slightly inflamed."

"Is that bad?" Y/n asked, for the first time, looking at Ricardo instead of Kika. She didn't like how the word inflamed sounded; she didn't want to be benched–she still had a season she needed to play.

"It can get bad," Ricardo told her. "We'll give you some anti-inflammatory, yeah? We'll notify Barcelona, you'll probably have to do some physio sessions instead of training, but I don't think you'll miss any games."

"Ugh," Y/n groaned as she placed her hands over her face, forgetting that they were on the grass seconds ago; she probably had grass on her forehead now. "Not another injury."

"Not an injury, champ," Ricardo said, patting Y/n's back as he stood up. "An injury is a torn ligament, a shredded muscle or a broken bone; you got none of these."

"If I have to do physio," Y/n said, accepting Ricardo's hand and getting on her two feet, "then it's an injury."

"Don't act like you don't like the massages," he teased as he took his bag and walked towards the other staff.

Y/n looked at her teammates, still on the pitch in small groups, then at Kika, who was now talking with some of the Portuguese players. 

Y/n decided to just go towards the locker room without her teammates. She was going to meet Kika afterwards and didn't want them to see her leaving.

She had already talked to Jana earlier, leaving her locker unlocked and her training bag ready to go so Jana could take it on the bus with her.

Y/n changed out of her kit; her ankle wasn't bothering her so much anymore, maybe the spray helped somehow.

Then she took a hot shower, letting the water wash away the grass stains on her arms and legs. The locker room was still quiet. She couldn't hear the girls, so they were still probably on the pitch, probably for another twenty minutes at least.

She quickly put on a clean shirt and shorts, drying her hair with a towel before she left the locker room. 

As soon as she turned left in the corridor, the sound of her teammates' voices echoed off. Y/n heard Alexia's laugh, and then Aitana's voice.Y/n kept going so they wouldn't see her.

She was right on time to meet Kika.

..

Y/n hesitated outside the Portuguese locker room, her shoes clicking nervously against the floor. She didn't like to stand still for long–her body got fidgety–so she tried to look around, seeing if she could find something to distract herself.

The Portuguese stadium was very different from the one she played at in Spain. Y/n had been here before, years ago, when she was sixteen, playing in the Nations League. 

She had collided with a German player whose name she couldn't remember now. She ended up with five stitches in the infirmary. It had hurt like hell, but she had gotten a cool scar out of it.

If she wasn't mistaken, the infirmary was the first door after the janitor's closet. Y/n wasn't sure if they had changed things around, but given the condition of the stadium, things were still very much the same.

Y/n was looking at a spiderweb when a few Portuguese players emerged from their locker room.

They were wearing their national jerseys and carrying their bags. Y/n waved an awkward goodbye; she even smiled at the one player she recognised from other matches.

But what struck her as odd was how some players she didn't know well were looking at her with weird expressions on their faces. 

They would stare at her for a moment, then their faces would change, as if recognising her.

But it wasn't just "Oh, I know who she is". It was more like "Oh! I know who she is," which made Y/n wonder if maybe Kika had talked about her with her teammates.

Y/n wasn't sure what Kika could possibly say. They were–at the end of the day–nothing more than teammates, and on some good days, friends.

Although Y/n wanted to change that very soon.

As the Portuguese players walked past her, she realised it was a bit odd that she was standing there, in a corner of the stadium, just watching the door to another team's locker room. 

She shouldn't be, not really.

Her stuff was already packed on the team bus. Jana already knew her plan. But Kika had asked to speak with her privately, and Y/n just couldn't let this go. 

She had talked things through with Alexia about their problems; she should come clean with Kika as well.

Y/n had already talked to Kika about the kiss, so maybe this conversation wasn't going to be so hard. At least that's what she hoped for.

Now that the game was over, and now that she had already talked with Kika in the bathroom, Y/n felt like she was in a good mood.

For some reason, she was feeling confident, like she could open her mouth and talk rather than just sounding like an idiot.

Y/n waited a few more minutes, and when she saw that no other players were coming out, she took a step forward toward the door, then another, until she was facing it. 

She took a deep breath and pushed through the wooden door.

The locker room was dimly lit; most of the lights were already switched off.

The first thing Y/n saw when she walked in was Kika. 

She was shirtless.

She was standing in front of what Y/n assumed was her locker, wearing only her sports bra and shorts. Her jersey was neatly folded on the bench.

Y/n's brain took some time to process that.

She stood silent for seconds, watching Kika's back. 

She was beautiful, her skin was tan, her hair was down her back, no longer in that ponytail from the match. 

She had a tattoo, Y/n noticed. It was faded, as if she'd gotten it as a teenager. Back in Barcelona, Y/n had seen Kika in training tops, but she'd never had the courage to look at her body without feeling nervous.

But now that it was just them, Y/n felt like she could look. Really look.

"Hi," Y/n said, walking toward Kika. "Sorry, I came in…I didn't know if I should knock?"

Kika's head snapped up, surprise flickering across her face.

"Oh!" Kika smiled at her. "Oh yeah, it's okay! Sorry I took so long, I didn't know if you would actually come, and then there was this weird knot in my boots that I couldn't undo–"

"It's okay," Y/n paused, unsure what to do in the middle of the foreign room, unsure what to say to Kika, who felt so familiar yet so strange. "I was just… looking at the spiders in the corner of the corridor."

Y/n felt stupid for saying that.

Kika's expression softened. "How many are there?"

"Two," Y/n answered, hesitantly.

"That's a good number."

"I think so, too."

There was a comfortable silence between them. Y/n decided to break it.

"How was playing here again?" Y/n asked. "This is Benfica's stadium, right?"

"Yes, it brings up a lot of memories," Kika said in a nostalgic tone. She sat on the bench, putting her jersey, still folded, on her lap. "It was good to meet some of my old teammates and friends, too. I missed them a lot."

Y/n's mind went immediately to the girl from the Instagram post. She knew the girl wasn't a player, but she wondered if she was among the girls Kika missed.

Y/n realised she hoped Kika missed her, as well.

"I'll introduce you to them," Kika said.

"Oh," Y/n said, "That would be nice."

"Here–" Kika said, offering the jersey to Y/n. "I don't know if you want it, but I thought we might exchange our shirts?"

Y/n took the jersey from Kika's hands, and for a second, their fingers touched. Y/n didn't want to pull away, but she did. "Thank you. I'll give you mine once we're back in Barcelona."

"You're welcome," Kika said gently. "And it's okay, I'll hold you to it, though."

"I'm good at keeping my word," Y/n smiled, then she lifted her pinky finger, and Kika intertwined hers with Y/n's. "I promise."

"Do you have some time now?" Kika asked. "Or do you have to catch the bus right away?"

Y/n opened her mouth, then closed it. She had planned to talk to Kika first, and then she would see if the bus was still waiting for her. If it were, then she would go with them.

But right now she was with Kika, and Kika didn't seem in a rush, so Y/n wasn't in a rush either.

"No," Y/n said. "I told them they could go without me."

Kika tilted her head. "Oh really? How are you getting back?"

Y/n moved her hands anxiously. "Um... Uber? You have Uber in Portugal, right?"

Kika smiled, as if Y/n were a funny kid. "Yeah, we do…but we have trams. They are better, and the view is prettier, too."

"I'll take one of those, then," Y/n said, leaning against the bench more.

"Good, I'll go with you." Kika smiled. "How was your camp?"

Y/n was trying very hard to keep her eyes on Kika's face and not look down at her chest, which was still covered in only her sports bra.

Y/n didn't know how to answer Kika's question.

Her camp had been hard. 

She had met her old crush again, realised she felt nothing for her anymore because she was in love with Kika. Then she had forgiven her friends, forgiven Alexia, then argued with her, and then decided she was going to move out.

And now she was here with Kika again. It was a lot, and Y/n realised she felt a bit overwhelmed by all of it.

"Hey," Y/n felt warmth on her hand; it was Kika's. "Are you okay? You seem a bit off."

"Oh no," Y/n said, "I'm okay, just... lots of stuff happened during camp."

She didn't lie.

"Maybe you can tell me about it during our tram ride?" Kika offered, giving Y/n a side smile that made her want to squeeze the Portuguese girl into a hug.

"I would love that," Y/n nodded.

"Great, just let me change out of these clothes and then we'll go."

For a moment, a very fast moment, Y/n thought Kika was going to undress right there, in front of her. Her hope ended when Kika took her bag and went into one of the bathroom stalls.

Y/n felt like an idiot. Of course, she wouldn't get naked in front of her. Why would she do that?

Then, in a few minutes, Kika was back. She wasn't wearing her kit anymore; she was wearing a Portuguese shirt and pants, with some cool Nike shoes.

"Ready?" Kika asked.

Y/n nodded, standing and following Kika toward the exit. But when Kika reached for the handle and turned it, nothing happened.

She frowned and tried again, putting more force behind it.

Still nothing.

"What's wrong?" Y/n asked, stepping closer.

"The door... It's not opening." Kika jiggled the handle more frenetically. "It feels like it's stuck from the outside."

Y/n felt something in her chest, and then her stomach felt weird, as if it was slowly twisting around itself.

"Let me try," Y/n said in a faux-brave voice. "Maybe–"

She grabbed the handle and threw her weight behind it, turning and pushing simultaneously. The door didn't budge; it didn't even move an inch.

"Shit," Y/n breathed, and Kika heard something different in her voice.

"Hey, it's okay," Kika said quickly. She saw how Y/n had stepped back from the door, her breathing getting a little shallower. 

"These old stadiums, sometimes the doors just stick, it happened to me once or twice... the humidity makes these wood swell and–"

"We're stuck," Y/n interrupted, and now Kika could hear the edge of panic creeping in.

The walls of the locker room suddenly felt closer. Y/n's eyes darted around the room. 

There were absolutely no windows, just concrete walls. Some of the lights were off, making the room feel darker, and the air felt thick, harder to breathe.

Y/n tightened her hands into fists, feeling the way her nails were cutting into her skin.

"Y/n?" Kika's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Hey, look at me."

But Y/n was backing away from the door, her chest rising and falling too quickly. 

The room was spinning slightly. Y/n was going to die–she was sure she was going to die here in this room.

There wasn't enough air, and there weren't any sunrays. 

There was nothing. 

Y/n wished there were spiders to count, but there weren't any spider webs in the locker room, as if the arachnids sensed they shouldn't come in.

Maybe Y/n shouldn't have come in either.

"I can't–I need to get out. I need to get out right now." Y/n's voice was getting higher, more strained as she turned to the door again and tried to open it with more force. "Mierda, It doesn't–"

Kika immediately understood what was happening. She had seen anxiety attacks before, but never from Y/n. She didn't know the girl was afraid of enclosed spaces.

"Okay, okay," Kika said, her voice calm and steady. "We're going to get out. I promise you. But right now, I need you to breathe with me, alright? Just deep breaths"

"There's no air," Y/n said in a low voice. "There's not enough air."

"There is," Kika said calmly. "There's an airway to your right, there's enough air for both of us."

Y/n shook her head frantically. "The door won't open, Kika." Y/n pulled at the door handle again, as if to make a point. 

"What if it never opens? What if we're stuck here and no one knows where we are and–"

"Y/n." Kika stepped closer, gently placing her hand over Y/n's fists, which were wrapped around the door handle. She tried to guide the girl away from the door. "Can you tell me five things you can see?"

"What?" Y/n's eyes were wide and confused. "No, stop it, let's find a way out and–"

"Five things you can see. Right now. In this room." Kika said more sternly.

"I–this doesn't work with me," Y/n said, looking from Kika to the door, then to their hands together, and then to Kika again. "This thing."

"Just try, please," Kika said. "I'll start–I see you."

Y/n took a deep breath. She was going to do this just for Kika.

"I see the bench and the lockers." She turned her head, feeling confused, feeling trapped. "I see the lightbulb and there's dirt on the floor and a water bottle–I don't know if somebody forgot it there or–"

"Eyes on me," Kika said, taking Y/n's hand and gently guiding her to the bench, trying to take her away from the door to see if she could focus on something else.

Y/n did what she was told, looking at Kika's warm brown eyes. "I see you and your shirt and–"

"Perfect. Now, four things you can touch."

Y/n's hands were shaking, but she reached for the bench beside her. 

"The bench and it's cold." Her other hand stretched out so she could touch the locker. "The locker, it's also cold, umm..." She touched her own shirt, then hesitantly reached for Kika's hand. "Your hand, i-it's warm."

Kika squeezed gently. "Good, yeah."

Y/n took a deep breath, then another. She looked for the airway Kika had told her about, and it was there.

Kika wasn't lying.

They weren't going to suffocate. Y/n breathed in and out again, and then a second time. 

Y/n was feeling more at ease now, a little more grounded. 

She tried telling Kika that she didn't want to do the rest of the exercises anymore, but she insisted.

"There are only three exercises left, okay?" Kika said, her hand never leaving Y/n's. "Fala pra mim, linda, three things you can hear." Her thumb brushed her skin sweetly.

Y/n didn't understand what Kika had told her in Portuguese, but she didn't want to ask what it meant now.

In the end, she just Y/n agreed. Her heart was beating a bit faster still, but the air didn't feel as thick as before.

Kika's touch made Y/n feel dizzy. She liked the touching; she liked it when Kika touched her. "I can hear my voice, um, your voice and my breathing?"

"You are right," Kika nodded. "What are two things you can smell?" 

Y/n's hand went to Kika's hair. She noticed how Kika's body stilled before relaxing. Y/n took a strand of hair into her hand. "I smell your shampoo and your body spray."

Y/n was slowly coming down, slowly realising that she had had an anxiety attack right in front of Kika. 

She would feel embarrassed if they weren't so close–were they this close all the time?

Y/n hadn't noticed it before, but now that they were, she felt her breathing unsteady again, but for different reasons.

"Can you name me one thing you can taste?" Kika asked.

Kika looked so pretty in front of her. Her voice was so sweet, her skin looked so soft, her brown eyes so welcoming. Y/n had really missed Kika.

Y/n hesitated.

She tasted her own mouth, her own saliva. But it wasn't enough.

In a bold move, Y/n opened her mouth, feeling her heart hammering against her chest.

"Can I kiss you?"

Y/n watched as Kika opened her mouth and widened her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed now, and Y/n could bet her own cheeks were also red.

It felt like a minute had passed, and then Kika leaned her body closer to Y/n, a shy smile on her face.

"Yes, kiss me. Please."

Y/n smiled, feeling a wave of calmness running through her body. She cupped Kika's cheek, bringing her closer until their lips were touching.

This time, neither of them was wearing gloss or lip balm. They were completely bare, touching and tasting each other's lips.

Kika adjusted herself so she was sitting closer now, her hands hesitating before placing them on Y/n's hips. Y/n, very shyly, tried to deepen the kiss, slipping her tongue into Kika's mouth, who accepted it.

Y/n broke the kiss when she felt like there wasn't enough air in her lungs. 

She looked down, seeing how close they were, how Kika's hands were still on her hips, how warm she was against Y/n's body.

Kika pecked Y/n's lips, which caught her by surprise, but she welcomed it.

"Better?" Kika asked softly.

Y/n nodded, slightly embarrassed, slightly happy.

"Yeah... sorry. I don't usually freak out like this. I mean, I can handle small spaces most of the time, but when I can't get out..."

"Don't apologise. It's okay." Kika's thumb brushed against Y/n's palm. "I don't like the idea of being stuck here, too–well, I actually don't mind being stuck with you."

Y/n looked at Kika and smiled.

"I wish I were romantic and could say I don't mind being here," then she looked around. "But I'm honestly terrified."

Kika laughed. "Don't worry, the cleaning crew has to come through here eventually. They always clean the locker rooms after the matches."

"How long do you think?" Y/n asked, and she hated how small her voice was.

"Not long," Kika promised. "Maybe thirty minutes or something."

Y/n didn't like how long thirty minutes sounded. 

If she were in a good state of mind, all she would be thinking about would be how she had kissed Kika and how they were holding hands.

But they were still stuck, and for Y/n's brain, that meant danger.

Y/n closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her forehead against Kika's shoulder. "Can you talk? Please? About anything? I'm nervous, I don't like it."

Kika's heart beat faster with the gesture. "Of course."

So Kika talked about everything and anything.

She talked about the match they had just played, about the goal she had scored and about some great defences Y/n had made. 

She talked about her childhood in Portugal with her sister Rita, about when they tried to bake a cake for her grandmother's birthday once, but it didn't work out because they forgot the flour.

She talked about everything except how good Y/n felt leaning against her. 

