#i want to write but.. god... writing... is so hard....

[dolcecherub]

so close, so cruel⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

✧ pairing: oscar piastri x virgin!fem reader

✧ tags: virgin reader, lotssss of teasing, oscar is kind of a menace, first time, oscar begs, aftercare, dirty talk, established relationship, thigh fuck!!, sex, pnv, unprotected sex

✧ yap: honestly haven't written smut in a bit so i hope this is enjoyable and good but i neeeeddeddd to write an oscar that begs to fuck so yeah! i hope y'all enjoy and please ignore any mistakes it's currently 3:25am lol

✧ word count: 6.2k

It started with a simple hand on your thigh.

Innocent, technically. You were curled up together on the hotel bed, lights dimmed aside from the table lamp, some half-forgotten Netflix show playing in the background. Oscar had his usual calm about him, an arm slung around your shoulder, the other tracing idle patterns along the bare skin on your thigh. Every movement left a trail of fire in its wake.

You weren’t naive, you knew exactly what he was doing. Oscar had a way of teasing that never felt overly dirty, but it always lingered, always left you feeling flushed, thighs pressed together. Words that didn’t cross a line, but danced right on the edge. 

“You’re tense,” he said, voice low against your ear. His fingers had started to move, inching higher up your thigh, tracing a lazy path from your knee up through the inside of your thigh, only to trail back down before they got too far. “Something on your mind?”

You swallowed hard, eyes returning to the TV, attempting to focus again on the show. “No.”

He grinned like he didn’t believe you.

That was the thing with Oscar. He didn’t push, but he loved to see how close he could get before you’d squirm. And you always did, not because you didn’t want it, god no, but because you were still figuring this all out. You hadn’t been with anyone before him, at least not like this, and he knew that. And oh, was he so respectful about it.

Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a menace. 

“You sure?” His head leaned down closer to you, breath skimming your neck, hand dipping just a little higher. Just enough to make your heart stutter. 

You leaned into him instinctively, legs shifting against each other in the smallest, most telling motion, his smile widening against your skin as he placed a soft kiss against your neck. 

“Oscar,” you warned, voice barely above a whisper, tone falsely threatening 

“Hm?” He hummed innocently, nuzzling into your jaw, peppering light kisses, momentarily flicking his tongue across your skin. “I’m not doing anything.”

But he was, he always was. Maybe not always with his hands, but with the way he looked at you. Like he could see straight through every layer of hesitation, of nervousness, and he wanted to unravel it all, softly, slowly. 

He was patient, too patient, and somehow that only made the waiting worse. 

And hell if he stopped teasing you. 

-‘๑’-

You were making a quick coffee the next morning, setting up a cup for Oscar��s tea as well, wearing his t-shirt and nothing else. The sun poured in through the hotel blinds, warm and soft, casting long golden lines across the dull colours of the hotel room. You didn’t hear him pad out from the bathroom, now barefoot behind you, his arms circling your waist. 

“You always wear my shirts like that?” he murmured, voice husky with sleep, his head leaning down, his chin resting on your shoulder as he tucked his head into your neck.

“Like what?” You asked, stirring a pack of cream into your coffee.

“Like you’re asking for trouble.”

You rolled your eyes, flicking a pack of sugar before dumping that in as well. “It’s laundry day.” You excused.

Oscar chuckled against your neck, feeling the vibration of his chest against your back. “We’re in a hotel.”

“Exactly.”

He laughed again, quietly and knowing, his hand grazing the bare skin of your thigh under the hem of his shirt, lifting it daringly. Lingering. He was far taller than you, his body nearly caging yours from behind as he was bending down towards you. 

“You know,” he added, lips brushing just behind your ear now, your body shivering at his contact. “You could just say the word.”

You turned your head to get a better look at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “I thought you liked the anticipation.”

His mouth curled, “I love it, but don’t pretend it doesn’t drive you insane,” he teased, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek.

Touche.

-‘๑’-

Later, you lay in bed, reading on your Kindle while Oscar mindlessly scrolled his phone next to you, one hand absentmindedly resting on your lower back. He liked to keep in contact, just enough to keep your body aware of him. It didn’t help that now and then, his fingers would trace small paths, sometimes grabbing you a little tighter. Always random enough to throw you off.

“You’re quiet,” he said, without looking up.

“I’m reading something,” You mumbled, mind focused on the warmth of his hand on your back.

“You’re flushed,” He said, finally glancing over.

“No, I’m not-” 

He rolled over on top of you before you could finish, pushing your Kindle to the side, pinning you gently to the mattress, straddling your hips. “You think I don’t notice what I do to you?” He whispered, breath fanning your face as his eyes darkened. 

His fingers hooked into the bottom of your shirt, well, his shirt, and lifted it slightly. His hands roamed the skin of your waist, hands warm and rough. “I think you like it when I take my time, darling.”

You shivered underneath him, hands coming up to rest on his neck, lightly playing with his hair. His weight on you, the soft graze of his thumb along your stomach, left your body squirming. 

You exhaled shakily, “I hate you.” 

He smirked before leaning down to kiss you, his lips latching onto yours roughly. You let out a whimper. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, tugging your lips open, his tongue slipping into your mouth hotly. His tongue swipes against yours as you whine, hands tugging his hair, Oscar groaning at the pull. 

He pulls his head back, lips glossy and cheeks flushed as he began trailing kisses down your neck, wet and sloppy, sometimes pausing to suck a light mark into your skin. 

“Osc,” You whimpered, tugging a little harder on his hair as he groaned, lips trailing lower, leaving a wet trail of kisses. 

Reaching his head back up, he placed a light kiss on your lips before tapping your hip. His eyes were blown with want, his lips upturned deviously. “Alright, time for bed.” He spoke, your body slightly relaxing from disappointment, a teasing smirk covering his face. 

You pouted at him, cheeks flushed bright red, lips bitten raw as he climbed off of you.

Calling him a tease was an understatement. 

-‘๑’-

The next evening, you were both running late, on the brink of missing a team dinner with the grid. Your hair was still half done, dress zipped halfway, the strap nearly sliding off your shoulder as you finished your makeup, face as close to the mirror as humanly possible, trying to get the best possible liner wing. 

Your mouth was slightly open, forming an ‘o’ as your hand shook a little. You saw Oscar come up behind you, his eyes looking at your reflection adoringly, a small smile stretching his face. You yelped quietly, feeling his hands grab the arch of your ass, rubbing over it a few times before resting one on your hip and the other still palming your ass. 

You could see your cheeks redden at the action, feeling Oscar’s hips press against your backside, his arousal pressing into you. His eyes darkened as you watched him behind you, his eyes stuck on the shape of your hips in the dress, entranced. 