How something warm and hot ran through her body when Y/n kissed her, about how she wanted to do that, and so many other things with Y/n.

She didn't talk about how she had enjoyed the way Y/n kissed her at the charade games. 

She knew Y/n didn't appreciate the kiss because it didn't happen for the right reasons.

She also didn't talk about how awful it was not to talk to Y/n for so many weeks.

She didn't talk about how she appreciated that the doors to the locker room were never changed, because they were the reason she got to stay alone with Y/n. 

They were the reason they had kissed again.

After what felt like hours (but it was only about ten minutes), they heard noises coming through the door.

"Hello?" Kika called out, and Y/n's head shot up. "We're stuck in here!"

The voices got closer, and soon they could hear someone working at the door from the outside. 

There were some more noises on the door, some muttered Portuguese words, and then suddenly the door swung open.

The janitor stood there. "What are you two doing here?"

Y/n practically ran for the open door; she even hugged the janitor, who looked at her confused.

Y/n looked at the corridor, a happy smile on her face.

 Her brain wasn't in fight-or-flight mode anymore. She could breathe, she could see the sun, she could smell fresh air. She wasn't stuck anymore.

Kika thanked the janitor and walked up to Y/n, who turned around.

"Hi," Y/n said for the third time that day.

"Hi, there," Kika said. "Feeling better?"

Y/n nodded. "I'm sorry again."

Kika tilted her head, feeling a mix of something in her chest. "For the kiss?"

Y/n was silent. She looked down at her feet, then at Kika's eyes. "No, not for the kiss."

Kika smirked and leaned down, taking Y/n's jaw into her hands and kissing her, her hands staying very respectfully at her waist.

Now that Kika had another taste, she wasn't sure how she was supposed to go back to being just teammates.

Maybe there wasn't going back now.

..

a/n: THEY KISSEDDDD

:D

Tag list: @footy-lover264 , @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkvee , @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16, @wosohk04, @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics

[heavenlybodies333]

Insubordination -A.H

Aaron Hotchner x coworker!reader

The second you step through the door, you feel every head in the room turn.

Late. Unapologetically. And very obviously not wearing a bra under your white button-up.

Your nipples are stiff from the chilled air, outlined like punctuation marks under the thin cotton. Subtle was never your strong suit. Neither was following orders. Which, unfortunately, happens to be Aaron Hotchner’s kink and his trigger.

Your heels click through the silence as you make your way to the only open seat—directly across from him. You don’t apologize. You just drop into the chair, toss your hair over your shoulder, and casually fold your arms under your chest.

Which, of course, only pushes them up more.

“Glad you could join us,” he mutters, without lifting his gaze. “Though I’d suggest reviewing Bureau expectations regarding punctuality.”

You smile sweetly. “I’ll study extra hard.”

Someone behind you coughs to cover a laugh. His eyes flicker up—just for a second—and land squarely on your smirk. His jaw tenses.

You are so going to pay for this later.

9:47 AM – Meeting Adjourned

Hotch closes the folder with a decisive snap.

“That’s all,” he says curtly, standing. “The unsub profile will be distributed by noon. And in the future—” his eyes scan the room, lingering only briefly on you “—let’s remember how important discipline and professionalism are in this line of work.”

There it is. That sharp, clipped delivery. The verbal equivalent of a warning shot. You stay seated, watching as agents file out, mumbling their goodbyes and tapping their watches. Hotch busies himself at the head of the table, back turned, stacking files like he hasn’t just been half-hard for the past forty minutes.

You rise slowly, heels clicking softly as you cross the room behind him.

Then—pinch.

Right on the sensitive spot at his side, just above the waistband of his slacks.

He jumps. Actually jumps.

Spins on instinct, dropping the file in his hand as he glares down at you. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses under his breath. “What the hell was that?”

You tilt your head, all innocence and venom. “Sorry. Just checking if that stick was still up your ass.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re pushing it.”

You step closer, eyes raking over his flushed neck and clenched jaw. You bat your lashes. “You’re tense.”

“You were late.”

“And you were staring.”

“I was not—” His eyes drag over you again. He clears his throat. “You’re being inappropriate.”

You smirk. “I thought you liked inappropriate.”

His jaw clenches. You lean closer, voice barely above a whisper. “You gonna punish me for it, Hotch?”

“You think you can do whatever the hell you want because we’re sleeping together?”

You lean against the door, crossing your arms. “No. I think I can do what I want because I’m good at my job and you can’t discipline me without giving away your favorite extracurricular activity.”

He takes a step forward, his voice stern with anger. “My office. Now.”

11:24 AM – Hotch’s Office

You’re sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk, spinning slightly. Legs crossed, skirt inching up just enough to press a point. When he walks in, he shuts the blinds without a word.

That’s how you know you’ve won.

“I don’t even know where to start with you,” he says, walking to the desk.

You raise a brow. “Good thing you called this meeting then.”

Hotch steps behind you, suddenly closer than you expect. His hand clamps down on your jaw, fingers pressing just enough to tilt your head back.

“You think this is a game?”

“Pretty sure it’s just foreplay.”

His hand releases you, but the tension remains. He steps around the desk, loosening his tie, eyes locked on yours like a warning.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, arms folded.

“Little bit.” You cock your head. “You should’ve seen your face. The moment you realized what I wasn’t wearing?”

He exhales hard through his nose. “You show up late, half-dressed, and think it’s a joke?”

“I think you liked it,” you counter, stepping closer. “Your voice cracked twice. You barely looked at me the whole meeting.”

“I was leading a federal briefing.”

“And now you’re not.” Your hand reaches up, fingers lightly grazing the buttons of your shirt. “So what now, Agent?”

His eyes drop.

Hooked.

You pop a button. Slowly. “If I recall correctly, insubordination’s grounds for a very thorough… reprimand.”

His mouth is a hard line. His eyes are anything but.

You pop another button.

You barely have time to react before you're pressed back against the edge of his desk, the polished wood cold against your thighs, your shirt half-open, chest heaving under his stare. His hands cage you in—one planted on the desk beside your hip, the other gripping the back of your neck with barely restrained control.

“I don’t know if you’re brave,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “or just really fucking stupid.”

You smile. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

His hand tightens slightly, just enough to make you swallow your next quip.

“You want a punishment?” he asks, eyes flicking down to your exposed chest, the peaks of your nipples taut and aching under the air-conditioning. “You think I won’t give you one right here?”

You shrug, lips curling. “Think? I’m counting on it.”

He curses under his breath—and then he grabs you.

Turns you around in a swift, commanding motion, bending you over the desk with practiced ease. Your palms flatten against the surface as you feel him press behind you, his hips flush to your ass, his breath hot against your ear.

“You don’t follow rules,” he growls. “You don’t show up on time. You don’t wear a bra to my meeting.”

You wiggle your hips slightly, grinning. “And now I’m bent over your desk.”

His hand comes down hard—smack—against your ass. You gasp, biting your lip.

“Keep talking,” he warns, “and I’ll make sure you can’t sit through tomorrow’s briefing.”

You hum, pressing back into him. “Is that a promise, sir?”

Another sharp smack. Then his hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back enough to hear your breath hitch.

He drags your skirt up and groans when he realizes you’re not wearing anything underneath.

“You planned this,” he mutters, kneeling behind you. “You wanted to piss me off.”

And then his tongue is on you—no warning, no hesitation. He licks a stripe up your slit and moans when you twitch under him, grabbing onto the desk like you might lose your footing.

“Fuck—Hotch—”

He wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you in place, tongue flicking, sucking, tasting every reaction. He’s rougher than usual. Sloppier. Like the lines between punishment and praise have blurred.

You’re whining now—hips grinding back against his face, thighs trembling. “Aaron—!”

He pulls away only long enough to unbuckle his belt and flip you onto your back across the desk, pants barely down before he’s inside you—hard, thick, stretching you in the best way. The desk creaks violently under the weight of his thrusts.

“Gonna fuck that brat out of you,” he growls.

“Better fuck harder, then,” you moan back.

You moan, biting your forearm to keep quiet. It’s barely working. “You’re dripping,” he mutters, thrusting harder. “You’re fucking soaked and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“You are,” you gasp, “so mad right now.”

“Oh, I am,” he hisses into your ear, one hand gripping your shoulder as he drives into you faster. “I’m furious. Furious that you make me this fucking stupid.”

You cry out when he grabs your hair, pulling you up against his chest.

“I should’ve let you sit there and squirm through that meeting,” he pants. “Should’ve let you suffer.”

His hand slides between your legs and rubs tight, brutal circles over your clit. You scream.

“That the mouth you bring to team meetings?” he pants.

You nod, wrecked. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see how smart it is when you’re full of me.”

Hotch grabs your wrists, pins them to the desk with one hand, and fucks into you so hard the entire surface creaks under your bodies.

“Fuck—Aaron—” You come again—so hard you black out for a second. His pace is brutal now. Deep, claiming strokes that steal your breath. Hotch doesn’t stop. He grits your name, thrusts twice more, and then he’s spilling inside you with a low, desperate groan.

For a long, quiet moment, the room is filled with nothing but your ragged breathing.

Then you say, “So… do I get a formal write-up, or…?”

Hotch pulls out slowly, dragging your panties back up with rough precision. “You get dinner.”

You glance back at him, smug. “So now I’m rewarded for bad behavior?”

He buttons your shirt for you without meeting your eyes. “You’re getting dinner so you don’t try this again in front of my entire team.”

You grin. “Guess I’ll have to find a new way to drive you insane, then.”

He pauses, leans in close.

“I’m counting on it.”

a/n: soft doms have a special place in my heart

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

You know what we never see, neglected reader who is damn near bruce's age. Technically if you think about it you can really have kids at any age, so why people only make him pump it and dump it only when is in his 30s and 40s is crazy to me. If Bruce has I kid at 18 and he is in his late 40s , reader could be in their 30s and be the oldest of the batkids. Especially if reader has gone their whole life never knowing bruce until know or known them in the last couple of years.

Reader is a grown ass adult, whom bruce and the family have no real authority over considering their age. The audacity of batfamily as well, y'all are really out here bullying a grown adult like?????? Honesty if they wanted to they could just leave, like for real. Also technically speaking, if reader is near bruce's age, then most of the boys neglected reader is paired with romantically would be considered significantly younger, and I don't think reader would really date youger than themselves.

But you know who they could date, the league. Reader might be slightly younger but it wouldn't be considered an inappropriate age gap like we be seeing here on this damn app. Anyone only the Justice League is free game for her. God could you imagine what Bruce feel if he ever caught one of his own colleagues was shaking up with his oldest kid, especially if it was somone like Wonder Woman or Superman, the two people he is closest to.

I LOVE THIS IDEA OVERWORKED ADULT!READER

Just thinking about a reader who is an overworked office worker at Wayne Enterprises, the same company that Bruce owns, without knowing that Bruce Wayne is their biological father. They go through years of their lives not really knowing their dad and not really caring, like Father's Day was just another Mother's Day to them, or they would give Father's Day presents to their uncles or grandpa. They never really cared to know their dad and never really cared to even see him. Their mom said he was just a feeling that she had when she was 18; it wasn't too important, and she can hardly remember. But then again, who forgets Bruce Wayne? At that time, he wasn't the infamous playboy, just a hurt rich kid with too much eyeliner. Bruce wasn't even aware of their existence until now.

Just think about it: you're going out on a daily walk in Gotham Park when all of a sudden you run into Dick and his cute little dog, Haley. You play around with the puppy for just a while before you go back on your walk. Dick is practically blushing because, wow, you're so good with animals and you're so kind and nice—not to mention you remind him of somebody, but he can't put his finger on it. The next thing you know, you run into Tim, who's having trouble with the vending machine. You teach the kid a small trick: hitting the vending machine at least three times on different sides, and boom, energy drinks fall out. You hand him the other one while walking away, and he thinks you're the coolest person to ever step foot on this Earth. You catch Damian sketching in the park and compliment him on his artistic skills. He never cared for silly compliments, but yours felt so real, so kind and genuine.

You meet Steph Batgirl; you both are ordering the same combo meal just for you to say, "Jinx, you owe me a soda!" Being playful, she gets you an extra Sprite. You accidentally drop your wallet, and Cass picks it up. She doesn't say anything, so it makes you think that she's mute or deaf, so you end up signing "thank you" to her. She's over the moon, ecstatic even. Duke is complaining about how his favorite coffee shop is out of matcha drinks. You end up buying matcha—a stupid trend—and you give him your drink. He's left flustered, struggling to say thank you.

At the bar, you're out with some coworkers drinking until you and your work crew are singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall." Jason, who's at the same bar, catches you. He thinks your drunk expressions are pretty cute, and they all share the same experiences they had that day with each other. They figure out they met the same person, surprisingly similar to Bruce. They also list key traits like how you're tall, your long dark hair, your tired eyes, your slumped posture, and your amazing charm, which managed to make them become yanderes in under a minute. They share this information with Bruce, who's completely confused as to why all of his little birds would be obsessed with you.

He finally sees you in the office, snoozing over a pile of paperwork. He has paternal feelings towards you, wanting to wrap you in his thousand-dollar suit coat. He puts it over your shoulders and takes the workload off of you. The next thing you know, he's reading into your files, trying to learn everything and anything about you, just to know that you've been working here for three years. He learns that even though you do an exceptional job, your mother is the old flame he had during his first years as Batman. He takes a piece of your DNA—an energy drink you've been chugging down your throat—just to realize that you are his blood. But how can he just step into your life without you even knowing him? Any of the Birds stepping into your life without you regarding them— to you, they're just a bunch of strangers that you've had silly moments with; to them, you're family. I have a hunch that they knew you for years, at least more than the big sibling that somehow managed to run away.

[dandydilfdiddler]

You fucking slaughtered me with the last one. We are now pivoting from my doom scrolling to read all your Bob works I can before I need to go to sleep for work tomorrow. Let’s play the age-old game of chicken, I can read all this and get enough sleep to function ☺️

Oh god jealousy as a tag

Oh, fucking helllllllllllll too young as a tag. Yep. I am SAT

Furiously writing notes to pretend that this would work irl “You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.”

I love when Bob gets annoyed at others antics when it comes to a reader insert. Like yes, please, be possessive.

Yes Nat, you fucking tell them. A GIRL’S GIRL!

Oooooooo tension! A date that ain’t with Bob. Already we are setting up for that jealousy tag and I am on the edge of my seat

Jake is an antagonistic little shit and the way you write the team dynamic is how I aspire to write for multiple characters being in focus at once

“Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.” Dropping to my knees and barking like I want it. Already. This. Yummy. This is what my creative writing teacher would call an A+ at show not tell

“He lives for it.” Heart ripped out and thrown across the room because this is delicious and also OUCH

Okay, Reuben this is fic #2 you are a good wingman. I love you once again I give a lil friendly smooch on your forehead for being a catalyst to try and shove Bob and I together like a toddler ramming their doll’s faces

Fuckkkkk. If I had a peen, it would be hard at “You’re young—too young.” Something about those lil (or big… who said that) gaps that are just the right side of making one person feel like a creep are my Achillies heel. I know it’s toxic. I know it’s bad. But good god I am called DILF diddler as a username for a reason. I wanna be that controversially young girlfriend. I started to listen to fucking ethel cain and lana del rey because they are apparently the sirens of this sorta relationship (citing tiktok as my source here)

“And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.” SHOT THROUGH THE HEART AND YOU’RE TO BLAME

“he’s a carpenter” Baby I am thinking of Joel Miller. Why he gotta be named Ryan, my vagina just curled in on itself to run away

Ew. Okay yeah, I see why he was named Ryan. That is such a Ryan thing to do. The first Ryan to hit on me dead ass went “wanna play the firetruck game” and if you know anything about that it is for real the childishness. No offense to any other Ryans reading this but imma side eye you for that shit at this point.

OOOOF FUCK eMotIoNaL dAmAgE with “you’re not him”

Sobbing helping at the bar is so cute. I love this. This is a dream actually. Almost wanted to give up STEM so I could bartend because I read a book called the Drunken Botanist and I loved it so much

A compliment. I am tucking it away. This would work on me, I fear.

Lmfaooooo see you wrote this just for me because the next line!!!!!!!

Bob! Improper! Commenting on a girl’s-

Oh shit. Get outta my head! I am trying to be witty and funny to add to commentary and it is exactly right. The way I can see myself in this character!

“Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”  HELLO??? Can you chill on dropping banger quotes because I have flooded my friend IRL with little snaps of this. She is tired of my shit, she doesn’t like Bob and I need to be able to chill out about how fucking good your writing is

AHAHAHA CALL HIS ASS OUT

AHAHA PENNY CALL HER ASS OUT

I loved nights on the ships… I did oceanography and my shift was always 3 pm to 3 am and it was the coolest. When we weren’t actively sampling and in the research zone the crew showed me that you can shine lights off the side of the boat and get cute lil squid to zoom up at the surface… also may I interest you in bioluminescent phytoplankton propaganda… or hell even a copepod… Please love nights.

Jake with whale noises? Adorable. Stop making him cute when he annoys me lmfaoooo

THE DODGE TO COYOTE I AM SCREAMING

Lmaoooooo Nat said “girl I don’t even play about him”

CORRECT IF HE’S GREY I LIKE TO PLAY

MAVVVVV YOU KILL ME

I feel like a fucking pavlov’ed dog ““Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.” and my body is creaming… screaming for more

Ugh jesus christ I have nothing appropriate to say about an older man, even if it is slight, giving direct orders and fixing something. Nothing appropriate and I cannot scare off my new favorite fic writer addiction okay. So all I will put for this one is kgnojsnegouhgoirh mmmmmmmmm

“the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful.” I lied. I cannot hold myself back from this. I am a freak on main and proud about this man and how hot you make me during your writing. BARK BARK BARK BARK

ONLY YOURS HOLD THE FUCKING PHONEEEEEEE AAAAAAAA

“My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” I feel like he already put a baby in me from this point at the fic - and if it didn’t take, we’re trying again until it does

Jake isn’t wrong, he is annoying but he isn’t wrong

LMFAO BECAUSE THEY DO IT QUIETLY

“Did Bob really just override a direct order?” It’s just a fic I say to myself as I start to sweat because fuck that is hot. Feels all protective and shit and there is nothing quicker to make me swoon and open my legs to bring him home than that

Oop I know logically that would piss me off out in the field so this is correct but also awwww protective mmmmmm and bossy like yes daddy (who said that)

I hate to love you Bagman

DAMN RIGHT NO MAN IS THE BOSS ONCE THOSE DOORS OPEN

Okay that was a lie. A 24/7 dynamic but still, for the purposes of this, DAMN RIGHT

Yeah, you fucking apologize (adorable baby I could never be mad at you)

“I know”… “That’s why I’m apologizing”… HE’S A GOOD MAN SAVANNAH

“I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”  I’m in love. Period. I’d fold like laundry with extra fabric softener

“His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. ” Breath hitch? Baby not just that is reacting to this kinda move. I’d be belly up and panting

“Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”  YOU EDGE ME AGAINNNNN. I should expect it but I am ANGRY. I am throwing my phone, apologizing to it, and starting back up

“renowned little chaos gremlin” this. This. This. I need it. I need to be this. I am not getting called this IRL. I need this.

Grinder. GAE

OOOP he gave the call sign… ooooop

“you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement” I am not living up to my full potential and I never have been more disappointed in myself

HE IS GAY

HAHAHAHA

U R HILARIOUS

Oh god remember that hangman x bob fic I mentioned before? I also indulge in hangman x rooster because I like slutting this annoying fuck out like some sort of cheap whore. Please tell me he swings that way too in this fic. I need queer free ride for all jake

“has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.” okay I give up because there is no way my brain can produce lines like this

Lmfao Grinder is gonna wind her ass up. Fucker knows hook, line, and sinker

“I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”  Does he take friend applications because I need to learn from this diva

“Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”  HELL YEAH BROTHER *caw caw*

My grandmother had us in bowling lessons during the summer because she played league and to see this lil bowling part mentioned warms me

“All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis?” A GIRL IN STEM MENTIONED. Ah another level of warmth.

Nat knows, she always knows, that is a woman who could read a room the second she came out of the womb

Everyone shortens his name to Roo and I always giggle going ‘cock’ because I secretly have the humor of a teenage boy

I need to know, is Bob just a leg man? Like my own HC this man when asked is all about the ass.

Unofficial nicknames because I am invested in their silly shorts. Maverick - Rick (like a Rick Roll because he’s old). Rooster - Cock. Hangman - Bag. Phoenix - Phone (big brain for you I love it). Payback - Back (because Pay is too easy). Fanboy - Boy (why does make me giggle). Coyote - Yote (I am from a college town that this was the official shortened name for the coyote mascot).

Jake you play too much - good for you

FOGGY GLASSES ARE BACK I LOVE YOU

Lmfaooo baby boy the question was noton the dress

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” *clutching my pearls* bitch I woul fold too. My fucking glasses foggin too irl in my mf air conditioned room!!!!!

Omg Fboy is so much betterrrrrr yes!!!!! Yessssssssss!!!!! Nix like the goddess. I see you, intentional or not I see you.

Mickey, honey, lemme kiss your booboo

Marry me Nat

My grandma would offer me up to him on a silver platter to secure his bowling for her league

The only time I crave to be objectified is by fictional characters and I am eating this with a spoon

Bradley, I would love to see you in a skirt. I would pay for it really. I love hairy thighs. I need them.

Oh not the hand kink. Oh god. Oh no. I am about to start being disrespectful because Lewis Pullman has veiny arms and I have been looking at them all day.

Big fucking hands.

Hands to choke me with. Hands to grip me with. Hands to hold the heft of a titty or an ass cheek

Yep, there you are, correct.

Mmmmmm fucking MARK ME

“You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.” Correct. Right. Yes. You feel me. You basically writing fucking poetry as is

“And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?” Suddenly I am Rhett Abbott and I am about to RIDE

HE OFFERED HELP!!! YES

Solid grip, not too tight, like holding your dick - who said that!

Oh what I wouldn’t do to feel this man’s thighs. Why did you remind me they exist and not have me on top of them?

Oh he would talk you through it. Nothing like dirty talk with him

I BEG, PLEASE LET IT BE A BONER

BATHROOM? BONER. PLEASE BE A BONER.

I am a dog with a… bone… heheehe

A bitch in heat

Okay I’m done, not sorry about this though. You have had two fics and so far, no fucks and I am just foaming at the mouth

See? Natasha knows. She just knows things. These boys are idiots and I love them. My idiots.

AHAHAHA NATASHA FUCKING CLOCKED THAT SHIT TOOOOO

I swear on Lewis Pullman’s veiny arms, this has not been edited or changed as I go on. I write a thought like I am narrating, raw and unfiltered for the purpose of expressing my joy at these fics. All natural.

Lmfaoo Jake just caught up on the “extra”

He is pretty. You be right.

Because nerds are hot. Like it feels almost like a circle rather than a venn diagram as to kinky/freaky and nerds. Especially if you throw autism in there. “oh you mean direct and clear outlines of everything in the bedroom? Oh masks so I don’t have to make eye contact?” come on.

OH PLEASE TELL ME YOU WROTE FLOYD AS A FREAK

Begging. Knees. For you. Please write a lil freaky deak.

Brother coded Bob for Nat. Sobbing. Yes. Heart. Love. (but being between them both… yeah my bisexual heart also loves that flavor).

No distance, I wanna cuddle the man. He is warm. Short skirts means needed huddles for warmth

I have written so much my notes on my desktop is freaking out, look what you have done

OUCH REJECTION NOOOO OUCH MY HEART SOBBING THIS HURTS

“what did you do” immediate. 0 lead up. No other question about it being me/her. Accuse and abuse. I love you Nat.

OOOOOF THE DISAPPOINTMENT HURTS ME

The sound of ‘ooo I fucked up’ is just looping

Bradley revoked his first name privileges for that fuck up. Called him “Floyd”

Nat should still chew him out imho

A good man fears women

I am also terrible because I am eating his guilt like fine caviar

Oh shit my chest hurts at that ignoring. Props to you being a good writer but this better resolve fast because I need to breathe

Awwwwww he needs me

“because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you.” twisting the fucking knife

“Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.” YEAH BUDDY!!!!! YES YOU ARE

I think he is an ass man, this is another mention. A solid choice.

Okay, once again I must say, fictional men being like “yeah I got off to you” fucking HOTTTTT

Oh no… oh no… Bob is a boy. Boys are stupid. Bob isn’t gonna know this man is gae is he

And like that my chest hurts more. This feels like when I went through my breakup. Fuck you, but also I love you but also fuck this hurts. You tagged it properly, this was my own fault and I have no one else to blame but damn it.

No dummy you don’t have the right to be mad even if you are wrong

Mother fucker I been fucking waiting. Trying. Asking. Oh you stupid son of a bitch my chest doesn’t hurt no more I wanna start swinging. You cute but that doesn’t make you immune from catching these hands

Oh you stupid girl, Trevor is also right

I broke my cardinal rule about hating the miscommunication trope because I loved your writing, you should know this and also feel special.

Nat you are a good friend and I love you

I would be so mad if he kept correcting, I love you boo but one more word and I am crashing my plane into yours. You are just a jilted lil bitch (said with love and affection)

NOT THE EJECT – PLEASE I SAW WHAT HAPPENED TO GOOSE

“Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.” This is what I would read in a traditionally published book at the end of a chapter that would leave me screaming

“softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.” I’m gonna kill myself

Oh no, I’m really gonna kill myself this hurts so bad

Where is my comfort you hoe

WHER ARE YOU GOING NOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOO

“The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family.” Girl I know you read the other bits I wrote, I know you know this is my shit. I know you know that this is going to make me weep from love

“In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously.” Stop being the funniest one in the room, some of us also have to creatively spin to get readers

Nat is a tattle tale, I love you

I love this internal monolog. I would quote it all but you read it and I just am giggling at it. There is a lil comfort for the HURT YOU THREW AT ME

Nat is an accomplice, I love you

He has a throw blanket, this is a MAN

He makes a house a home

Awwwwwww helps, points back for the meanie

I am screaming at my screen, wanting to smack the both of them

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” It’s giving… “You are what I treasure most in this world. Not because you are pretty. Not because you are smart. But because you love me and I love you and you can try to deny it, but I will not believe you. When certain atoms collide, it is instantaneous and it is inevitable. It’s basic chemistry.”

IT’S CHEMISTRY

Aka you wrote a line that invokes the same level of awe and swooning and love that damn near broke me in Lessons in Chemistry

Oh it keeps going, oh god, oh I am not going to survive this

I came this far to crash too

HELP I’VE BEEN WOUNDED. He didn’t ruin anything you sweet stupid man

Oops when you assume…. It makes an ass out of you and me lmfaoooooo

“His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.” FUCKING FINALLYYYYYYYYYY

“It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.” Hey. Is there a way that you are not poetic because I love it but also you just upped this from a simple kiss to something that has me having to pause to take a breather and remember my senses.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” Help. Help. Help. 911. I need help. This is too good. Too sweet. It hurt for so long my body cannot handle this. It feels like I am being chased by a bear.

The goddamn shirt

Give her yours

Take your shirt off

I know what you’re packing Floyd

Lay a claim if it bothers you

AHAHAHA FINALLY A FUCK

Try

Oh good god

END

END

END

WHERE?

YOU HAD A POST ABOUT WRITING SMUT FOR BOB BEING HARD AND YOU FUCKING END THIS ONE TOO WITHOUT PEEN?

GIRL

GIRL

GIRL

HEY

THIS

EDGING ME

I NEED A COLD FUCKING SHOWER

I AM

I DON’T

THIS

YOU

>:[

Damn it the writing is amazing I can’t even be pissed but I need feral bob

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

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

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

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

He lives for it. 

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

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Bob is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

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

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

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

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

He blinks fast. “No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

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

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

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

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

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

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

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

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

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

Well... almost everyone. 

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

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters. 

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

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

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

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

You swear your knees nearly give. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

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

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

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

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

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

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

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

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

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

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

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

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

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

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all look at you, confused. 

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

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

You frown. “What?” 

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone falls silent. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Bob - 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

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

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He barely sleeps that night. 

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

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

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

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

An hour passes. Nothing. 

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

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

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

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

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

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

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

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

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- You - 

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

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

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

“You heard me.” 

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

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

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

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

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trevor…” 

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

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

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

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

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

But deep down, you know the truth. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vex—” he tries again. 

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

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

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not going to make it. 

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

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

Then—freefall. 

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

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

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

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

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

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Proud X

Hardersson x Teen!Reader

Summary: Your reward for Golden Girl

The actual ceremony is a bit of a blur.

You don't remember any of it at all.

It's like you were in your hotel room and then you blinked and opened your eyes on stage.

You're saying something in Swedish but the words are coming out too fast for your brain to catch up with. Swedish melts into English as you thank your old club for giving you the platform to show the skills that gave you the opportunity to win the Golden Girl award.

After that, it's another blink and you're in the car.

The award is on your lap and your mothers are sitting either side of you and, for the life of you, you still can't understand what you said.

But if what Pernille says is accurate, it was a very good speech.

It's only when you're laying in your bed days later that you decide that you can't be bothered to rewatch it all.

You've seen clips of the ceremony on social media and Pernille, like she usually is, is right.

Your name was called for the award even though everyone already knew you would win. You stood and turned.

You gave Magda a hug. Pernille kissed your head.

You walked onto stage to receive your award. You stood by the microphone.

You thanked a lot of people in Swedish, your mothers, your coaches on the national team, your friends. You thanked everyone at Arsenal for pushing you as far as you could go and supporting you in the games. You even thanked the Bayern staff for their continued support.

All in all, it was a good speech. A humble speech which you think must have driven Magda crazy. She's always telling you to be more proud of yourself and your achievements.

You bring the award with you to training and smile in your Bayern kit as the media team make you pose and take pictures from as many angles as they possibly can.

"Look at you, golden girl," Georgia teases as you slump down into your seat next to her," Coming to mingle with the rest of us normal people?"

You roll your eyes as you poke at the pasta on your plate. "The only normal you are, G, is normally annoying. That's not a good thing."

Georgia clutches at her chest dramatically. "You wound me! I'm wounded! How will I ever survive?!"

"I'm sure you'll find a way," You reply dryly as you stare at your food.

"What is up with you today? You're all...depressed!"

"Y/n doesn't like too much attention," Pernille says as she takes the seat next to you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your seat as she does so," This award thing has thrown her a little bit."

You sputter out some unintelligible noises of indignation that Pernille smiles fondly at.

"It's the truth," She tells you," You'll have to get used to it, you know. You're a very exciting young player."

You groan and Georgia giggles. "Which journalist have you stolen that from?"

Pernille just laughs, pulling your plate towards her to pile more food onto it from her own. "You'll get over it soon. Just remember that this Golden Girl award is a good thing."

"Is it?"

Pernille nods with finality. "Yes. It is."

"How come?"

"You'll see."

Georgia whistles lowly. "Well that's cryptic."

Secretly, you agree with her.

In the coming days, you find her words playing on your mind again and again. It's amazing how the more time passes, the more Georgia's words seem like the best way to explain the situation.

Magda and Pernille are whispering every hour of the day. They're whispering to each other in the morning when you come downstairs for breakfast. They're whispering to each other when you all come home. You know they're whispering when you go to bed early and they stay up with their glasses of wine.

They're planning something and when the pair of them plan something, you stay on edge.

You can't quite work out what it could possibly be but you hope that it's not a party.

A party to celebrate your award sounds terrible right now.

You think they know you're suspicious too.

Magda does at the very least because she's started to dramatically creep around like she's in a cartoon when she sees you watching her.

You roll your eyes every time.

It looks like you'll have to be the mature one out of the two of you.

That's usually the case anyway.

Especially now when Magda's hands cover your eyes and guide you to sit on the sofa.

"Keep them closed!" She warns you.

"Well I can't exactly keep them open with you blocking everything out, can I?"

You hear her laugh and it makes the corners of your mouth poke up too.

"Okay," She says," Are you ready?"

"I don't know what I'm meant to be ready for."

Magda ignores you. "Okay, Pernille! She's ready!"

You strain your ears to hear Pernille's footsteps. They're slow and you frown.

"If this is a party-"

You don't get to finish though because something gets put into your lap.

It's kind of big and warm and...

Breathing?

Magda's hands leave your eyes and you look down at your lap.

"Baaa!"

A lamb looks up at you. White wool on its body but a perfectly round, black-wooled face.

"Baaaa!"

You look over in shock to your mums and Pernille hands you a bottle.

The lamb on your lap latches on perfectly, his little tail wagging as he feeds.

"Is...Is he?"

"Yours?" Magda hasn't stopped smiling. "Yeah. He's yours. Poor boy got rejected by his mum so he's going to need to be fed every few hours. You up for it?"

"What about training?"

"He's allowed to come with," Pernille says," We've already checked. You can bring him everywhere."