You huffed out quietly, deciding the wing was the best it was going to get as you straightened up, pressing completely against Oscar as you put away your makeup. 

His knuckles brushed the bare skin your unzipped dress exposed, sending a shiver down your spine as you bit your lip. “Need help?” He asked, full well knowing you did.

“Please,” You requested, tone soft and nervous. He placed a gentle kiss on the back of your neck, trailing a few further down as his hand slipped up towards the strap, gently pushing it off your shoulder. His knuckles trailed lower, nearing your tailbone, then back up again. 

“I don’t know if I wanna zip it up,” He murmured, the strap of your dress sitting idly off your shoulder, threatening to fall completely. 

“Oscar,” You warned, tone stern, knowing you both had somewhere to be.

He chuckled lowly, the sound thrumming through your chest. “Okay, okay.”

The zipper slid up slowly, torturously. His lips brushed against your shoulder as he brought the strap back up. 

“You have no idea how hard you make it to behave,” he whispered, lips brushing against the back of your ear as you pushed your hips back against him, his hands tightening on you. 

You swallowed, “Maybe that’s my goal,”

His hands paused at your waist before he let you walk away.

Barely.

-‘๑’-

You woke the next morning to his fingers tracing your arm. You’d fallen asleep tangled together, as usual, limbs warm and overlapping in a way that made it impossible to tell where you ended and he began. 

“Do you ever think about it?” you asked softly, voice less than a mumble. 

Oscar’s finger paused. “Think about what, darling?”

You turned over to face him, your voice quiet, a little nervous. “Us, that night. You know, when it does happen.”

He blinked, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, “Every night.” 

Your breath caught.

“But I don’t imagine it for me,” He added. “I imagine it for you. What you’ll need, how to make it not scary, how to make you feel good, how to make you want it again, what I can do for you.”

That was the thing about Oscar. Sure he could be cocky and shameless all day, but when it came down to you, the real thing, his teasing quieted. 

He kissed your forehead lightly, “No rush, baby, I don’t mind. I’m ready whenever you are. I’ll wait.” He reassured.

You smiled, heart bursting, “Even if it drives you mad?” 

He grinned, a huff coming out lightly. “That’s the best part, darling.” 

-‘๑’-

Oscar had a sponsor event coming up, and of course, he had wanted you to be there. Your stylist had sent over a few options for you to try. 

Oscar insisted he help you decide, and so you found yourselves sitting in the quiet hotel room after a long media day, cycling through dress options that were best fit for the event. 

He watched intently, offering his opinions when he deemed necessary, ensuring he always complimented you regardless. 

You stepped out in a navy dress, tight, strapless, and fairly short, cinching your waist in essentially accentuating your hips. You couldn’t even make it to the mirror to look at yourself.

Oscar’s gaze snapped to you, eyes dragging across every inch of your frame. He sat up slowly, inching towards the edge of the bed, jaw clenched. “No.”

You blinked, a hand running across your body, smoothing any wrinkles. You gave a slight twirl, presenting your backside to Oscar, a small look over your shoulder catching his eyes staring. “No?”

“You can’t wear that.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “Why not?”

He stood up, walked over slowly, and circled behind you. “Because,” He murmured, mouth brushing your ear, “If you walk around in this, I’m going to get into a fight.”

You laughed, lighthearted, your head falling back slightly onto his chest. “You’re not the jealous type.” 

“Not usually,” he said, voice low, his hand sliding up your thigh towards the hem of the dress. “But right now I’m thinking about how easy it would be to slide this dress up.” He teased, his fingers pushing up the hem of your dress, dangerously close to exposing you. “Or off. No zippers, no buttons.’

You bit your lip.

He smirked. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You glared at him through the mirror, watching his hand roam your hips in the reflection. “I hate you,” you tried, your knees slightly wobbling when you said it. He tugged the edge of your dress, completely exposing you. His foot pushed your ankle, spreading your legs a little as your breath caught. 

“I don’t think you do, baby.” He said quietly, fingers grazing your inner thigh, seeing your arousal drip down slightly, his fingers catching it as he rubbed his fingers against your core teasingly. Your body shook, feeling his rough fingers spread your arousal. 

“You knew what you were doing. Knew I’d lose my mind the second I saw you in this, or that I’d want to ruin it, didn’t you?” He teased his finger teasing your entrance softly as he lightly fucked his fingers into you, your knees buckling, his arms around your waist being the only thing keeping you up. You whimpered, he was giving you enough to tease you, but not enough to actually feel good just yet. 

“Osc,” You whined out, body buckling from pleasure as he held you up, his fingers hitting a spot deep inside you.

��Take it so well, can’t wait to see how you fit me, baby.” He teased, quickening his pace, your stomach tightening. “Look at yourself.” He demanded, his other hand reaching up around to grab your throat, not so hard that it was painful, but enough to limit the air to your lungs, brain fogging at the intensity. 

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror, cheeks flushed red, eyes blown wide with need, tears brimming in them from pleasure. Your lips were parted, breathy and glossy. Oscar’s hand looked obscene around your neck, veins bulging as he tightened slightly. His eyes were dark, glazing over your body wantingly. 

The sounds of your arousal mixed with gasps and whines as Oscar continues mumbling sweet nothings encouragingly to you brought you closer to your release. His fingers slowed, teasing, pulling out before slowly fucking back into you, your mind dizzying at the stretch. 

“Oscar, please,” You begged, needing just a bit more. He chuckled from behind you, placing a soft kiss on the back of your head, his fingers plunging deeper, hitting exactly where you needed, a breathless moan escaping your throat as you crumbled. Your body clenched, writhing against Oscar, and he slowly eased his fingers out, a teasing pump making you whine.

You exhale a breath, body slumping as he circles his arms around you, pulling the dress down to cover you. “You did so well, darling.” He praised, kissing the top of your head, mumbling ‘I love you’s’ into your hair as you caught your breath. 

“Now you definitely can’t wear this dress or else I’m gonna spend all evening thinking about doing that,” He mumbled, placing one last gentle kiss against your head as he tapped your bum. You lightly slapped his arm jokingly, walking towards the bathroom to change back into your clothes for bed.

You heard Oscar chuckle behind you as he watched your legs tremble slightly from the aftermath of his actions. 

A menace. 

-‘๑’-

It had been a hectic day, lots of physical activities, and simply exploring the city with a few of the other drivers’ girlfriends. Tennis, a bike ride along the boardwalk and coast, a pretty hike and picnic, and my god, so many pictures. 

You had come back home to Oscar in the shower, the sound of water running mixed with the heat of the bathroom making the home feel cozier. After changing, your body needed a stretch to loosen all its muscles. You heard the shower turn off as you nearly flopped onto the floor in your bedroom. You laid out a few dynamic stretches, letting your body relax, sighs of relief leaving your mouth. You stood up, bending forward, your hands reaching for your toes, hamstrings burning at the pull. 