Your throat closes up like it always does when you're a bout to cry, completely overwhelmed by your mothers and this new little lamb that happily suckles on his bottle.

"I..." You fight to stop the tears from dropping down your cheeks. "Thank you. He's beautiful."

"Of course, sötnos. You deserve him," Pernille says with a warm smile.

Magda's got the same one on her face. "Just, er, make sure he doesn't sleep in your bed, okay? He's got his own."

You agree but you know the handsome boy in your lap is going to be sleeping in bed with you until he's too big to fit.

Magda doesn't need to know that though.

[yokedtablet]

Ellie asks Abby for advice on how to up her strap game and Abby volunteers to help her practice before her date (with Dina?)

-🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

Off Limits

Contents: cursed roommate situationship, TENSION, teasing, minor humiliation, cheating, bad decisions, strap-on sex, strap sucking, dom bottom Abby, sub top Ellie, big clit Abby (it’s canon I swear), the boxers stay on during sex, overstimulation, unresolved feelings wc: 3.6k

“You’re wearing it wrong.”

This is the worst idea she’s ever had. 

Ellie’s standing in the living room, purple silicone strap jutting from her fully-clothed hips like a flag at half-mast. Abby leans over the kitchen counter, scrolling on her phone, eating chips with the other hand.

Ellie turns to head back to her room. Terrible, terrible fucking idea, asking Abby for help. “I’m just going to—”

“Don’t go anywhere, Williams.” Abby sets down her phone, stretches. She’s wearing a black tank top that clings to her abs, arms and shoulders on full display—not that she usually covers up around the house, anyway. “Let me see.” 

Ellie just stands there, face turning progressively more red as Abby crosses the living room with no urgency. And then she gets on her knees. 

That makes her feel something she absolutely, definitely, should not feel. 

Because this is for Dina. It was Dina’s idea in the first place, when they stopped outside the sex shop window and Dina dragged her in. Dina was the one that picked it out, and Ellie didn’t buy it then—she had to order it online, so that the cashier with the cool lip piercing wouldn’t know it was her. And also so she could surprise her girlfriend.

The problem is, she has no idea how to use it. Apparently, she doesn’t even know how to wear it.

Abby doesn’t seem to feel weird about this interaction at all, though. She tugs lightly at the harness, pulling Ellie’s hips toward her. Ellie tries to stay stable, balanced, as she loosens them, then pulls the strap downward so that it sits lower, almost between her legs. 

When Abby cinches the harness tighter, she feels the soft plastic settle against her clit, which is probably an indication that it’s in the right place. It also makes her suck in a breath, blush deepening. 

“Yeah, that’s better.” Abby stands and heads back to the counter, this time facing away from Ellie. She leans over to grab another chip, thighs and glutes stretching through jogging shorts. 

Ellie doesn’t really remember how to breathe. 

She reaches down, not really thinking, and strokes the shaft of the strap downward, testing the friction against her body. It gives her a warm, tingly feeling. Abby’s not looking—but she still shouldn’t be jerking off in front of her. 

They’re roommates. They’ve lived together for four years, and Ellie’s gone through several different girlfriends in that time. Dina for the past two. Dina is the only one who’s stuck. Abby never really warmed up to her, just kind of tolerated her presence through silent movie nights and awkward morning-after breakfasts. 

Why she agreed to help Ellie with her little problem, Ellie has no idea. 

Abby turns, still leaning over the counter. Her eyes flick to Ellie’s hand on the strap. Her expression doesn’t change. Not much.

“Do you know how to use it?”

“Would I have asked you if I did?” 

Ellie hates this, hates the way Abby needs to feel superior no matter what it is they’re doing—has to drag the admission out of her that she’s actually pretty lost and incompetent. Usually it’s about stupid things, like how Ellie doesn’t know what the check engine light on her dash means, or how to change the tire on her bike, or how to put together their IKEA coffee table. That night, Abby came home after she’d been working on it for hours, grabbed one of the legs out of her hands, re-attached the bracket she’d had on backwards, and handed it back. Then gave her a shrug to say, it’s easy when I do it.

Abby settles onto the couch, thighs spread wide, staring her down. “Show me.”

“You—what?”

“Show me what you’re going to do with it.” 

Ellie doesn’t know exactly what she’s asking for, and thrusting her hips into the air with the strap attached feels like potentially the most humiliating act on earth, aside from that one time she slipped and fell in the shower and had to talk Abby out of calling the fire department. 

Ellie groans, shoulders collapsing. “This is stupid. I’m not doing this.”

Abby softens, but just a little. It feels immediately condescending. “You need to get over whatever weird hangup you have about this if you want my help. Seriously. It’s not a big deal.”

When Ellie doesn’t react, she gives her a gentle nod. “C’mere.”

Ellie approaches, slowly, like she’s afraid Abby will reach out and bite her at any moment. 

“So, you want to surprise her. You want fuck her with it for the first time, like she’s been begging you to. Right?” 

The way she says it is so… clinical. Her eyebrows jump, waiting for Ellie to respond. 

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna have to be more confident about it than that. Say it like you actually want to fuck her. Just pretend I’m her for a second.” Abby shifts on the couch, straightening her back, sitting more upright.

Ellie laughs. “Is that supposed to be Dina?”

“Yes. Shut up.”

Ellie hums in the back of her throat. She studies the purple cock between her legs. She shifts her hips back and forth lightly, making it swing a little. Then she steadies it with her hand, allowing herself just a little bit of brushing contact with her clit. “Yeah, uh. Gonna fuck you so good, baby.”

Abby collapses back against the couch cushions. “Jesus, Ellie. No.” 

“What?!”

“Does that usually work with girls?”

“I don’t usually talk… that much.”

“Okay, fine.” Abby composes herself again, trying and failing to look like she’s not enjoying this. “No talking, then.”

Ellie slumps onto the couch beside her. She feels completely stupid, utterly ridiculous. “Maybe I shouldn’t even do this.”

It’s quiet for a minute, before Abby’s warm palm meet’s Ellie’s thigh, just above the knee. She squeezes lightly. It’s a kind of tenderness Abby doesn’t usually show her. “Ellie. You’ve been talking about this for months.”

She has. She’s been practically bouncing off the walls with nervous energy, waiting for it to arrive, thinking over and over about how Dina will react when she sees it. The surprise, those dark eyes glinting darker. The thought alone makes something in her stomach twist. 

Abby’s hand slides up her thigh, over her sweats, then boings the strap with one finger. It vibrates against Ellie’s pelvis, sending waves of not-quite-enough pleasure through her core.

“Besides, I think you look kinda cute with it on.”

“Abby. Stop.” Ellie hides her face in her hands, trying to ignore the warmth in her stomach—which is inevitably spreading to her cheeks. She’s always been extremely easy to fluster, and Abby knows exactly how to take advantage of that.

“I’m serious.” From behind her hands, Ellie feels the change in Abby’s tone. No longer teasing or condescending. Like she actually means it. “You could be a real menace with that thing if you wanted to.”

Twist and click. Something settles in Ellie’s mind, some knowing she’s always had but never looked at head-on—like she can’t look at Abby now. She’d hoped, always telling herself this was off limits, it could never happen. It’s wrong because Abby’s her roommate. It’s wrong because of Dina.

But suddenly Abby’s coldness toward her first real girlfriend makes sense. Abby, ever dissecting, can see her starting to understand. Seeing the threads come apart.

“Abby—”

“You wanted me to show you, right?”

She’s always been impulsive. It’s how she ends up working odd jobs she hates, or smoking cigarettes with strangers, or driving out to the country for no real reason. She acts before she thinks. It’s very her.

So she nods, body reacting before her brain can process what this really means.

Abby stands, this time a little more stiffly. She spends an unnecessary amount of time tightening her braid, and then she settles into a low kneel—between Ellie’s legs, nudging them apart slightly to make more space. 

Ellie can’t breathe. She can’t move. She sits there, completely still, just staring. And Abby stares back, eyes so hard they burn. 

And then that hand on her thigh again—this time on the inside edge, this time inching upward slowly, as a question. 

“Tell me to stop.”

She wants to. She should. But her throat is dry and whatever the fuck is happening right now is something she doesn’t want to end.

The pressing thought of Dina flutters and dissipates the moment Abby’s hand reaches the base of the strap, holding it gently. Looking up. She gives Ellie one final moment to resist, then places a soft kiss on the silicone tip. 

Ellie slaps a hand over her mouth to cover the pathetic sound that was about to come out of her. It’s not like she can feel it. But it’s exactly the absence of feeling, the promise of feeling, that makes her shudder. 

Abby smiles at her, sharp and devious. “Jesus, you’re a mess. I haven’t even touched you.”

Ellie’s hips push into Abby’s hand, thrusting the strap toward her—asking, begging, for something more. She knows how pathetic she looks. She knows it’s exactly what Abby wants, and she can’t bring herself to care. 

Eyes never leaving Ellie’s, Abby lowers herself until her cheek rests in the crook of Ellie’s hip—the warm, heavy weight of her, dampened through Ellie’s sweats. Then she licks a slow stripe from the base of the strap to the tip. 

She can’t hold it in this time—a moan that’s half curse and half nonsense and half “Abby,” which is too many halves, because Ellie is in pieces. She grabs for Abby’s hair as some kind of anchor, pulling her head back a little too hard. 

Abby’s teeth are gritted, eyes hard. She lets Ellie hold her there for a minute too long, and then Ellie lets go, and Abby is pulling away from her, and fuck, Ellie feels like she’s been punched in the gut. 

Taller, bigger than she’s been, Abby towers over her. Her face is flushed with something like anger. 

“Room. Now.”

Words mean things, right? These words definitely mean something. Things that Ellie isn’t quite ready to make sense of. She is, however, leaping off the couch, following Abby’s fast clip to her bedroom, and stepping inside before Abby slams the door shut.

It’s warmer in here. The smaller space traps both their body heat against them in the layers of clothes on the floor and stacks of Abby’s books and bath towel on the wall and powerlifter posters on the walls. She feels Abby’s heat even before she gets close to her, and now she’s closing in, so close that Ellie can feel her breath on her forehead.

Thick fingers pinch the waistband of Ellie’s sweats. “You can keep these on, but it won’t feel as good.”

Ellie lets out a breathless laugh, trying hard not to press herself up against Abby’s toned body right now. “Are you trying to get me naked?”

Abby’s thumb brushes her jaw. “I don’t care—” Voice tense, full of care.

It shouldn’t be this easy. It shouldn’t feel this natural for Ellie to shrug the harness off her hips, and then her sweatpants, kicking them away, until she’s just in her boxers and a t-shirt that’s too thin. Abby’s thumbprint is searing into her skin, and she’s so close and too far away, and not touching her enough. Why won’t she touch her?

She doesn’t ask. She stands on her toes, reaching, and kisses her. Abby’s lips are hard, unresponsive for a moment, before they softly open. Ellie’s tongue slips inside. 

Firm hands pull at her waist, her hips, until their bodies are flush, and Ellie feels like she might catch on fire. She squirms, hand tensing in Abby’s tank top for dear life, when Abby dips a hand lower, between her thighs. She murmurs something into Abby’s mouth.

Her touch is blunt, antagonistic, fingers working over her underwear. Ellie’s knees give, only held up against Abby’s bodyweight. 

And then the touch is gone, and Ellie stumbles. Abby nudges her backward a little too hard, making space between them, just looks her over, up and down. Wipes her mouth on her forearm.

“That’s not what you asked me for.” 

It’s like a tearing, wrenching feeling in her gut. She fucked it up. She shouldn’t have kissed her. But then Abby’s eyes drift to the floor where the strap lies, discarded.

“Put it on.”

Abby peels off her tank top—she’s not wearing anything underneath—then her shorts and underwear in one smooth movement. And Ellie chokes on air.

It’s not like she’s never seen her half-naked. Abby’s not really huge on modesty. All those post-shower occasions Ellie ran into her in the kitchen, towel wrapped around her hips with nothing covering her top half, and tried incredibly hard not to stare. But now she sees it, the way Abby’s eyebrows arch—the way she dares her to look. It’s always been an invitation, a dare, and Ellie is the most oblivious fucking person in the world. 

She dares—allows—Ellie’s gaze to drift lower, to the light curls that start at the v-line of her hips and intensify over her mound, clenched between thick thighs. And—holy fucking hell. She’s imagined it, and she was actually right. The tip of Abby’s clit pokes through her curls, even standing like this. She would be on her knees with her mouth on it, right fucking now, if Abby didn’t clearly have other plans for her.

“Sit.” 

She makes it to the edge of the bed, just barely, before her knees give. She wants to collapse, but instead she props herself up, now sitting flush with Abby’s hips. There’s that thumb on Ellie’s jaw again. Brushing. It slips toward Ellie’s lower lip, urging her mouth open.

Then Abby is climbing on top of her, straddling her hips, weight sinking into the mattress. Her warm thighs frame Ellie’s, the weight of her hips coming to rest on Ellie’s pelvis. 

The purple strap rests between them, against Abby’s abdomen and mound. Ellie can only admire it there, the way it brushes soft curls with the gentle movement of their bodies. 

“If you don’t want—”

“Abby.” It’s all she can get out, and Abby knows exactly what she means. How fucking dare she think Ellie would back out now. 

That’s all it takes. 

Abby rises to her knees, all concentration and flexed muscle, and positions the strap where she needs it. The moment Ellie feels the tip meet resistance, base rutting low into her clit, she starts to whimper. She grabs onto Abby’s ass just to have something, anything solid to hold onto, and Abby hisses as she sinks down onto it, silicone stretching that ring of tight muscle. 

“Fuck, Abby.” Wetness spreads inside her boxers. She knows she’s ruining them. She’s just barely holding it together, because Abby is giving Ellie her full weight, the strap buried inside her. They barely move, Ellie just feeling the pressure against her, watching Abby’s chest tighten, her breaths get shallow. 

Abby grabs the back of her neck and pulls her into a kiss. She’s rough, needy, tongue searching. Abby lifts herself and sinks back down, and all the warmth and clenching sends ripples down the shaft and straight through Ellie’s core. 

Her hips rise to meet Abby’s—at first tentative, then giving her more. More impact, more depth, until she feels Abby growl against her throat. Ellie grips her ass tighter, soft and tense all at once, and uses it to thrust herself upward until she’s doing most of the work. 

Every thrust sends a spasm of need through her cunt, the strap hitting the top of her clit, not giving her enough. She’s sweating and Abby’s sweating and she needs more skin, so when Abby pulls her shirt over her head, she doesn’t resist. Abby’s fingers roll over her nipples, hard and pinching, like she’s trying to pull Ellie up into her harder. Her hips work frantically, not enough space under Abby’s, not enough—

“Can we—”

Abby’s nodding, stray hairs plastered to her scalp with sweat, and lifts herself off of Ellie’s lap slowly. Ellie nearly cums just from the sight of the strap, now slick with Abby’s juices, glistening. She pumps it in her fist, shameless, grinding the base into her clit and feeling her own wetness soak through her underwear. God, she needs this, she needs it so bad.

She needs Abby, who sprawls out on the mattress, knees bent so that Ellie can see exactly what she’s doing to her. 

She surprises Abby and herself, lifting Abby’s hips so they rest over her own. She wants to rush, heart and cunt throbbing in equal rhythm, but forces herself to slow down. To savor. She runs her hands up Abby’s thighs, thumbs coming to rest in curls that are already wet. Massaging slowly, inching toward the place Abby needs her most.

She watches Abby’s head fall back, abs clenching, hands grabbing blindly at the bedsheets. And Ellie is the one doing this to her. If she had known… If she had known, this would have happened a hell of a lot sooner. 

She sinks two fingers into Abby’s cunt in a way that makes her clench down instinctively. Fuck. The warmth, the sheer strength of Abby’s muscles, gripping her tightly. She can barely move inside of her, so she drags her other hand over Abby’s clit, which makes her hips buck into Ellie’s touch. 

It pulses against her palm. Abby makes low, desperate noises, hips grinding for more friction. Lost in it. 

Ellie savors this as long as Abby will let her. The teasing, the probing of Abby’s body for tender spots that make her twitch and whine. Using her wetness to slick her pulsing clit, stroking its underside, thumbing over the tip until Abby tries to jerk away, only succeeding in pressing herself harder into Ellie’s fingers. 

And she’s fed up pretty quickly, because Abby can be patient, but not that patient, and Ellie’s own need is rolling through her with a new intensity. So when Abby rasps out, “Just fuck me already,” Ellie does exactly what she asks. 

The strap sinks into her easily, this time with a thrust of Ellie’s pelvis, so hard it makes Abby gasp. There’s a momentary pause—a glance, a nod—another yes, another yes, I’ve been waiting, I’ve been trying to tell you, I need—

Ellie fucks into her fast and hard. This new angle brings the base of the strap against her perfectly, sliding against her clit until she’s climbing faster than she means to, nails biting into Abby’s thighs. Her pace gets erratic and reckless, knowing she should slow down, but fuck fuck fuck

She doesn’t mean to, she usually doesn’t, and it happens too quickly, and her own thighs are shaking under Abby’s as she comes, clit throbbing hard against the strap. She’s been holding her breath and lets it out, fingers scrabbling to ground herself, trying and failing—

Abby isn’t finished. She rolls her hips in slow circles, watching Ellie twitch and shudder. 

It’s too much. She burns hot, almost doubling over, but Abby’s ankles lock behind her. 

“Abby, I can’t—”

Abby pushes herself up just enough to yank Ellie down on top of her, legs still sealed around her hips. Ellie sinks deeper. Her open mouth meets Abby’s chest, tongue slick, tasting salt. 

“You will.”

Ellie tries to find her pace again, hips stuttering, head and gut swimming with too much, and she chokes out a sob as Abby rushes to meet her—harder, unforgiving. 

“Good, Ellie.” Her voice is tight and thick, and Ellie can feel her tensing erratically. “Just a— little more.”

And she tries, she really tries, redoubling her efforts, finding her rhythm despite the burning ache that threatens to rise up and overtake her. And it is, it will, she can’t—

She’s not sure if the wetness on her thighs is Abby’s or her own, because Abby grips her tightly, trapping her inside while she comes. Ellie can’t untangle herself, can’t possibly find her own limbs, the ends of her body, and doesn’t want to. She’s melted, fucked-out, not a thought in her mind besides this this this over and over. 

It’s Abby that moves, finally. Abby that lifts Ellie effortlessly off of her, out of her, Ellie whining at the loss of contact. Ellie can only flop into the bed as Abby draws herself up, stands naked in the room, lingers there.

“I need a shower.” She says it plainly, like she’d say to her any other day. Like she’s her regular roommate again, not the roommate who just fucked her until her brain stopped working. 

Abby grabs her towel, and then she’s gone.

Ellie listens—sounds of the faucet running, the shower turned on, water splashing at regular intervals. Abby washing her off. Her skin is still sticky with sweat, her lips raw, her boxers soaked with her and Abby all over them. She won’t ever take them off. 

This means something. There’s a shift, something falling, blankets sliding onto the floor. Ellie has broken something open inside herself with sharp edges that will cut whatever she touches. Abby, Dina, anyone who comes close. She knows this. She knows she’ll have to face it.

For now, she lets the rushing of the shower fill her ears, drown the buzzing in her mind. For now, she lets herself sink. 

-------

Taglist: @smellslike-updyke @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @cinnamonstrr @elliemulate @gardengnosticator @arabellyn @abbysreal-wife @winestainedwhiskers @thenameissnix @enmauchimaki @rareanduselessbird @justanotherabbystan @glass-apothecary @hostileplanets (reply to be added or removed!)

[mariacallous]

As a member of ICE, you may be wondering: How are the people we thrust into our vans supposed to know that we are, in fact, acting under color of law and not just kidnapping them? Can I really do this job while wearing either an Army uniform that I have assembled myself in a confusing, over-the-top way or the same T-shirt I just wore to my failed custody hearing?

Sure! Here’s what to wear to let everyone who interacts with you know that you are an agent of ICE!

Do we have a uniform? No.

Uniforms show that you are part of something and that there is someone to call if anyone interacting with you has a complaint. A uniform indicates that you are not a rogue criminal seizing someone’s mom and hurling her into an unmarked van without reading her her rights: You’re an officer of the law doing that.

Who are they going to call about some guy in an ill-fitting T-shirt and long shorts? Why, behind that face covering, he could be the billionaire Mark Zuckerberg! Better treat him as though he is worth billions and accountable to no one, just in case!

If you’re wearing a uniform, people will be disappointed when you fail to show them an arrest warrant before entering their place of work. If you’re not wearing a uniform of any kind, they won’t know whether to be disappointed until it’s too late!

If you decide to wear some sort of uniform anyway (Army Surplus? January 6 Surplus? Your choice!), you can still send the message that you intend to be accountable to no one by wearing a face covering.

A face mask can say so many things: “I’m trying to do my part to protect those around me,” or  the exact opposite. A balaclava can say, “I’m skiing!” or, “I’m about to commit a jewelry heist,” depending on how you accessorize it.

The point is, we want you to feel free to express yourself! ICE believes in freedom of expression, except for graduate students who want to lead protests or write op-eds. Your clothing should tell a story about you! Just not who you are or that you are acting in any kind of official capacity. Wear a pink button-down, a shirt, a jacket, and some sort of backwards hat. Wear something that looks like what Ben Affleck would wear if he were really going through it and was visiting the Dunkin’ drive-through on foot. Wear something that, if you showed up at a costume party in this outfit, would make people say, “A soldier, but wrong somehow, like he’s in a video game,” or, “Did I see you at Charlottesville?”

If the person you are shoving into a van has any inkling that you are an officer of the law, you are doing it wrong. You should look like someone who is going to Home Depot because you forgot something (what you forgot was an arrest warrant for your next stop).

As Coco Chanel said, whenever you assemble an outfit, before you leave the house, look in the mirror, and take one thing off! Specifically, your badge identifying you as an officer of the law. Coco collaborated with the Nazis.

Remember, the right ensemble and accessories can say: I’m accountable to the people of the United States, and we are still operating under rule of law. So before you get dressed each morning, think about the message you want your outfit to send. It shouldn’t be that.

[demie90s]

CONTROL YOURSELF

Diana Taurasi x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:Diana Taurasi isn’t just a legend—she’s your undoing. When Diana walks into the room, you unravel. She turns you quiet.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 2.5k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ:Emotional tension, slow burn, sensual power imbalance, psychological unraveling

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Sensual tension, emotional restraint, dominant energy, physical reactions (shaky hands, clenching, breathlessness), soft obsession

Oh, she makes it hard to keep it together. Not just a little hard. I mean shaky hands, deep breath, thighs clenched like I’m trying to hold the ocean in type hard.

Diana Taurasi walks into the room and suddenly I’m not me anymore. Not the talkative, bold, always-got-something-smart-to-say version everyone else gets. No. Around her, I’m soft-spoken. Careful. Shy in a way I didn’t even know I had the capacity to be.

She’s got this presence, man. This thing. It’s not just the way she looks—though God knows that’s enough. That tall, fine, smooth-walkin’, no-fucks-given look she wears like custom armor. No, it’s deeper. It’s the energy. The way the air shifts when she steps in. The way her eyes find yours and stay there.

She doesn’t glance. She locks in. And when it’s me she’s locking onto. I forget what day it is. What planet we’re on. If my heart is still supposed to be inside my body or beating out of my damn mouth.

It’s humiliating, how fast she strips me of everything I thought I knew about myself. Usually, I talk too much. Run my mouth ‘til people laugh or blush or roll their eyes. I’ve got charm, okay? I know how to work a room.

But Diana. She is the room.

When she walks in, my voice packs up and evacuates. My usual wit starts buffering. It’s embarrassing. One time she brushed past me to grab her water bottle and I froze so hard I almost dropped mine. Literally had to talk myself into walking away like a normal person.

She doesn’t even know. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. None.

She’ll ask me simple shit—where’s the file, did you see that article, how many points did I drop in that game—and I can answer. But I never just answer. I overthink. I look everywhere but at her. I speak slower, like my mouth is trying to figure out if it’s safe.

And if she steps closer. Oh, I’m done. Done. Like today.

She was trying to find something—an email or link or video or something she’d asked for. I had it. I always have it. I’m quick like that.

But instead of just showing her like a normal person, I tried to explain it. Roundabout, convoluted, damn near cryptic—because if I leaned in, if I touched her phone, if I got too close, I’d forget how to breathe. Again.

She finally groaned, impatient. “Oh my g—Just show me.”

My heart damn near stopped. My fingers twitched. My lips parted. But nothing came out. I just stood there.

She looked at me, exasperated and gorgeous. “You good?”

“…Yeah.”

Lie number thirty-four of the week. I am not good.

I am wet for absolutely no reason. Unnecessarily. Irrationally. Just standing there, fully clothed and dying. From what? Her voice? Her vibe? Her scent?

Yes. Yes I am bitch.

I don’t know how someone makes their presence sexy. But she does. Diana stands like she owns whatever’s beneath her feet. She speaks like she already knows what you’re thinking. She listens like she’s taking notes for later—like maybe she plans to undress your thoughts before your body.

I’m not saying she’s trying to ruin me. I’m saying if she did? I wouldn’t stop her.

I know I’m lucky my skin is dark because if I was lighter, she’d see it. All of it. The heat. The red. The God-help-me-she’s-talking-to-me glow. I play it cool, sit quiet, sip my water, blink slow—but inside I’m burning up. I’m clenching air. I’m whispering prayers to a God I don’t talk to unless it’s about her.

She doesn’t know what she does to me. But she will. One day I’m gonna crack. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But one day, Diana’s gonna say just show me again—and I’m gonna grab her hand, pull her somewhere private, and say:

“You asked.” And then I’ll let her see just how bad I’ve been holding it together.

It starts with eye contact. That’s it. That’s all. She looked at me. And I blinked for thirty whole seconds like my brain just hit the kill switch.

Diana fucking Taurasi. Six feet of God-did-something-dangerous, with a stare like a trigger and a mouth that moves like every word is an invitation. I was just trying to exist, just sitting there—probably on my phone, probably scrolling nothing—and then she looked at me. Not glanced. Looked. Made eye contact.

I folded internally. Like it was a damn natural disaster.

Horny. By accident. Like it wasn’t even a choice. A force of nature, plain and simple. Like catching a fever when the wind blows or crying in church for no reason. Just boom—there it was. Warm in my gut, hot in my thighs, my pulse skipping like it’s tryna warn me. I had to get up and walk. Couldn’t even fake it. Couldn’t stay seated and pretend I wasn’t suddenly soaked through my underwear from a look.

And here’s the kicker.

She saw me go.

I didn’t think she did. I was smooth, or so I thought. Kept my face still. Walked off like I needed air or a charger or whatever. Didn’t speak. Just dipped. But she noticed. And now she’s following me.

I feel her before I see her. That voice low and calm behind me. “You good?”

My hand hits the wall first. I’m in the hallway now, nowhere special. Just leaned against it like I’m catching my breath—which I am. But I don’t look at her. I can’t.

I just nod once.

“Mhm.”

She steps closer.

I swear… if she touches me, it’s over. If her hand so much as grazes my wrist, I’m liable to slide down this wall in front of her and embarrass my entire bloodline. Because the effect she has on me?

It’s not normal.

It’s chemical. Like smoke in the lungs or lightning through copper. My chest’s tight, and my thighs are tighter, and I can’t get my eyes off her mouth.

She’s talking. I don’t even know about what. But I’m watching her lips like they’re speaking directly to my clit. Every now and then I huff in response, just to let her think I’m listening—but my eyes are dazed. Half-lidded. Focused on the curve of her mouth, the flick of her tongue when she pauses.

Still, she doesn’t stop talking. She thinks I’m quiet. Thinks I’m being shy or rude or cold or tired. But I’m none of that.

I’m suffering.

Because I can feel this. Deep in my body. The ache. The slow throb of want that’s turned more into need. My heart’s not beating—it’s growling. There’s a tension just under my skin that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with wanting her teeth in me. Her tongue. Her hands. Something. Anything. My jaw’s clenched so hard, I could probably snap a pencil between my teeth.

And still… she’s talking. Still watching me. Still not touching me. I’m trying—trying—to stay upright. To be normal. To hold whatever shred of dignity I’ve got left.

But then she leans in a little.

Not even dramatically. Just slightly closer. Her hand lifts like she’s gonna gesture or fix her hair or something completely innocent—but the second her face gets near mine, I hum.

A soft sound. Barely a breath. “Mm…”

I drop my head like I’m praying. Like I’m trying to hold the devil back.

My back still against the wall, but my knees weaken. I slide down an inch. Just an inch. Just enough for her to notice. Mid-sentence, she pauses. I feel her watching.

My hands are on my thighs now, gripping hard, and my face is doing its usual thing—expression blank, eyes low, lips slightly pursed like I don’t give a fuck. But I do. I so do. I’m dying here.

I know—oh, I know—she can feel it too.

She has to. Either she feels it just as much or not at all. That’s almost worse. That means I’m suffering in silence, flushed and throbbing while she stands there, perfectly calm.

I’m melting against this wall like a bitch in heat, blinking slow, heart pounding like it’s trying to crawl out through my teeth.

If she kisses me, I’ll cum. (Yall im freaked out ion even care)

That’s the truth. She wouldn’t even have to do much. Just lean in and whisper something hot, something soft, and I’d fall to my knees, smiling through it. Shake all the way down. That’s how deep she’s got me. That’s how badly my body wants her.

She has no idea. Or maybe… maybe she does. Because when she tilts her head, lets those eyes drop to my mouth the way I’ve been staring at hers, I feel it.

She’s like a walking and talking hazard . And I’m ready to be destroyed.

Let me be real. I’m no better than a man right now.

Because she’s still talking—full sentences, gestures, probably saying something useful—but I don’t hear a damn word. Not one.

All I see is her mouth. Her lips. The way they move, stretch, curve, lick. God. The way her tongue presses into the corner when she pauses. Like that mouth wasn’t made for interviews or strategy. Like it wasn’t wasted on words.

No. That mouth. That mouth could be so much more useful.

On parts of my body that are literally screaming. Minus the ‘s.’ One scream. One sharp, high-pitched, echoing-in-my-spine wail that hasn’t left my chest since she looked at me.

I’m tryna be civil. I swear to God. Trying to be a good teammate. A good listener. A functioning human being. Hands folded. Back straight. Face blank.

Trying so hard not to look like I’m mentally straddling her. But my thighs are pressed together like they know what’s at stake and my breathing’s shallow, like I’m on the verge of doing something I can’t take back.

Because I want to ride her face. Plain and simple. No deep metaphor. No long, dramatic simile. Just raw, hot, face-riding desire that’s sat on my chest like a demon since I first caught sight of her smirk. What’s doja cat say?

Would I be embarrassed? Absolutely.

Would I finally get Diana? Also yes.

In this hallway that feels like it’s shrinking.

Like the walls are moving in. Like there’s too much air and not enough. Like my body’s overheating and there’s nowhere to put all this want.

I shift my weight against the wall like it’ll help. Like adjusting will make the tension less heavy, like pressing harder into this sheetrock will cool me off. It won’t.

It doesn’t. My thighs are burning, my jaw’s tight, and her voice keeps hitting my nerves like drumsticks.

Maybe she’s testing me. Seeing how long I can stand there, nodding every few seconds, while the fantasy plays behind my eyes on a loop. My hands in her hair. My hips rolling. My breath catching on her cheekbone.

The way she’d grab me if I tried to move too fast. The way I’d beg if she slowed down.

She’s just…talking. Still.

While I’m trapped here. Slick. Unwell. Fantasizing in high definition with my head cocked like, mhm, totally understand, when all I want to say is:

“Get on your knees or let me use your face. Either way, I’m not walking out this hallway dry.”

But I don’t say it. I bite my lip. Breathe slow. And hum again when she leans just a little closer.

The hallway feels smaller now. Like it’s closing in on me. Or maybe I’m expanding—swelling with heat and frustration and the kind of need that makes it hard to breathe through your nose.

Still standing in front of me, voice low and steady like always. I swear I’m trying to be normal. To nod when appropriate. To keep my face in that neutral, unimpressed shape I’ve mastered so well. But she’s not making it easy.

That soft curve of her upper lip, the way she licks the bottom one when she pauses. The slight tug at the corner when she smirks like she knows she’s said something slick.

L

The throbbing between my thighs is not figurative. It’s a full-blown, undeniable ache. I’m uncomfortable in my pants. Like, shifting-my-weight-awkwardly, don’t-look-too-close, “maybe I should go pray” kind of uncomfortable.

And still, she stands too close. And still, I try to act like a good teammate.

In my head I am riding her face.

Not slowly. Not romantically. I mean grinding down on it like I lost my mind somewhere near her collarbone. My thighs locked tight around her ears, my hand in her hair, my eyes rolled so far back I might see God—or whoever made her.

I’d probably cry later. Call myself names. Lock myself in my room and swear I’ll never be horny again.