You closed your eyes, exhaling a deep breath as you heard the bathroom door open, footsteps padding closer. As you go to stand up, a hand steadies itself on your lower back, pushing your body back down as Oscar pushes against you. 

You immediately regretted the choice of stretch, vulnerable and exposed. He straddled your legs from behind, his other hand gripping your waist. 

“Need help?” He asked, far too innocently, for the way his hands were roaming your hips and his hips were pushing against you. 

“No,” You stuttered out quickly, unsuccessfully attempting to push yourself back up.

“Adjust your posture. Back straight, hips forward.” He instructed, his voice breathy. “Breathe, baby.”

You nearly died on the spot.

“I’m trying to stretch,” You muttered, muscles tensing up as your heart hammered against your chest.

“I’m helping,” He said, fingers splaying wide against your back. “This is very technical work.”

Momentarily, you ground your hips back into him, Oscar groaning at the movement. “You’re the worst.” You mumbled, a smile still evident in your tone.

“Correct,” He chuckles, “but look how deep you’re stretching now.” He spoke, his tone sultry with innuendos. 

You couldn’t even respond, just exhaling exasperatedly. He knew exactly what he was doing. 

He always did.

-‘๑’-

It was a particularly hot day this weekend in Miami. You were sitting on a curb outside the garage, licking a near-melting ice cream cone while Oscar stood next to you, sipping water. It was a few hours before free practice 2, his suit undone, sitting at his hips as his fireproof clung to his body. 

He watched you for a second too long.

“Baby,” He sighed, cheeks lightly flushed from the heat or the sight of you.

You looked up at him, eyes alight with energy.

“You can’t eat it like that.” He groaned, tone almost a warning. 

You blinked at him, taking another slow lick before asking, “Like what?”

He raised a brow, arms crossing against his chest. “You’re lingering, it’s obscene.”

You rolled your eyes, mind revelling at how easily you could also get him riled up. “It’s just ice cream.” 

He sat down, leaning in close to you, his voice low, meant for only the two of you. “It was ice cream. Now it’s a public indecency charge.”

You took an extra slow lick, simply to spite him, your eyes not leaving his. Oscar made a strangled noise, running a hand over his face and looking away. “You’re going to kill me.” He said, voice muffled by his hands.

“Good,” you said, smiling at him as if you hadn’t just made him hard. 

He reached a hand out, swiping a bit of melted ice cream from the corner of your mouth, slow and deliberate. His thumb dragged just enough to make your stomach drop a little, heart pounding. 

“You missed a spot.” He said, eyes heavy as he brought his thumb to his mouth, suckling the ice cream off, eyes glued to yours. 

Your breath hitched at the sight, his tongue swiping over the pad of his thumb momentarily. You didn’t speak for a full minute after that. 

-‘๑’-

You were sitting on the floor in front of a mirror, testing a few different hairstyles for fun. It had been a slower day, Oscar mostly out training for the day, as you stayed at home. He wandered in a bit later, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He leaned against the doorframe, simply admiring you as you fiddled with your hair. 

After a while, he walked over, squatting down behind you, placing a soft kiss on the back of your head. He twirled a finger through your hair before gathering it whole in his hands.

“So pretty like this,” He said softly, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. Then he leaned closer, voice warm against your ear. He tightened his hold, pulling your head back slightly as your breath hitched at the pull.

“D’you ever think about what I’d do if I had your hair in my hands like this for another reason, baby?” He asked, tone deep, vibrating through your chest as your heart pounded against your ribs. 

You nearly choked on your breath, cheeks flushing.

He just walked out, satisfied with himself at the red on your face.

-‘๑’-

The hotel room was quiet, the low hum of traffic and the soft rustling of bedsheets filling the room. You weren’t asleep, nor was he.

Oscar was lying on his side, one arm tucked neatly under his head, the other resting gently across your waist, a comforting weight. His mouth was warm against your neck, trailing slow, reverent kisses.

Your shirt had long since been pushed up, panties pushed aside as his hands roamed your body as if he couldn’t get enough. His hands were everywhere, on your hips, your thighs, the sides of your neck. He kissed you as though he was trying to keep it gentle, but you felt it, his control hanging on by a thread.

He pushed himself up and on top of you, his weight welcome and warming, as his lips found yours, tongue desperately swiping over yours as you whimpered, one hand scratching the back of his neck and the other trailing down his chest towards his waistband. 

His hips bucked forward, your fingers pulling down the waistband of his sweatpants, his cock springing up, flushed and aching as your hand pumped him. You spread your thighs a little, feeling Oscar nibble on your lip before smoothing it over with his tongue. Your hand trailed back up his abs, nails lightly scratching along his body as he groaned. 

His hips pressed forward, and you felt it, him. Hard against you, not inside, but nestled perfectly between your thighs, slightly coated in his arousal mixing with yours. The thin friction, skin on skin, made you gasp. He lifted his head from yours, eyes watching your face as he pushed his hips. 

You clenched your thighs, wanting to make Oscar feel good too as he moaned. This, by far, had been his favourite way to get both of you off without crossing any lines. He bucked his hips, groaning at the wet slide between your thighs.

He exhaled shakily, forehead pressing to yours, his eyes fluttering closed. “Fuck.” He let out breathily as you looked at him, wide-eyed and cheeks flushed. 

You arched into him, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails slightly digging into him as his name spilled from your lips. You felt his warmth slide against your core, body begging for him. 

He rocked slowly, getting used to feeling as you clenched a little tighter, his hips faltering a little. 

You nearly fell apart watching him stutter.

He shuffled back, sliding off his sweatpants and boxers, dropping them off the side of the bed as his hands stumbled to throw off your t-shirt. His hand gripped your thigh, pulling it higher to rest upon his waist as his hips moved again, slow and controlled, dragging the full weight of his want between your legs, watching your arousal coat him. 

He groaned, eyes locking with yours as he spoke, “You feel…” he whispered, teeth grazing your jaw. “So fucking soft, baby, unreal.” He continued, voice shaky with need. 

You moaned softly, back arching. It was overwhelming, but you craved it. Every press of his hips sent sparks ripping through your spine. Although he wasn’t inside, it felt like he was claiming every inch of you anyway.

“Fuck baby, please,” He begged, although you weren’t quite sure for what. “Please let me fuck you, please I-” He exhaled, his voice whiny as you moaned his name. “Need to fuck you.”

Your heart pounded, nails clawing up his back as his cock throbbed between your thighs, your arousal’s mixing messily. “Oscar…” 

“Please, you feel so-” he gasped, hips rutting into yours especially hard, “so warm, so fucking perfect.” 