She shifts, and I flinch. Not visibly—just a flicker of breath, a blink. But she reaches out, wraps her fingers gently around my wrist, and I almost die. Because that touch? It’s not even sexual. It’s not rough or teasing. It’s soft. Just a light hold.

Like she’s grounding me. Or guiding me. Or maybe I’m just moving on my own and she’s the gravity I’m giving into.

Either way—my body leans. I stand quickly, like I can outrun the feeling. Like if I move fast enough, I’ll be okay. But I’m not. Not even close. Because she doesn’t let go. She holds my wrist, and I move straight into her.

My forehead hits her chest. Soft. Warm. I melt. Fully.

My knees don’t buckle, but they want to. My eyes squeeze shut. My other hand curls at my side like it’s begging for permission to hold onto something—anything.

And then I whisper it.

“…Please stop touching me.”

It’s barely a breath. I don’t even say it with meaning. Not like I want her to stop.

It’s more like a cry for help. A weak protest from whatever part of me still has sense. Because I’m unraveling in real time. In her arms. In the middle of a damn hallway. With nothing between us but her shirt and the thin thread of self-control I’m holding onto by the grace of God.

I’m not a dom. I don’t have it in me. Not with her. Not with Diana, who’s steady and calm and so much older than me in a way that makes her dangerous.

She’s not new to this game. She knows.

That’s the part that scares me. She probably knows exactly what she’s doing. The subtle touches. The way she always gets close when she talks. The eye contact. The voice.

She’s built for control. She’s holding me up like she owns me.

Like she’s letting me pretend I still have a say in anything. I’m letting her. Because fuck… She’s so hot. And I am so, so gone.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264

[englishisaboutconfidence]

Morso d'amore : Part 2 of Ahyeon knows best

Dating Ahyeon was great for a number of reasons, one being you had a smoking hot girlfriend and second your girlfriend already knew you better than anyone else. The first few weeks of dating didn't cause you to have to change your life really at all. You still had the same classes with her and sat next to her during all of them. You two kept working on projects together for classes, so it was an easy excuse for your friends as to why you were with her and why you were leaving the dorm. She already knew how much of a nerd you were so she wasn't too mad (emphasis on too mad) when you would ghost her while gaming or when you would spend hours grinding solo queue. Although she did force you to be on FaceTime with her as often as possible if you were going to be gaming for a few hours. Plus, you know, the whole thing that you were having a very active sex life with one of the IT girls of your school, who also happened to be your childhood crush. So, to summarize your current situation, you had an amazing hot girlfriend, and your friends and family had no clue… or so you thought.

Your sister Pharita and told Ahyeon that she was going to spend the weekend with your parents, so naturally Ahyeon had let you know immediately, and you ran over to their dorm the second Pharita left for your parents. You barely had time to text Ahyeon you were there before she pulled you in and started making out with you. Stumbling onto her bed, you two were too busy fighting for oral dominance that neither of you noticed the door open and someone entered the room. Finally asserting our dominance, you went to remove Ahyeon's shirt when you heard a loud "Yaaaah". Spoked by this, Ahyeon released a loud shriek before hiding herself behind you. Turning around, you see your sister Pharita with her arms crossed and an annoyed look on her face.

"How long has this been going on? My best friend screwing my brother?"

Awkwardly rubbing the back of your head, you say "Uhhhh, like 3 weeks".

Unsatisfied with your answer, you feel Ahyeon gently elbow you in the stomach, "And its ummm dating. Yeah, we've been dating for 3 weeks."

Still waiting for the most important part, Ahyeon cleared her throat "And I love her and intend to marry her."

Finally satisfied, Ahyeon gives you a quick peck on the cheek.

"Really?" Pharita asked which you and Ahyeon responded with an affirmative nod.

"God, you two are terrible at hiding it then because I realized it the Sunday you two returned from "dog sitting" at our parents".

Surprised, you and Ahyeon questioned your sister "Huh! What do you mean you've known since then?"

"Please, you two were making googly eyes at each other while you Y/N dropped Ahyeon off at our dorm. Plus, you two forgot there was an eyehole in the door, so I saw your little goodbye kiss. Also, did you two dumbasses forget that I have both of your locations so I can see when you two disappear to Ahyeon's house to fuck, or our parents place, or a love hotel? And of course, the fact that you Y/N make any excuse to come over and you Ahyeon don't even try to hide how much you love lying all over him when we watch shows."

Annoyed that your little secret wasn't really a secret, you respond to your sister’s very logical statements with a very mature "yeah whatever."

Chuckling at your annoyance, Pharita continued "Ahyeon although I do wish you would have told me yourself that you finally got Y/N to confess."

"Sorry Rita, I was a little distracted since this dummy finally stopped ignoring his feelings and accepting that he's mine."

"It's okay Ahyeon, I'm just happy that we are going to finally be sisters in law sooner rather than later."

Confused by the entirety of the conversations, you interrupt the two dormmates and childhood friends "Wait, what are y'all talking about? Rita, you knew that Ahyeon liked me and that I somehow liked Ahyeon? And what do you mean sisters in law? We just started dating 3 weeks ago."

Amused by your confusion, Pharita just smiled and said "Oh please, both our families have known that you two were destined for each other for years. You forget, but you would not stop talking about and hanging around Ahyeon when y'all first met in the 1st grade. You think that Ahyeon's infatuation with yours started out of nowhere? Please, you would always gravitate towards her and eventually, I guess Ahyeon somehow started to like you despite how annoying you were. 'Ahyeon said this. Ahyeon did that. Ahyeon likes this instead'. Good lord you would not shut up about her. Although in middle school you stopped talking about her as much though it was clear that she still occupied your thoughts and feelings and started to try to suppress your feelings for her with annoyance; but that's when Ahyeon truly showed how much she cared for you. She started following you instead and talking to you and about you all the time, or maybe how central you were in her life was made more apparent when you tried to hide how much Ahyeon occupied your life."

Hearing the quick recount of your two’s history, Ahyeon just smiled and leaned forward into your back while capturing you in a back hug.

Still confused and even more so with how relaxed Ahyeon was, you turn to her "Why are you so relaxed? If you knew all of this, why didn't you tell me."

Still smiling at you, Ahyeon gave you a quick peck before saying "Because honey, you needed to come to that conclusion mostly on your own. Plus, I was never scared about losing you, even when you were 'pissed' at me, your adoration of me was easy to see through the pointed jabs and attempts at annoyance and indifference. I knew that you only had eyes for me and that my happiness and joy for life were essential to you, even when you didn't realize it. Do you remember when my grandma died?

You nodded.

"Well, it was a really shitty time especially the funeral, but honestly, it is one of my favorite days because it showed me what kind of person you are and how much I mean to you. Your family was of course coming to the funeral; but I remember Pharita telling me how much pressure you put on your family to show up not only on time (which is struggle especially for your dad); but an hour early to make sure that whatever my family and I needed, you could provide. Of course, you didn't yell at them like a drill sergeant; but you kept subtly reminding your mom and by extension your dad that my family would do the same and that it's probably really important and helpful to show up early and take care of us during such a tragic time. And then when you arrived at the funeral, I don't remember you ever leaving my sight. You didn't ever really come up and tell me you were there for me explicitly; but you kept hovering in case I needed something, I could tell that you had your eyes on me the entire time, and whenever I did ask for something, you pretty much sprinted and got it for me and made sure that you were the one taking care of me. And of course, you comforted me after the funeral when everyone had left, even our parents and Pharita and you just sat with me for hours. And when I went to leave, you softly grabbed my hand and tried to console me but instead started to ramble awkwardly which led me to smile for the only time that day."

"I don't remember your smiling; all I remember is my rambling and staring at our hands instead of you because I could barely look at you in the eyes because of how nervous I felt."

"Do you remember how I finally got you to shut up Y/N?"

Blushing, you nod your head.

"God you two are the worst. It's like watching a cheesy romcom; but I also love you two and wish you nothing but happiness; but can you let me know what the hell she has been since I wasn't there, and she never told me this story?" Pharita said exasperatedly.

Looking at her, you silently beg Ahyeon not to tell the whole story, but she just lovingly pats your check and continues on

"Okay Okay. Well, despite his truly terrible and inaudible rambling, I knew the gist of what Y/N was trying to say as well as where it came from, so I decided the best way to shut him up was to do something that would truly stun him, so I grabbed his face with my right hand and raised his face so our eyes met and kissed him right then and there, at the funeral home on the day of my grandmas funeral. Then while he was stunned and opening and closing his mouth like a fish, I told him the truth, that I loved him and wanted him to be my first and only for everything in my life. And this asshole just stared at me and right when I was about to turn and leave, heartbroken; he grabbed my hands and pulled me into a kiss and told me that he had no clue how or why, but that he knew that he loved me too and that something inside of him was telling him that I was the one for him. We then just stood there hugging for a while before he walked me home hand in hand. But of course, being Y/N, the next day he was back to his old self and kept acting like I was the bane of his existence when we both knew it was quite the opposite."

"Awwwww, that's so cute. Disgusting but cute. I didn't realize how in touch with your emotions you were Y/N." Your sister said.

"I'm not. I just can tell what my gut is telling me, and it told me that if I fucked that up then I would regret it for my entire life. So, I am not cute and that story doesn't need to be repeated".

"Okay sweetie" Ahyeon responded.

"I'm not!" You responded back like a child.

"Of course,"

"I'm telling you Ahyeon. That story is not sweet or cute and doesn't need to be mass spread."

Sighing softly, Ahyeon just said "Y/N honey, that story is going to be told at our wedding and probably plenty of times before that so you are just going to need to accept the fact that everyone is going to know you’re a big softie who is also absolutely whipped for your wife"

"Fine, but you were obsessed with me and that's how we got together so you're even more whipped, so ha."

"Of course," Ahyeon sweetly responded before shutting you up with a quick peck.

Smiling since she knew she had won, Ahyeon turned to your sister and asked, "So are you going to your guys' parents or was that just bait?"

"Oh, don't worry you two, I'm still going. Just needed to confirm my suspicions so now I can tell both families the great news. But don't worry, I'll make sure they don't do anything tonight or tomorrow; but be prepared for Sunday because they will summon you then."

"Wait, shouldn't we be the ones to tell them?" You quickly questioned your sister.

"It's fine Y/N. They deserve to know ASAP, plus let's be honest, if you had it your way, no one would know until after the wedding."

Knowing she was right and that this was probably the best way for the news to be revealed to the parents aka you would have a 2 days to prepare for the Spanish Inquisition as well as an overindulgent celebration of you getting your head out of your ass, you just nod and say "Fine, just make sure we get to eat steak on Sunday and no one bothers us till then"

Smirking, Pharita responded "Of course dear brother… although I will tell them that you are busy making them grandchildren" before running out the door laughing.

"Wait, Rita. Don't say that!" you yelled at her retreating figure before laying on Ahyeon's bed sighing and saying "God they are going to be so annoying on Sunday. At least we have 36hrs before then. So, what do you want to do Ahyeon?"

Turning to look at her, you are met with an annoyed and dumbfounded look. Once again confused, you say "What?"

"Your sister who we thought was going to be gone all weekend is finally gone. She is telling your parents we are making babies. You came over specifically because she was going to be gone and we haven't fucked in 2 days, so what do you think I want to do?"

Realizing that you were in a very advantageous position and that to fuck it up would be an absolutely moronic thing to do, you make the very tough choice of giving your girlfriend what she wants as well as making sure you do what you came over to do.

You quickly recapture the moment your sister so rudely interrupted and pin your girlfriend to the bed with your hands while you capture her lips with yours. Moaning into your kiss, Ahyeon frees her wrists from your control and guides you to take off your shirt while making sure not to separate her lips from yours. Knowing what she wants next, you flip the two of you over and quickly remove her shirt. Taking a moment to catch your breaths, you are happily surprised to see that Ahyeon had decided to forego a bra that night and your eyes were met with her perfect, perky tits adorned with the most beautiful areolas. Knowing your next move, Ahyeon quickly shoves you back onto the bed before you can capture her tits in your mouth and wiggles out of her pants before quickly discarding yours along with your underwear (she of course doesn't have to deal with panties of her own since she had also decided to go commando for tonight).

Giving you a quick little smirk, she grabbed your cock and quickly started stroking it to get it nice and prepped for her. After needing a couple of seconds to recover from the pleasure that she was giving you, you grab her by the waist and pull her close to you before capturing her right tits with your mouth and giving her left one equal attention with your hand before starting to switch between the two like a man eating for the first time in weeks. Feeling how hard you were and knowing how easy it was for you to become distracted from the objective when her tits were present, Ahyeon tears you off her chest before straddling you and sinking down until you were fully sheathed in her. Not letting you recover, she quickly started to ride you but not before once again capturing your lips with hers. After a few minutes of her strong riding, you feel your orgasm coming. Sensing this too, Ahyeon quickly locked her legs around you and made sure you were buried as deep as possible in her. Burying yourself as deep as possible, you let your orgasm take hold and you release spurt after spurt of cum into Ahyeon's waiting womb. The feeling of you filling led to Ahyeon finally reaching her peak. Once the last remnants of your shared orgasm subside, Ahyeon finally allows herself to let go and she falls onto your chest. Pulling up the covers which you two had cast to the side during your lovemaking, you make sure that Ahyeon is properly covered before sighing and saying "Fuck, I love you Ahyeon". Smiling softly, Ahyeon raised herself up to give you a soft kiss on your lips saying, "I love you too". Content, satiated, and utterly spent, the two of you finally fall asleep in a loving embrace with your legs intertwined and bodies connected in a way that showed true intimacy.

[strawberrystepmom]

rock star!dante x pop star f!reader. cw: overt age gap (20+ years), marking. banter. nsfw. | wc: 779, reading time: less than 5 minutes

“Ah ah ah, no. I have to wear that low cut thing in a coupl—shit.“

The vulgarity falls from your lips before you can even think to stop it.

Or maybe it’s actually Dante’s fault considering he’s the one drawing such expletives from you, his clear eagerness to have you in at his disposal clouding his judgment. 

Lifting his face from your chest, arms on either side of your torso. He tilts his head so charmingly for a man of his age, you could mistake him for that playful young pup that used to cover every magazine in the grocery store check out. 

“So?”

Shaking your head, you pout. 

“So…I’ll be covered in bruises.”

He shrugs, head still tilted. 

Scoffing, you furrow your brows. “Dante.”

“What? There’s still some guy out there who thinks he has a chance with you and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

Uninterested in explaining himself any further, he returns to work. His stubble brushes against your jaw, those greedy lips seeking out every last bit of skin. 

”Dante,” you warn, palms pressed flat against his cotton clad chest. 

If you’re trying to get him off of you it’s a pretty half hearted attempt.

“What?” He asks, mouth returning to work before you can answer. 

Front teeth nip and leave behind their impression. Your back arches and your neck stretches, the traitorous muscles in your body yearning to lean into his every touch and what it will leave behind. 

“I’m tired of your little game of hide and seek.” He continues, palm cupping the back of your head and fingers weaving through your hair. “You aren’t even hiding anymore.”

Dante tilts your head and turns your face to his own, looking down at you with a smirk. 

“You’ve been caught, angel.”

Heat simmers in your cheeks. Your belly. Your desire-filled core. Every bit of you throbs and aches, eager for a touch you’re familiar with that still feels new every time. 

Even if you argued with him, how far would it get you? You’re in his bed, linen sheets rumpled beneath you, skirt hiked well above your belly button while his mouth renders your neck and chest a field of reddish-purple roses — a meadow of his own making. 

“I didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

It’s the best you can manage while your head swims, thighs lazily parting and falling against each other. Dante twirls a lock of your hair around his index finger, head falling back to your clavicle.

“I am.” 

He stares right at you, steel blues intense. You don’t bother to bite back the smile his response draws.

Jealous has always kind of been your type even if you like to pretend it cramps your style. 

“Over little old me?”

The man snorts, tip of his nose drawing a line from your collarbone to your throat. He lets it rest in the hollow.

“Especially over you.”

All you can do is whimper defenselessly and hum while he begins his work on your neck again. Teeth grazing your pulse. Clever tongue lapping at that hollow. 

When he feels you’ve been sufficiently driven mad, his nose traces a path toward your ear. 

“Let me remind the world you’re spoken for,” he whispers.

It sounds a little bit like a plea. You squirm, reaching to drag the hand that has rested on your hip toward your inner thigh. His index finger brushes against the cleft of your pussy.

“All that for me?”

Giggling, you let go of his hand. He continues to gently stroke through your wet folds, pausing his ministrations on your neck until you answer him. 

“Who else would it be for?”

Dante withdraws his finger, arching a brow. “What kind of answer is that?”

As hard as you’ve been trying to hide the heart you wear on your sleeve, you know he’s seen it the whole time. 

You’ve well and truly been caught. 

“It’s always just for you, Dante.” You admit, staring up at him moon-eyed. “Has been since we met.”

Pleased with your second attempt, he leans back in with a grin, placing a wet kiss right against your throat. Your cunt throbs and he’s all too eager to satiate her as well, finger returning to its prior featherlight torture. 

“Maybe I can make them shaped like a D,” he muses, mouth muffled by your skin. 

With a laugh, you reach to run your fingers through his wavy hair. 

“I’ll let the artist decide what he wants to leave behind, how about that?”

The man of your dreams looks up at you, smirking.  “You always make deals I can’t refuse.”

Just as you‘ve always envisioned him. 

[cosmickid-inmotion]

Just for Fun

Joel Miller x gn!reader

General Masterlist : TLOU Masterlist

Taglist

Summary: You and Joel decide to do a little non con roleplay. It does not go as expected.

Warnings: CNC. Just a kinda silly fic I wanted to have fun with. SIckly sweet they are very in love your honor. TW JD VANCE MENTION (we're bullying him.)

V similar to @pedge-page's role play me not. Similar sense of humor and similar idea so def check it out for a lighthearted read!

A/n: V silly. I used gifs and emojis. Just wanted to be lighthearted. Reader is GN but I'll be honest they might be fem coded. Giggling and kicking feet, reading romance novels etc. But men can also do those things so do what you will.

800 words

***

Sarah in bed and fast asleep, out early for once. Being a Friday night, you and Joel had some time to yourselves, and for once, neither were exhausted.

You know what that means.

When you first brouched the concept to Joel of CNC play, he wasn't judgy, just a little apprehensive. He didn't want to kink shame you. You explained it like those old bodice-ripper dime store novels, like playing with the idea of wanting it but "needing convincing."

"I don't wanna convince you to have sex with me."

You resisted the urge to smack your face. "You're not, baby, it's just pretend. Like, pretend you're a sexy pirate king and my dad is a rich merchant and you've you've taken me for ransom but then we fall in love."

"Why would we fall in love? I'm trying to get money from your dad. I feel like that would get in the way of-"

"Joel."

Eventually, the boy got it, and you found yourself pinned underneath his broad shoulders, his slight belly rubbing against the draw strings of your pants.

You'd decided that maybe full pirate was a bit advanced for Joel, so just some basic CNC. You wanted to give up power, to feel helpless... it was kinda hard when your husband was the biggest cutie pattootie on the planet, but hey.

Joel's hands wrapped around your wrists, pressing them into the bedspread. "You're gonna take what I give you, and you're gonna like it, wether you like it or not."

"Am I gonna like it or not?"

Joel looked at you with a straight face. 😐

You clear your throat. "Right, right, sorry. I mean... oh noooooo anything but your dick! Noooooo"

"Can you maybe put a little more into it? It's hard to get into character with this." But a little smile play at his lips.

You sit up on your elbows. "Ain't no goddamn way you're critiquing my acting right now. I was a theater kid. You thought Les Misérables was about the barber who kills people."

Joel drew back, hand on his chest in mock offence. "I did not! That was JD Vance! I'm not that goddamn stupid."

"Okay. Let get back in the game. Brrr, Brrr, Brrr, MAH!"

Joel's face hardened. "Get on your fucking stomach."

Suddenly, you felt a pool of warmth deep in your belly. Your husband was a cutie patootie for sure, but he was also incredibly strong, and could absolutely could you down. You wanted to feel his whole power.

You glare at him. "You can't make me!"

Just as you wanted, Joel growls, grabbing you hips and flipping you over where he wanted you. His hand pressed you down by the shoulder blade, spread wide. Fuck he had big hands.

Joel hand you shoved down, mouth muffled against the mattress, his other hand trying to figure out how to get your pants off one handed. Fuck this was actually kinda hard. He worked with his hands for godsake! He should've had you undress. He swears in frustration, then he heard a sound. At first, he thinks he's upset you, that you're crying, and he quickly releives his pressure on you ready to make it better. Then he realizes you aren't, actually, crying.

You're laughing.

"Are you laughing at me?!?!"

"No!" You turn around, eyes sparkling as you grin up at him. "You're so fucking hot."

He frowns at that. "No, I think you're laughing at me."

"I'm not! Here." You shove down your pants, more eager than ever to feel him. "Take me! I'm yours!"

"That doesn't sound very consensual non consent."

"Don't take me! I'm not yours!"

He tries again, covering your mouth this time and leaning over to whisper in your ear, his hard cock grinding against you. "I know you want it, baby. Just needed a little persuading, thats all. You're just too good, didn't wanna admit you want me to rule this hole of yours."

You scream a laugh into his hands. This time Joel knows what it is, because you're kicking your feet in the bed. When he sits back, straddling you, his arms drop. "Baby, common now."

You cover your face, feeling the heat as you continue to giggle and kick your feet. He was gonna make you go tee hee like this was some 50's cartoon. "I'm sorry!" You peak out through your fingers grinning wildly. "It's just, fuck when did you get so hot."

"??? excuse me?"

"Have you been reading my romance novels? Because YOWZA!"

🤨 "Did you just say yowza?"

You fan yourself. "Joelseph Miller, where have you been all my life."

"My names not-"

You surge up, grabbing his shirt and pulling him to a kiss. Joel joins you in laughing now, rolling you on the bed as you giggle. "C'mon baby," He says through his grin. "How'm I 'spossed to be a big scary pirate when you're act'n like that?"

***

IDK I just wanted to be silly. I havn't been silly with fics for a minute but i used to write stuff like this for moon night a lot

If you want something NOT SILLY and maybe wanna cry, read Independence Day

Tommy Miller comfort

2500 follower fic rec celebration

@pedge-page @my-secret-shame @hornystan @femmeanonymelives @miraclesabound

[wosospacegirl]

Stuck with you part - 12

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: Y/n and Alexia argue again, but I promise this is the last time! Plus ducks! <3 Also, who's that girl on Kika's Instagram post anyway?

Word count: 5.5k

a/n: this is a triple update! Parts 13 and 14 will come soon.

..

It was their third day of training, and the whole team had their suitcases and bags ready to go at La Ciudad del Fútbol's entrance hall. They were waiting for the bus that was going to take them to the airport, where they would be heading to Belgium.

This FIFA date was filled with friendlies. They didn't matter in the world ranking, but for some reason, Alexia was in her ear talking about strategies.

"Do you remember Janssen?" Alexia said. She was sitting on top of her suitcase while chewing on a sandwich. "She noticed how your left foot wasn't as precise as your right. She's gonna want to steal the ball from you whenever you're using your left."

"Umm," Y/n hummed, nodding her head along to whatever Alexia was saying, but she wasn't paying attention to it. Her eyes were fixed on Vicky's Nintendo. Damn, she should have brought hers as well.

"And Evrard, the goalkeeper–" She took another bite of the sandwich. "She's not good at defending close balls, so try to shoot from a long distance."

"Yeah, yeah." Y/n agreed, her eyes fixed on the race happening on Vicky's screen. The little cars were going so fast that it was making her dizzy, but it was better than listening to Alexia's tactical breakdown of every Belgian player's weaknesses.

"And that one defender– wait!" Alexia put her sandwich down. "Are you paying attention to me? Any of you two? I know this is just a friendly, but I have been watching Belgium's recent matches…they are a good team."

Vicky turned her attention to Alexia, blinking slowly "Oh, you were talking to me, too?"

Alexia ran her hands through her hair. "Forget it. I was just trying to give some insights about the game. Thought it might help us."

Y/n rolled her eyes.

"Alexia, it's a friendly. Relax," Y/n said, not bothering to look at her. "And also, I asked you not to talk to me. I'm still mad."

"Oh, not this again, I already said I'm sorry, nena," Alexia said, sounding tired, "multiple times."

Y/n shrugged, finally turning to look at her. "I'm still mad."

"I understand why what I did wasn't right," Alexia said, and there was a slight, almost-not-there pout on her face that Y/n pretended not to find a little bit cute. "But I am sorry, okay? I really am."

Y/n said nothing, so Alexia continued.

"You have forgiven the other girls, right?" Alexia fixed her posture. "Why not me too?"

"The other girls are in their early twenties," Y/n said, chin up.. "It was an honest mistake. You, on the other hand, have your cortex fully developed and still insist on those matchmaking plans."

"But–"

"I think you should just leave Nena alone," Irene said from the corner of the room. She was leaning against the wall next to Alexia, phone in her hand, looking like she was enjoying the show way too much. "You did act like a teenager."

"I–" At first, Y/n could see Alexia was ready to talk back to Irene, but then, she closed her mouth and nodded. "Ugh, yeah, I guess you are right..it wasn't very mature of me, the whole charade thing."

Irene looked up from her phone, eyebrows raised. She clearly hadn't expected Alexia to actually agree.

"I thought I was helping," Alexia shrugged. "Obviously, it didn't work out."

"For someone as smart as you, Alexia," Irene said, not even bothering to look up from her phone now, "you are rather emotionally stupid."

Vicky nudged Y/n with her shoulder, a teasing smile spreading across her face. "She's just like you."

Y/n nudged her back, harder. "At least I know how to make a nutmeg."

"At least I know how to talk to the girl I like," Vicky replied, attention back to her game, her fingers moving fast over the buttons.

"That's why I don't sit with you," Y/n said, getting up from her spot and walking a few steps until she was squeezed between Jana and Ona. 

She stuck her tongue out at Vicky, who returned the gesture without missing a beat on her game.

"At least I got La Reina all to myself," Vicky said, moving her fingers fast on the Nintendo, but at the same time laying her head down on Alexia's shoulder affectionately. 

"You can keep her," Y/n murmured as she opened her bag, taking a book out of it. She could feel Alexia's eyes on her, but she refused to look up.

"Wait–" Ona said, looking down confused ", You're reading?"

"I'm trying to," Y/n said, opening to the first page and immediately feeling her brain protest. "You know, dyslexia hits hard, but I have to try at least... Reading is important for the mind."

"Important for the mind, huh?" Jana said in a knowing tone that made Y/n angry."I bet this has nothing to do with Kika, then?"

"Nope!" Y/n lied, beginning her painful journey into the first chapter of the book. The letters were already starting to get mixed up on the page.

Jana was annoyingly fast and snatched the book from Y/n's hands before she could protest, trying to read the name on the cover.

"Oh, come on, 'I Have More Soul Than One?'" Jana said, looking at the Portuguese title. "That's a Portuguese book. You don't even try to hide it now, do you?"

"I'm not reading it because of Kika," Y/n said, taking the book back with a scowl, "I'm reading because I have to do other things than just think about her."

Y/n was in that late stage of liking someone, where you tried to do new things with the sole reason of looking cooler than you really were, just to impress the other person. 

It was pathetic, but it was living.

The bus soon came, taking the whole team to the airport.

The flight was fast and calm, and most girls were sleeping because they had woken up very early. Y/n, though, was awake, scrolling down her Instagram, trying to forget she was on an aeroplane, miles away from the ground.

She had seen a lot of posts about politics, recipes, and, honestly, rage-bait posts too. But none of them caught her attention as much as Kika's new post.

It was a dump, filled with pictures of her and her family, pictures of beaches in Portugal, as well as pictures from Portugal's last match against England. They were all normal pictures, except for one.

It was the seventh picture out of fifteen. It wasn't the first picture nor the last. It was right in the middle, and that meant something. What did it mean? Y/n didn't know, but her stomach was already twisting itself.

Kika had her cheek pressed against another girl's face, and the picture was up close. The two girls were both smiling so much that the corners of their lips were almost touching. They looked... happy. Really happy.

Y/n hated that. Especially because when she opened the Instagram comments, the girl Kika had tagged in the picture had commented.

'Mine <3'

Mine?

Y/n felt her stomach drop, and she didn't know if it was because of the girl or because the pilot had just told them they were going to land and the aeroplane was beginning to descend. Her hands were suddenly clammy, and she felt gross.

Y/n poked Jana, who was sleeping beside her. She moved but didn't open her eyes, so Y/n poked her again, and then again, until she could see Jana's brown irises looking at her with pure annoyance.

"Qué?" Jana asked, irritated. Then she turned around, trying to see if anyone was getting up from their seats, as if the only justification for Y/n to wake her up was if they were leaving the flight.

Y/n didn't say anything. She just took her phone and shoved it in Jana's face.

Jana rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up straight. She took the sleeping mask that was resting on top of her head and pulled it into her lap, as if she was getting ready to discuss business.

Jana took Y/n's phone and began looking at the pictures and then at the comments. Y/n watched her face carefully, looking for any sign of what she was thinking.

"Oh," Jana said after a few seconds of silence that felt like hours.

"They're dating, aren't they?" Y/n asked, despair creeping into her voice. "Fuck– did I kiss someone who's dating? Fuck, and here I was thinking I might have a chance–"

Jana put her finger rather aggressively on Y/n's lips, shutting her up. "Calm down! It's just a picture, and yeah... their faces are like, very close together, but it's just a picture."

"She wrote 'mine' in the comments," Y/n pointed out, her voice muffled against Jana's finger. "You wouldn't write 'mine' on someone's comment if they weren't your girlfriend!"

"I think she just meant it in a friendly way," Jana said, but even she didn't sound convinced.

"Impossible," Y/n rolled her eyes. "What kind of friend does this?"

Jana gave her a side-eye. "Bold of you to say that, considering we're Spanish and we sunbathe topless with friends."

"We–" Y/n pointed at both her and Jana "–are Spanish. Kika and the girl are Portuguese. They aren't like us. We're naturally affectionate, they aren't."

"I think you're stereotyping a bunch of Portuguese people right now," Jana said.

"Oh," Y/n thought for a second. "Yeah, it might be... but still, that doesn't change the fact that Kika posted a photo with another girl and that the girl wrote 'mine.'"

"Kika did what?" Vicky asked, her head popping up from the row behind them.

Jana took the phone and showed it to Vicky.

"Oh."

"That's what I said," Jana murmured.

"Maybe they're just friends," Vicky said, giving the phone back to Y/n, but her tone suggested she didn't believe it either.

Y/n leaned her head back further into the seat and crossed her arms. "I hate this."

"Maybe you should like it," Vicky suggested. "Just so she knows you saw it."

"And how would that change anything?" Y/n asked grumpily.

"If they're just friends," Jana said, "maybe she'll rethink the picture, or maybe she'll message you saying the girl means nothing to her."

Y/n looked at Jana as if she were stupid. "You're talking as if Kika and I have something going on, which we don't."

"Yet," Vicky said. "You'll have something going on soon."

"If she's single," Y/n murmured, staring at her phone screen.

"She's single," Jana said. "She hasn't mentioned any girl to us. If she were dating someone, she would tell us."

"What if she just started dating right now?" Y/n asked.

"You shouldn't work with 'what ifs,'" Jana said. "Just take it step by step. Like the picture and just... move on. I'm like ninety-seven per cent sure it's nothing."

"I believe in those three per cent," Y/n said, staring at the photo again.

"Of course you do," Jana said, rolling her eyes and pulling her sleeping mask back over her face.

..

When they got into the hotel in Belgium, Y/n was still not talking to Alexia, and people were starting to notice it..

"Capitana has a scowl on her face, kid," Leila said as they both stepped into the same elevator, just the two of them in the small, enclosed space.

If it were Y/n from a few months ago, she would have thought she was in a rom-com, but because it's Y/n from the present–the one who is head over heels for Kika and partially heartbroken by the Portuguese's possible relationship–she is rather indifferent to the situation.

"She always has a scowl on her face," Y/n said, looking up at Leila. "It's her natural state of being."

"Hm," Leila said, in a tone that showed she knew more than she was letting on. "She has had that scowl since morning, though, and something about it tells me it has to do with you."

"Me?" Y/n said in a faux-offended tone. She knew it was because of her. "Why do you think that?"

"It's like she's always ready to say something when she's around you, but she thinks for a second and then shuts up," Leila said.

Y/n knew Leila was fishing for information about what was happening between them. She knew it was because Alexia hadn't told her anything about it.

"Alexia's annoying," Y/n said.

"She is," Leila agreed. "But she also cares for you a lot."

"She cares too much," Y/n murmured.

She looked at the numbers on the elevator; they were on floor 6 right now, both of them going to floor 18. 

Something told Y/n they were going to talk for the rest of the ride up, but Y/n didn't mind much. She preferred it over being alone in the elevator, overthinking until she convinced herself she was going to get stuck.