His tip slid between your folds, catching at the entrance momentarily as it slid, you whimpered at the feeling. He placed a shaky kiss to your lips, shuddering at the feeling. 

You moaned softly, eyes blown wide with want as you watched Oscar huff with need. His mouth hovered over yours, hot breath spilling across your lips. “All I can think about is how good you’d feel around me.”

You whined softly, you were right there with him, burning up with need. 

He kissed you, hard and messy, full of want. He pulled back, his face looking as though he was breaking. 

“Please,” He breathed. “Let me fuck you,” He begged, his voice raw and torn. 

You stared up at him, breathless, heart pounding in time with his. 

“I want it,” You whispered, his eyes closing at the words, a low groan rumbling from his chest. He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months.

“Say it again,” He begged.

“I want you.” You whimpered.

He kissed you again, slow this time, like the desperation from before was folding into something deeper. He leaned his forehead against yours, one hand trailing down between your thighs, the other cupping your check like he was in awe of your words. 

His fingers slipped between your thighs, pumping lightly, your thighs dripping with arousal as his eyes caught sight. You groaned at the slight stretch, heart clenching with nerves. He  

“I’ve got you,” He reassured, noticing the worry on your face. His fingers curl, hitting a deep spot, body arching at the feeling before he slid them out. He spread the arousal across himself, pumping his cock a few times before lining himself up with your entrance. 

“You’re everything,” He spoke, tone soft as he pushed in. Just the tip, your breath hitched, and he did too. His mouth fell open, eyes squeezed shut like the sensation wrecked him instantly. The stretch was unreal, your body shuddering. 

“Shit,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You feel-” he groaned as you clenched around him. “Fuck, baby.”

He hadn’t moved yet, simply just held it there, letting you adjust, watching you carefully through blown pupils and clenched teeth, his tip pulsing inside you. 

“You okay?” he asked, brushing a soft thumb over your cheek. 

You nodded, words caught somewhere in your throat, “Yeah.” You let out breathily, eyes brimming lightly with tears. Oscar bent down, kissing your forehead then your nose, then your lips, soft, slow and grounding. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered. “Tell me if you need anything.” He spoke, gently and caring. 

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling his body closer as you curled your leg a bit tighter around his waist in response. 

That was all he needed.

He pressed in deeper, the stretch making your head spin as he slid in, inch by inch, until he was fully there. Oscar breaths landed heavy into your neck, one hand on your waist and the other gripping the sheet beside your head like it was the only thing keeping him together. 

“God,” he groaned, “You’re fucking soaked, dripping all over my cock.” He spoke, the words making your tummy turn. You were clinging to him, gasping softly, overwhelmed by how close he was, how he fit like he was meant to. You could hear the slick drag of him between your thighs. 

He rocked his hips gently, rolling in slow careful waves. Not hard, not fast. Just intentionally, every motion is a promise. You moaned softly, body arching up into his, matching the rhythm. 

“That’s it,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, “You’re okay. You’re perfect, so perfect, baby.” He reassured, his tone gentle with love.

You tighten your grip around his back, feeling his cock throb inside of you, vision blurring at the feeling of him pumping inside you. “Oscar, fuck.”

“I’ve got you,” he breathed again, one hand tangling in your hair, holding your forehead to his. “You’re mine baby, I’ve got you.” His words emphasized with a thrust.

“More,” You whimpered out brokenly. His thrusts quickened slightly, the sound of your arousal and skin slapping against each other fucking filthy in the air. 

Your head spun at the feeling of him, nails scratching along his back as he whispered sweet nothings. “Fuck you feel so good, you’re so tight.” He whined head falling to your shoulder as he fucked into you. “Gripping me like you were made for me.”

“You’ve fucking ruined me,” Oscar groans, hips rocking into you. He angles his hips, hitting a better angle as you whimper. You’re babbling at him, lips bitten raw as you look at him, eyes blown to filth. 

You clench around him, your body needing release. And fuck, Oscar nearly cums feeling you tighten around him. “Look at yourself, baby. Clenching around me like you’re fucking desperate for this, hm?” He teased, sitting up slightly as he fucked into you, watching your body rock up with each thrust. His hand reached up, thumb tweaking over your nipple as you whimpered.

He hissed through his teeth. “You feel that, baby? Right there?” He spoke, hand pressing down against your lower stomach, the pressure making your chest ache. You cry out, feeling his cock bulge inside you. You whimpered, nodding desperately.

He buried his face in your neck, breath hot and shaky. “You’re fucking melting around me. So wet-” He swore, voice shaking as he groaned. “I can feel everything.”

His hips snapped into you, rougher now, and the sounds it made, skin on skin, soaked and absolutely filthy, only made you clench harder. Oscar exhaled, grabbing your hips to keep you where he wanted you, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. 

“You like it when I fuck you like this?” he growled, teeth dragging against your skin. “Like I can’t help myself?”

You moaned, arching beneath him, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, fuck Osc, please.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and dark and completely undone. “Open your eyes, darling, look at me. I want to see your face when you come.” He demanded, your stomach churning at his tone. 

You did, barely able to keep your eyes open as he slammed into you, again and again, hitting that perfect spot, your tummy bulging at how fucking well he was filling you. Your body went tight, heat building until it snapped. 

You shattered under him with a strangled cry, legs trembling, your cunt clenching around him so hard it made him swear, loud and filthy. 

“Fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby, just like that. You’re so fucking good”

You were still fluttering around him, overstimulated and gasping as Oscar’s thrust slowed slightly. His pace stuttered, hands flying to your thighs to hold you open as he drove in deeper. 

“Where- fuck, where do you want it?” he gasped, barely coherent. “Tell me where you want me, baby. I’m not gonna last, fuck, I’m so close.” He begged, his thrusts getting sloppier. 

You clenched impossibly tighter, a tear spilling from your eye as you whispered, “Inside, I wanna feel it.” you whimpered.

That broke him.

Oscar let out the filthiest sound you’d ever heard from him, a half groan, half moan, as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself deep, his whole body going rigid as he came with a choked moan against your mouth. 

You felt it. Every hot pulse, deep and perfect, his cock filling you with warmth. 

He didn’t move at first. Just held there, twitching inside you, breath heavy, chest heaving against yours. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours.

He kissed you then, slow, open-mouthed, filthy, and tender all at once. And when he finally pulled out, you gasped at the loss, feeling disappointingly empty. “You’re perfect.”

He looked down at you, watching himself drip out from between your thighs, and let out a shaky laugh. “Look at you, fucking filthy baby. Look at what I did to you.” He said, running his finger through the slick mess between your legs pushing it back into you as you whine. 

He leaned in again, kissing your shoulder, dragging his lips down your chest lovingly before whispering, “You’re mine now, every fucking inch.” 

You whimpered, hips twitching at the pressure. “Oscar-” you gasped.

“You think I can stop now?” He growled, voice low and rough, his body sliding down against yours. “When you’re this wet, this open for me, when I can see what I’ve done to you?”

He sat back a little, spreading you open again. He knelt between your legs, eyes fixed between them, lips parted like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to ruin you with his fingers of his mouth. 

“Fuck it,” he muttered. “You let me know if it’s too much okay, baby?” He reassured, his eyes hungry with want. 

He dipped his head and licked a striped through the mess he left inside you, groaning low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you. 

You sobbed, a hand flying to grip the sheets, the other threading through his hair, body jolting at the overstimulation. 

“You taste like me,” he said, almost smug, tongue dragging over you again. “So fucking sweet, how the fuck am I supposed to be gentle, hm?” His eyes running over your body hungrily, peering up at you from between your legs. 

His hands pinned your thighs wide as he sucked your clit into his mouth, rough and hungry, pure filthy, wet, need. 

You were already close, too close. “Oscar, I- please,” Your voice cracked, hips bucking up. 

“Yeah baby,” he groaned into you, “I know, gimme another darling. Let me hear how pretty you sound with my cum still dripping out of you.” 

That pushed you straight over. You came hard, again. Your whole body shaking, breath catching on a scream as he worked you through it with his tongue and fingers, relentless and soaked. 

He pulled back only when your thighs were twitching, lips slick and shining, eyes glazed with lust. 

He looked wrecked. 

And hard again.

“Turn over,” he said, voice hoarse, wrecked and commanding. You blinked at him breathless.

He reached down, slapping your ass once, just enough to make you jump. “On your knees. I’m not done with you.” a tone of ferality to him. 

You obeyed, barely able to hold yourself up, Oscar’s arm coming around your waist to support your body. He lined himself up behind you, dragging his cock through your folds teasingly, 

“Gonna fuck you one more time okay, baby?” he groaned, hand gripping your hip like a vice. “And you’re gonna take it.”

You moaned, shameless and needy.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered, voice strained, “Opening up for me again, you’re mine.” You nodded, barely able to breathe.

“Say it.” He commanded, sliding into you slowly.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, face falling onto the pillows.

“That’s right,” he muttered darkly, sliding in and out, deeper and rougher, more possessive now. Filthy, and in love, and completely fucking obsessed. 

And it was quite safe to say he didn’t stop until you were crying into the pillows, shaking, and ruined all over again. 

“You okay?” he asked, your body collapsing forward into the pillows, legs trembling, heartbeat still fluttering somewhere in your throat. Your body felt wrecked in the best way, used, filled, warm.

You barely registered the sound of the sheets rustling behind you until you felt Oscar’s hands on your hips again, softer this time, thumbs pressing light circles into your skin. 

“Hey,” he whispered, voice rough from the use, but gentle now. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

He eased out you slowly and carefully, you winced at the loss. Oscar leaned forward, kissing the top of your spine, then the back of your shoulder, his lips lingering. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you, baby.”

He disappeared for a moment, you heard the tap running, the sound of a warm cloth being wrung out, then he was back, sinking onto the bed beside you, gently coaxing you onto your back. 

His eyes flicked across your body, his work. The redness on your thighs, the marks on your neck, the mess between your legs. 

He swallowed hard.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said softly, in awe. “Completely mine.” You shivered at his words.

“Too much?” he asked immediately, eyes snapping up to yours, alert. “No.” you whispered, “Not even close.” A small smile crossing your face.

Relief washed across his face, and he kissed you, without any hurry. His hand cradling the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, you leaned into him, your body aching but weightless now, as if everything inside you had finally settled. 

He cleaned you gently, his touch light but focused, whispering quiet apologies every time you flinched. 

When he was done, he pulled you straight into his arms, blankets pulled up, limbs tangled. You tucked yourself into his chest, cheek against his warm skin, listening to the slowing rhythm of his heart. 

He kissed your forehead, then again, and again, like he couldn’t stop. 

“You okay?” he asked again, his voice barely above a whisper now.

You nodded into his neck. “I’m fantastic.” you let out lightly. 

His arms tightened around you. “I love you.” he murmured, burying his face in your hair. You smiled, half-asleep already. “I love you.” you mumbled happily. 

There was a long pause. Just the two of you, breathing together.

“You know I’m never letting you out of this bed again, right?” he whispered. “Like… we live here now.”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his chest. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” he mumbled, already pulling you impossibly closer. “You’ve got me obsessed.”

And with your body against his, the smell of skin, sweat, and something softer between you, you fell asleep with him wrapped completely around you. Safe, warm, and entirely his. 

-‘๑’-

[pedroscurls]

love at last (one-shot)

summary: harry’s never been in love before… until he meets you, which awakens a part of him that he never thought he was capable of.

pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader content warning(s): minor spoilers so please beware!, love at first sight trope, harry is charming and completely smitten, mainly harry POV, harry + reader go on dates!, no use of y/n. word count: 4.6k a/n: i just finished watching materialists and i'm OBSESSED with harry so obviously the next best thing is to write for him. please heed the warnings, there will be a few spoilers mentioned in this story!!! hope you enjoy nonetheless bc i'm gonna be dreaming about harry for a long time (look at those CURLS in that second pic tho jfc 🥵)

Harry had given up on the idea of love. He hadn’t felt it before and he felt like life was just passing him by. Was something wrong with him? Was he just not capable of falling in love—being in love? 

Lucy was a good match for him, but it felt forced. There was a mutual attraction, but something had been missing and he wasn’t sure what it was. 

Not until she said that she didn’t love him. Harry realized at that moment that he didn’t love her either. Lucy said it was supposed to be easy, but he wasn’t sure anymore. He tried Adore’s services, but the matches didn’t feel real, didn’t feel authentic. These women just wanted him for his money, his height, his job. He checked a lot of the women’s boxes—he was a unicorn, which Lucy liked to put it. 

But it never felt easy. He looked at each woman from a business standpoint, something transactional, but Harry yearned for something more. 

Something deep. 

Something real.

So, he canceled his membership and decided that maybe love was just never going to be in the cards for him. 

And maybe that he didn’t need it anyway. 

The dating scene in New York was horrific. To you, it felt like every nice man in the world didn’t exist. All the dates you had been on ended terribly—with some even ending early. 

The men were either too judgmental or too self-centered, or worse—just wanted one thing and one thing only. Was it this hard to find someone nice? You thought maybe you had been too picky, so you lessened your expectations—that didn’t work either. 

So, you decided to stop dating altogether and instead put your focus into work. If the universe wanted you to be in love, then maybe you should just be patient and let life do its own work. 