"Something about your tone tells me you don't want her to care this much," Leila said.

"I just don't want her to intrude," Y/n said. "She's always there…on the pitch, at home, always giving unsolicited advice, doing things she thinks are best for me as if I'm not an adult. It's annoying."

"Alexia has a problem with boundaries," Leila said. "She doesn't know how to separate her private life from her football life. She's been like that since we were kids at La Masia–"

"--And then you got into her life, a kid who plays for the same club as her, a kid who was her responsibility, a kid who grew up into a woman, but Alexia doesn't see it."

"She really doesn't," Y/n said, blushing slightly at how Leila said she had turned into a woman. Most of the time, she still saw herself as just a girl.

"I know you don't have contact with your parents," Leila began carefully. "But stuff like that, older people not seeing how the young ones grew up, is natural. It happens with parents, with guardians... Alexia just doesn't know how to act now that you're responsible for yourself."

Y/n was silent for a second. Now they were on the thirteenth floor.

"Did she tell you that?" Y/n asked.

"She didn't have to," Leila said. "I'm observant."

They got to their floor, both girls leaving the elevator. Y/n turned to the right, while Leila went left.

"Just–" Leila began. "Talk to Alexia. She means well in her actions, she just doesn't choose the best way to show she cares."

"Sometimes it feels like she shows it in the worst way possible," Y/n said.

"She's learning to," Leila shrugged. "We all are. That's why it's important to know how to apologise…" She looked at Y/n, "...and to forgive."

..

Y/n barely had time to let Leila's conversation or Kika's post sink in properly. The team had exactly 40 minutes to get situated in their rooms before going down for another training session.

The match was tomorrow at 8 am sharp, so this afternoon's training session was the team's last chance for proper preparation. Although some of the girls were more preoccupied with counting the ducks in the pond by the pitch.

"There are twenty-two," Y/n said proudly, chin up.

"No, there's twenty-one," Vicky said. "I think you counted the same one twice."

They stood by an old wooden bridge, cold air hitting their faces as they listened to the ducks quacking while they swam around the pond.

"I didn't," Y/n turned to her with a frown. "I have dyslexia, not dyscalculia."

"I counted twenty-three," Irene said, taking a picture of the ducks. "I'm gonna send this to Matteo, he loves ducks, calls them chickens."

"Why are we counting?" Ona said. "Training is over, we have a literal pool we can use."

"We need to be in touch with nature," Y/n mumbled, beginning to count again.

"Pool has water," Ona rolled her eyes. "Water is nature."

"Water is technically inorganic," Jana said, leaning over the bridge. "So I don't think it's considered nature."

"I wanna go to the pool," Leila said, she and Ona being the only ones in the group that went against the idea of going to the pond to count ducks. "At least there isn't any chance of getting the avian flu."

"I don't think we can get avian flu from this far," Y/n said, turning to Leila before turning back to the pond. "Fuck, I forgot which ones I had already counted."

Y/n began counting again, eyes squinting. 

"There's definitely twenty-two," Alexia said from behind them, her finger pointing at each duck, completely focused. "Yeah, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one and twenty-two."

"Achoo!" 

Jana sneezed next to them, which made a duck fly from the pond to god knows where.

Vicky had a victorious smile on her face. 

"See, twenty-one."

..

Y/n should have known that counting ducks wouldn't be the most complicated part of their trip to Belgium.

Sixteen hours later, the final whistle had blown, and she was standing in the middle of the pitch, watching Alexia's back angrily.

Alexia was a great captain, a great friend, and a great guardian, too. The only problem was, those labels could not coexist in one single relationship, but for Y/n, that was who Alexia was to her.

Y/n knew Alexia was a great leader to their club and country. Alexia was good with personal advice, she was a great older sister to Alba, and Y/n knew that whenever she and Olga decided to have a kid, Alexia would be a great mom.

Different from common belief, the addition of all that didn't create a super relationship between Alexia and Y/n.  They loved each other dearly, no doubt about that.

But the line of where they stood was always blurry, ever since Alexia took Y/n into her care when she was fourteen. Especially because two years later, they were playing on the same team.

It was supposed to be just a simple friendly against Belgium, but for some reason, both teams had been heated from the first whistle. Yellow cards were being thrown around, and fouls were being committed by both teams.

Y/n didn't know what was happening to the Spanish team.

 Patri had fouled the same player three times; on the third, she got a yellow card. Then, Ona couldn't seem to keep the ball at her feet, just like Salma.

The players were so heated that Alexia and Aitana were running around giving earfuls to everyone. Alexia's captain mode was on, just as much as Aitana's, even if she wasn't wearing the captain's armband.

During the fifteen-minute break, it was like Montse wasn't the manager, but Alexia and Aitana were. 

They were talking in a fast, angry voice about every detail the team was doing wrong. Everybody listened to them with their heads down; they knew they were letting their emotions get the best of them.

Y/n had been distracted the entire game; her mind kept drifting to that stupid Instagram post, to Kika's face pressed against another girl's. She had missed two easy passes and lost the ball three times.

She wasn't in the best state of mind and had even told Montse it would be better if she were subbed off, but the manager said no, that she should keep playing, so she did. But Y/n was rather reckless and got a yellow card.

And because she was hot-headed and her emotions were already all over the place, she argued with the referee and said things that weren't very nice. 

Things that made the referee threaten her with another yellow card.

Alexia, when she saw her arguing, got extremely angry. Not just captain-angry, but that specific kind of fury that Y/n had only seen a handful of times.

And that's when Alexia and Aitana snapped.

While Alexia was talking with the referee, Aitana was snapping at Y/n, who felt like a little kid all over again. 

But then, Alexia came over to them, patting Aitana's back. "Hey, let me talk to Nena, yeah?" she said, and Aitana nodded, going to her spot.

"Are you stupid or what?" Alexia asked her, a frown on her face. "I had to basically beg the referee not to give you another yellow!"

"I didn't mean to call her names!" Y/n said as both she and Alexia walked back to their positions. "I'm sorry!"

She tried to pretend that the way Alexia called her stupid didn't affect her.

"If you got another yellow, you would get a red, you'd leave us with one 10 players", Alexia continued. "How can you still let your emotions take over? Be better than that. Grow up!"

With that, Y/n stood in her position while Alexia ran to hers, holding back the tears that were almost falling.

When the game was over (Spain winning 2-1), not that Y/n cared much, she turned away, trudging off the pitch before any of her teammates could stop her. 

The team was still there, celebrating their victory, arms wrapped around each other, talking and laughing like they hadn't just played the most frustrating ninety minutes of football Y/n had experienced in months.

Patri and Pina were dancing around, Ona and Aitana were wrapped in a Spain flag, taking selfies.

Y/n turned around and walked fast through the tunnels. She was trying to run from all that noise, and trying to run from Alexia. 

But her escape plan didn't work, because La Reina was right behind her, Y/n could tell by the familiar sound of her footsteps.

"Para de córrer, Y/n, va!" [Stop running, Y/n, come on] Alexia called out, she was slightly out of breath. "I just wanna talk to you."

Y/n rolled her eyes.

She was in a foul mood, and she knew she would just ruin everything.

 Plus, she had more important things to worry about, like the fact that Kika might be dating someone and Y/n had been a complete idiot about it and that she had basically forgotten how to play proper football.

"Go back to the pitch, Alexia," Y/n muttered, her voice tight with frustration. "I don't wanna talk to you right now."

"What I said on the pitch was necessary," Alexia said, following her into the locker room. Her captain's voice was still on, all business and no warmth. "You were out of line with the referee. But the way I handled it…that wasn't right. I'm sorry for that."

Y/n sat heavily on the bench, yanking off her boots without looking at Alexia. 

She hoped the silence would push her away, but of course, La Reina never let herself be ignored. It was like she sensed when Y/n Y/n wanted to be left alone.

"Y/n," Alexia's voice softened as she sat beside her. "I need you to help me understand what's happening here."

Y/n let out a sharp breath, turning to her with a scowl.

"And who are you now?" Y/n snapped. "Are you Alexia, the captain? Or are you Alexi, the guardian?"

The words hit Alexia, and her face faltered for a second. "I..." she started, then stopped. "I don't know how to answer that. "Soy solo la Ale.." [I'm just Ale]

"You're never just Ale to me," Y/n shot back, and then, she felt her voice cracking a bit, there was too much emotion inside of her, it was making her confused.

Alexia was quiet for a long moment, her hand hovering near Y/n's shoulder before she finally placed it there. "Is this about the game? Or something else entirely?"

The knot in Y/n's chest tightened. It wasn't just the game. It was the build-up…Kika's situation, the referee,  Alexia snapping at her on the pitch, Y/n's poor performance,  and now everything was bubbling over. 

She didn't even know why she was mad anymore.

Y/n buried her hands in her face, trying to breathe and ground herself. She had done it when she was just a kid, pressing her palms to her face when she felt too overwhelmed by the world around her.

Alexia didn't say anything. She just wrapped her arms around Y/n, like she used to when Y/n was a small kid, upset after one big loss.

"This isn't working," Alexia said quietly. "The way we have been doing things. I can see that now. And I know I'm very much at fault lately. But maybe if we talk things out…?"

"I don't wanna talk," Y/n mumbled, her words muffled against Alexia's shoulder. Alexia's presence was helping her somehow; it was getting easier to breathe, her warmth was comforting, which just made Y/n feel even more at a loss with her feelings. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I," Alexia admitted. "But we can't keep pretending this isn't complicated. And I know your upbringing wasn't normal. I mean, most teenagers don't move in with a player who had no idea what she was doing."

"I have been trying to be everything to you," Alexia began carefully. "Captain, guardian, friend... and I think I have been failing at all of it."

"You are just too much," Y/n said in a slow voice, as if she didn't want to say it. "It's hard. I don't know who I am to you, and I don't think you know it either."

Alexia was quiet. She just let her talk.

"I love you, Ale," Y/n said. "But…it's hard, it's confusing."

"I know I have crossed the lines a few times with you and–"

"You have," Y/n interrupted her. "Way too much. It's like I can't breathe around you. I feel like you're always plotting something, always ready to yell at me on the pitch as a captain, always there to get in between my private life... You don't do that with the others."

Y/n could tell Alexia was hurt by the way her body stiffened.

Y/n wiped the tears from her eyes and got up. She didn't look at Alexia's face when she opened her locker to get a change of clothes.

"When the season at Barcelona's over, I'm moving out," Y/n said, the words shocking even herself, but she stood her ground. "I think it'll be good. I'm nineteen, almost twenty. I should look for my own place."

There was silence in the room. Y/n turned around, but Alexia wasn't sitting on the bench. 

Seconds later, the door to the locker room shut.

..

The bus ride to the hotel after the game was awkward, to say the least. Everybody was happy that they had won their first game in this international break. All arguments and scolding were long left on the pitch.

All but one.

The one between Alexia and Y/n.

Y/n didn't plan to tell Alexia she wanted to move. Hell, she wasn't even planning to move.

She liked Alexia's and Olga's house. It was a two-story house, and it had a backyard with a pool and an indoor gym. Alexia's mom had planted a bunch of trees, so they had a lot of fresh fruit during the summer as well.

The house was comfortable, and Y/n's room was great. She had her own en-suite bathroom, and the furniture was all custom-made. Olga had designed it when Y/n first arrived.

It wasn't just a house, it was a home, and it really felt like home to Y/n. Alexia and Olga never made Y/n feel like it wasn't her house, or if she was there temporarily.

Y/n even heard them talking about how they wanted to have kids in the next few years, how they would paint the baby's room with the same light grey colour as Y/n's room, so they could match.

The plans they made always involved Y/n. But in the heat of the conversation, Y/n couldn't help but feel like it really was time to move out.

She wasn't going to another country, of course. Even though she thought about that.

During the bus drive, Y/n wondered if she shouldn't just go to a club in Germany or England during the next transfer window. 

Maybe leaving Barcelona behind was a good option. She loved the city, she loved her team, but sometimes, she just wanted to run away and start over again in another place, as if her own past wasn't going to follow her wherever she went.

Y/n placed her head against the window. It was raining now, and the bus was stuck in traffic. 

An ambulance ran through the side of the bus, and Y/n felt guilty for being annoyed at the traffic when there was probably someone in distress or hurt.

Alexia was sitting by her side. They always sat together on the bus–they both liked silence before and after a game, so they were the best pair. Although now, Alexia's silence wasn't comforting, it was heavy.

Y/n watched her out of the corner of her eyes, trying to read her expression.

Her jaw was set. Y/n could count the wrinkles on her face from the scowl on her face. She wasn't mad, she was hurt and trying to hold it in.

Y/n wanted to ignore it. She wanted to stay on the bus in silence while everyone else around them moved on with their lives. She wanted to pretend this situation wasn't happening.

She wanted to forget about Kika, forget about the girl Kika was in the picture with. She wanted to forget how badly she played and how she was scared that she wasn't going to get another call-up. She wanted to pretend she had never moved in with Alexia and Olga.

Right now, she wished her parents hadn't taken her to Masia. That her parents had decided to be normal and unsupportive parents who didn't want her to follow a football career, and that they had forced her to quit football to focus on school.

That they had been caring parents and not dropped her off at Alexia Putellas' house the moment they knew it was an option.

She wanted to pretend this wasn't her life. That this wasn't the consequence of her choices.

But she couldn't.

When she was fifteen, she was lying on the sofa with Olga and Alexia. Alexia had her head on Olga's lap. Y/n was kneeling on the floor, doing her math homework on the coffee table. It was a calm Saturday afternoon.

Olga was reading out loud–she did that sometimes.

Y/n didn't remember the book; she only remembered Olga quoting:

"One does not find peace by avoiding life," she said in a soft voice, and continued to read as if that sentence didn't change the whole perception of Y/n's life.

One does not find peace by avoiding life.

Y/n turned to Alexia, and, without a word, she laid her head on her shoulder.

"Perdón si estoy siendo tan mala al punto de que quieras irte de casa." Alexia said in a low voice. [I'm sorry if I'm being so bad that you want to leave the house]

Casa.

It was Y/n's home indeed, and would forever be, but she needed more.

"No estás haciendo nada mala" Y/n said. "Solo necesito... crecer, sabes? Ya no tengo catorce años, no necesitas cuidarme más." [You're not being bad. I just need to... grow up, you know? I'm not fourteen anymore, you don't need to take care of me]

Alexia was silent. "Cuidé mucho de ti, quizás demasiado. De verdad lo siento… voy a dar un paso atrás." [I took care of you too much, maybe too much. I'm really sorry…I'll take a step back.

Y/n remembered what Leila told her, about learning to apologise and to forgive.

"Te perdono, no te preocupes más por eso, de verdad. Y/n said. [I forgive you, you don't have to worry about it anymore]

"Do you still wanna move out?" Alexia asked.

Y/n thought for a second, and nodded, as much as she could with her head on Alexia's shoulder.

"Okay," Alexia said, as if it hadn't really sunk in just yet. "Olga will cry, though."

"She's a crier, yep," Y/n said. "But you'll cry too."

"I won't," Alexia said determinedly, as if it were a challenge. "Do you know where you wanna go? Are you moving to one of Barcelona's complexes?"

"No," Y/n said. "I want a house, but I still have time to think. The season will end in three months, I'll look for something."

"I'll help you look," Alexia said.

"Gracias," Y/n said. [Thank you]

Y/n was scared about moving away. She hadn't considered it until now. But she needed to. 

She needed to find her own space, create her own routine, and be independent in a way that would only be possible if she lived on her own.

It was scary, but it was exciting, too

..

Tag list: @footy-lover264 , @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16, @wosohk04, @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics

a/n: This is the end of Y/n and Alexia's difficult relationship! Things will be lighter between them from now on! Also, the quote Olga said it's from a film, not a book, I just put it in a book for the plot.

[theofficialpeanutgallery]

I like to imagine Gordon getting increasingly flustered at the vortigaunts' nonstop praises. Just like, face slightly going pink, rubs the back of his neck and looks away all "aw, shucks".

Like, yes, Gordon Freeman is an unstoppable force of nature, but he's also like. Just a guy. He's a nerd and probably a little overwhelmed with suddenly being this Big Hero™️ that everyone is in awe over.

He's the guy who single-handedly WRECKED the Citadel with nothing but the gravity gun, destroying everything and/or one in his path, but like. They kidnapped his friends. NOBODY touches his friends without feeling the wrath of ten thousand supernovas.

But he's also the guy who fiddles with stuff in his friends' labs like a kid in a candy store. He's a man of multitudes.