Harry had felt instant attraction before, but the first time he laid eyes on you it felt like time stood still. You were laughing at something someone said and he felt a flutter at the pit of his stomach. He’s never seen you at any of his family’s parties before, he would have remembered you. 

He ordered a drink at the bar as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your smile was so warm, so kind, so genuine. He normally has this natural confidence in him, but when he saw you walking towards the bar, he straightened up and felt his heart race faster. 

Maybe you were a friend of his sister-in-law, he wasn’t sure. His family’s parties were usually so big that he doesn’t remember who’s who. But he knew that he was definitely going to remember you. 

The party was for his brother and his wife—a baby shower and gender reveal. A year after their wedding and they’re already expecting. 

He felt you stand next to him and then he heard your voice, which only made him even more nervous because you sounded so sweet, so nice. Harry had taken a deep breath and then finally turned his body to face yours, but when your eyes met his own, he felt his stomach do flips. 

“Hi,” you said with a small smile. 

“Hi,” he replied with one of his own. 

“Friend of the family?” you asked. 

Harry shook his head. “Older brother.” 

You widened your eyes and reached out to rest a hand over his forearm—a natural reaction from you. “Oh my god, you’re Harry.” 

Harry looked down at your hand briefly and smiled, nodding in your direction. “That’d be me. Are you friends with my brother or…” 

“I’m friends with Charlotte,” you answered, dropping your hand from his forearm. “I was teaching English abroad so I couldn’t make it to her wedding. I’m just glad I could make it for this event.” 

“Where did you teach?” Harry asked. 

“Philippines,” you smiled brightly. “It was amazing. I loved it there.” 

Harry couldn’t help but smile too. You made him feel comfortable, despite the nerves he was feeling before you walked over. “And now? Are you going back there to teach?” 

You shook your head. “It was only a two year contract. I have my certification now to teach English to non-native English speakers here in the States, so New York is home for now.” 

Harry could hear the passion for your work in your voice and the way your entire face lit up. It was refreshing—talking to someone who actually enjoyed what they did for a living. “So you’re teaching at a school? Elementary?” 

You let out a quiet laugh and shook your head again. “As much as I loved teaching younger kids when I was in the Philippines, my focus now is teaching adult learners. I work at a local community college.” 

Harry smiled to himself. He heard the bartender set your glass of wine next to you and you turned away from him to thank the other man from behind the counter. The same genuine and kind smile lining your lips. 

“You sound like you love your job,” he said. 

“Oh, I do. It’s a lot of work, but it’s so rewarding. I try to tell my students that learning English shouldn’t ever replace their native tongue,” you continued. “That their native language is something to be proud of and that just because they’re learning English doesn’t mean it replaces the language they know and grew up with.” 

“You must be an amazing teacher,” he grinned. 

“I try to be,” you laughed quietly. You could feel your cheeks heating up as you took note of just how handsome he is. You had heard about Harry from your dinners with Charlotte, but she didn’t say how extremely handsome he was or how deep his brown eyes were. 

“And I’m just in private equity,” he sighed teasingly. 

“Well, at least you’re rich,” you laughed quietly. “I bet that’s nice.” 

Harry shrugged. He wondered if this is where the conversation will shift, if the genuine authenticity he felt from you will disappear. “It’s a family business.” 

“Oh, so it’s not what you would have wanted to do?” You asked, taking a sip from your glass. You lean against the counter of the bar and stare up at him. “If it isn’t, what would you have wanted to pursue?” 

Harry tilted his head as he brought his own glass to his lips. He stared at you from the rim of his glass and then dropped his eyes momentarily to look down at his feet. “Not sure. I haven’t really had the chance to even think of what I would want to do if I wasn’t in the family business.” 

“Hm,” you said, eyes looking up at him from top to bottom. “Maybe a model?” 

He grinned. “Are you hitting on me?” 

“And if I am?” you smiled, eyes staring deeply into his own. 

Harry’s brows slightly raised at your forwardness and he glanced off to the side when he heard his name being called. Then, he looked at you and shot you an apologetic look. “Could I get your name?” 

You smiled and shrugged. “Find me later if you really want to find out, Harry.” You turned on your heel and left him at the counter of the bar when the other guests approached Harry. You glanced over your shoulder to see his eyes staring directly at you as he nodded at whatever the other person is saying. 

You and Harry kept stealing glances at each other from across the room. You could see the way his eyes lingered along your frame and you’re already three drinks in and feeling very brave. 

When Charlotte and Peter found out they’re having a boy, the music only became louder and everyone began dancing. Harry’s eyes stayed focused on you as he walked through the crowd straight to you. He sat next to you and smiled to himself, tilting his head in your direction. 

“Will you tell me your name now?” Harry asked.

You smiled and nodded, telling him your name as you turned your body to face his. You drape one of your legs over the other as you set aside your finished glass of wine. 

Harry smiled. “It’s nice to officially meet you,” he nodded.  “Now, would you like to dance?” 

“Oh, I don’t—” 

Harry interrupted you by standing up. He extended a hand out for you and maintained that charming smile. “If I say please, will you reconsider?” 

You bit your lower lip and shook your head, slipping your hand into his own. He helped you to your feet and then led you onto the dance floor. One of his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he kept a tight hold on your hand. You bit your lower lip and moved your free hand to rest on his shoulder. 

Being this close to him was intoxicating—feeling his broad chest remain flush against your own, his deep brown eyes staring directly at you as if you were the only person in the room, and god he smelled so good. You inhaled quietly and let your eyes fall shut, allowing him to lead you through the slow dance. 

“Can I take you out to dinner?” he whispered into your ear. 

You pulled back and opened your eyes to look at him. He’s still fucking smiling. 

“Are you asking me out, Harry?” 

“Would that be a bad thing?” 

You stared into his eyes as you both sway side to side to the song. You had sworn off dating after so many failed dates, but Harry… Well, there was something about him that piqued your interest from the moment you laid eyes on him today. 

“Well, no, but—”

His smile dropped and his eyes softened. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you were seeing anyone.” 

You could feel his hold around you loosen, but you tightened your grip around his hand and pulled him back flush against you. “I’m not seeing anyone.” 

“Oh,” he nodded slowly. “Okay, great. That’s—That’s great for me,” he chuckles quietly. 

“But I kind of sworn off dating… at least for a while,” you admitted. “Lots of bad dates and I just—”

Harry spun you around and pulled you back into his chest, holding you tighter now. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he whispered. “Do whatever you want to do… and if after that date you decide you want to officially swear off dating, then I’ll go my own way and you’ll go yours.” 

“You’re charming, you know that?” You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. 

Harry shrugged, though a large grin lined his lips. “So, is that a yes?” 

“Okay, one date.” 

“One date is all I need,” he smiled, kissing your cheek and holding you firmly against him as he continued to dance with you. 

On your first date with Harry, he had taken you to one the finest restaurants in New York. It had taken you by surprise and you felt very out of your element. You weren’t used to dates like this. He was very chivalrous—he showed up with flowers, opened doors for you, pulled out your seat, and even offered his coat when he noticed you were getting cold. 

And the conversation came easy. He made you laugh and you made him blush. How could someone like him be single? When he reached for your hand during the walk around the park, you looked up at him and found him smiling in your direction. 

He didn’t kiss you on the lips when he brought you back home. Harry had just cupped your cheek, whispered that he had a great time, and kissed your forehead. It was the simplest gesture, nothing too grand or over the top, but you felt your stomach flutter with butterflies. 

Then, you asked him out for a second date. He was grinning—dimples deep in his cheek as his hand dropped from your cheek to wrap around your waist. His strong embrace filled you with so much warmth, so much anticipation because for some strange reason, it felt like you belonged there. In his arms. 

He insisted that he take you out to one of his favorite restaurants and you agreed with a smile. Harry kissed your cheek that same night before walking back to his car. He waited until you were inside before driving away. 

On the second date, Harry wanted to surprise you. He took you to a sushi restaurant—something more casual, but still romantic nonetheless. He rented out the entire small restaurant just for the both of you. The look of surprise on his face made him feel proud, more confident that maybe you wanted to date him more exclusively. 

Harry enjoyed spending time with you and how you had always given him your sole attention and focus. It even brought a smile to his face at just how kind you were to everyone you encountered. During the date, you were intrigued and interested in how the head sushi chefs were making the food. 

It was such an intimate setting and it felt easy. Harry had to wonder if this was what Lucy said a year ago—love should be easy. With the right person, love can be the easiest thing in the world. 

Throughout the date, you were becoming more touchy. A hand on his forearm or leaning against him as you let out a laugh that wracked your entire body. Even after the date when you both were walking around the same park again, he had taken your hand and you laced your fingers with his. Then, he felt your head rest against his shoulder and it made the flutter in his stomach more noticeable. 

When he dropped you off at your front door, you had stared up at him with your big eyes and he wanted nothing more than to pull you into him and press his lips against yours. 

But Harry didn’t. He wanted to respect you and your boundaries. You were playing with the lapel of his jacket before gripping it and pulling him against you. Harry’s hands had darted out to rest on your hips—to steady you, to ground himself. 

��Are you gonna ask to kiss me, Harry?” you had whispered. 

Harry’s lips parted as he stared into your eyes. The grip on the hips tightened and he gave you a single nod. He had taken a step forward, eyes completely dark and filled with desire. “Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.” 

You smiled and moved your hands to play with the hair at his nape, the curls at the back of his head. You leaned in—just enough for the tip of your nose to brush against his. Harry inhaled sharply. 

“If you don’t kiss me now, Harry, I’m gonna think you don’t like me.” 

Harry tilted his head and leaned forward, nudging your nose with his own. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He moved one of his hands to your cheek and leaned in to press his lips firmly against your own. He remembered how soft and warm your lips were, the sound of a quiet whimper escaping you, and the way his heart was racing. Harry hadn’t felt like this before—how even when he wasn’t around you, all he could do was think about you, or how the butterflies in the pit of his stomach fluttered whenever he saw your name flash across his phone. 

It also made him feel special whenever you were together. You were kind and generous to strangers, but he always felt like the luckiest person whenever your attention was shifted to him. This was only the second date and Harry found himself wanting this to be more exclusive as the date continued. 

The kiss lasted only a few more seconds—the both of you getting carried away before you pulled away from him. Harry remembered the look on your face. The small smile that lined your lips, the way your arms had loosely wrapped around his shoulders, your eyes gazing repeatedly down to his lips like you wanted more. Needed more. 

“Where do you want to go for our third date?” he asked, whispering quietly as he brushed his lips with yours.

“How about I plan it?” you replied, pursing your lips to capture his own in a gentle kiss. 

“Yeah?” Harry asked, dropping his hand from your cheek to join his other at your lower back. He laced his fingers and pulled you flush against him, the feeling of your body heat radiating against his own awakening something deep inside of him. Yearning. Desire. Need. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let me take you out this time.” 

Harry smiled. He had always been the one to plan the dates, to cater to the other person that he was slightly taken aback at your offer. It made him feel giddy, excited at the possibility of what you would plan. “Okay,” he answered. “I’ll let you take me out this time.” 

“Good,” you smiled and pecked his lips. “I’ll see you then?”

Harry nodded, but pulled you back into a deep kiss. This time—it was intense, more intimate, urgent. His lips moved with your own and his hands drifted lower until the tips of his fingers rested just above your ass. He wanted to reach down and squeeze, but he didn’t. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet. 

“I’ll see you then, baby.”

On the third date, you had told him to dress casually. He called you just before he was about to pick you up, asking just how casual he was supposed to dress. You had smiled to yourself and told him casual enough to the point where he wouldn’t care if his clothes would get wrinkled. 

So, when he picked you up—dressed in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt with sneakers, you practically wanted to pull him back into your apartment. The date could wait a little longer. You loved seeing him in a suit—had gotten used to seeing him dressed so formally—but seeing him like this, so relaxed and casual just made him sexier. 

“This casual enough?” he asked, presenting you with another bouquet of flowers. 

“You look hot,” you complimented and leaned in to peck his lips. He smiled when you pulled away and then took your hand to lead you outside of your apartment. 

“So…” you told him. “We’re having a picnic.”

Harry grinned and pulled you close to him. You hadn’t yet closed the door to your apartment, but he leaned in and pressed his lips eagerly against your own. Without hesitation, he had moved his lips with yours, hand moving to rest on your hip. “A picnic sounds nice.”

He didn’t know what to expect, but he certainly didn’t expect to be lying on a large blanket with you next to him. You both were looking up at the clear, blue sky talking about something so random. He felt his heart skip a beat when he heard you laugh—it filled his senses until all he could hear was you and how happy you looked. He wondered if this was what other couples felt like, if this is what they would normally do—have a picnic in the park, eat some food, then lie down in each other’s arms just embracing each other’s company. 

When your laughter died down, Harry had moved to rest his hand on your cheek. You stared up at him, the smile still remaining on your lips. He felt like he could sense what you were thinking about, communicating with you through his eyes. 

His thumb had brushed against your lower lip and he leans in, pecking your lips lightly. 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry whispered. He felt the nerves begin to build and looked away from you for a moment. It wasn’t until you replied with a soft and quiet yes that he looked back at you.

“Would you want to date more exclusively? More seriously?” he asked in a rush. Harry’s eyes softened and the smile on your lips never faltered. 

“I’d like that,” you answered instantly. “I’d like that a lot actually.”

“Really?” 

“Really,” you repeated. 

Harry let out a sigh of relief and leaned in to press his lips against yours again. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as you lay on your back with him propping himself on his side to kiss you. He felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders—he couldn’t help but feel extremely overjoyed and happy that the feeling was mutual. 

Almost six months later and now in a fully committed relationship with you, Harry finally understands what Lucy meant—love was supposed to be easy… and loving you felt like second nature to him.

You had been spending most days at his penthouse. There’s already a space in his closet for you and extra counter space in the bathroom. You manage to make this place a home—he’d come home and you’d be there in the kitchen, making dinner. Or on some nights, he’d catch you grading some papers. This felt easy. Being with you was easy. 

Harry knew that he loved you the moment he laid eyes on you. It’s cliche—he knows—but every time he’s around you, his heart races. When he sees you smile or hears you laugh, it makes his stomach do flips. And when he’s holding you in his arms, his life feels complete—like the one thing that had been missing in his life is now here with him. 

He hadn’t yet said he loved you because he wanted to do it right. He wanted it to be perfect. Harry had an entire date planned—he was going to take you out to the same restaurant from your first date. Take you for a walk around the park afterwards and then, he’d tell you how much he loves you. It was going to be romantic—something to remember for the rest of his days, but that morning… His entire plan was thrown out the window. 

You were in his kitchen, dressed in one of his shirts, making breakfast. Harry had gotten used to this, but for some reason, that morning, he felt his breath catch in his throat. The sun shone through his large windows, illuminating you in a warm glow. He was dressed in a pair of sleep pants and a worn t-shirt as he stared at you, a smile slowly lining his lips. 

He walked over to you and watched as your eyes moved from the pan and over to him. Harry bit his lower lip at the sight of your broad smile. You dropped the spatula and walked over to him, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders as you pecked his lips lightly.

“I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed,” you said. “Since you always like to surprise me, I figured I could return the favor this time.”

Harry chuckled and allowed his arms to wrap loosely around your waist. He held your body firmly against his own as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Why are you so good to me?” he asked quietly, hand coming up to rest on your cheek. 

“Hmm,” you answered. “Maybe because I really like you.” 

Harry grinned and pulled back to look into your eyes. His thumb brushed against your cheek as he tilted his head. “Yeah?” 

You nodded, leaning against his touch. “Yeah,” you answered. “Consider yourself lucky, Mr. Castillo.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he reached behind you to turn off the stove. He lifted you off your feet to set you on top of the kitchen counter, moving his hands to rest at either side of you. He moved to stand between your legs as he felt your hands move to card through his hair. 

“I am,” he whispered quietly. “Very lucky.” His eyes stared deeply into your own. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest—the nerves slowly beginning to build as those three words settled on the tip of his tongue. There was a tense silence that filled the air and it was almost like you could anticipate what Harry was about to say next. 

Your hands moved to his cheeks, feeling the bristles of hair underneath your fingertips. You leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose as his hands moved from the edges of the counter to his rest on your hips. 

“Baby,” he said softly. 

“Harry,” you replied. 

“I’m in love with you,” he blurted out as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I thought I’d never be capable of love. It just always seemed so difficult for me, but you—loving you is easy.” Harry couldn’t help the tears that build in his deep brown eyes. The way you were looking at him now eased so much of the nerves and worry that he felt. “You make me feel—baby,” he sighed—his breath catching in his throat as he brought a hand up to wipe the fallen tear that trickled down his cheek once he blinked.

“Hey…” you whispered, kissing his cheek lightly. “I’m in love with you too, Harry.” 

He pulled back. Eyes wide, features etched with shock. “You make me feel good,” Harry continued. “Valuable. Seen. Heard. Special. Every moment spent with you is always better than the last, and when I’m apart from you, I’m always counting the minutes until I can see you again.” He let out a shaky breath as he leaned in to rest his forehead against yours. His nose brushed against yours as he whispered, “I love you. I think I loved you the first time I saw you.” 

“God, I forgot how charming you are,” you teased, hands moving to his shoulders as you slowly wrapped your arms around him. “You made me believe in love again, Harry. I’m so glad I said yes when you asked me out… and to think, I could have missed out on this, on you.” Leaning in, you pecked his lips lightly. “And loving you is easy too. You make me feel safe and I’ve never felt that before… with anyone.”

Harry smiled and gently pulled you off the counter, your legs easily sliding around his waist as he walked you both to the large couch. He sat down with you on his lap as he brought a hand up to your cheek. “Move in with me?” 

“Didn’t you know?” You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips with his. “I was slowly beginning to move my things in anyway,” you grinned. 

Harry chuckled, firmly pressing his lips against your own. “I love you, baby,” he mumbled. “So much.” 

“Mmm,” you smiled, pulling away briefly. “Gonna show me how much?” 

His eyes darkened instantly and he wrapped his arms around your waist to swiftly lie you on your back against the couch. Harry settled himself between your legs as he leaned back in—eagerly pressing his lips along your jawline down to the side of your neck. 

“Oh, baby, you know I will,” he grinned against you, peppering light kisses against your neck. 

The feeling of his stubble tickled your skin, causing a fit of giggles to escape your lips. He smiled to himself and pulled away from you briefly to look into eyes. 

“I love you,” he whispered, a content smile lining his lips. 

“I love you too, Harry. Now get back here and kiss me,” you giggled, linking your hands together at the nape of his neck and pulling him back down to press your lips with his. 

Harry smiled against your lips—contentment, relief, and happiness filling his entire soul. 

Lucy forgot to mention that loving was only easy if it was with the right person. 

And you—you were the right person for him. 

[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.

[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.

[barnesonly]

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Lust ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ──

professor!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

word count: 8,5k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, mutual desperation, age gap, dirty talk, praising kink, fingering, oral (m receiving), PiV, rough sex.

Part 4 | Previous Part

You slammed your dorm door a little too hard behind you. Not on purpose. But kind of.

Your bag slid from your shoulder, landing with a dull thud by your desk. You kicked your shoes off without bothering to untie them, paced once across the room, then sat on the edge of your bed—and stayed there.

Frozen.

Staring at your phone like it might blink first.

God.

What the fuck was that?

You hadn’t done anything. It wasn’t your fault some guy sat next to you, smiled, introduced himself like you were a normal person in a normal class—not someone tangled in a secret affair with the professor who’d stared daggers through him the whole lecture.

Not your fault.

Still—James didn’t even look at you when he left. Didn’t nod, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe in your direction. Just turned and walked out like you weren’t the girl he had whispered I love you to, had cooked dinner for, had kissed so softly the night before you thought your heart would burst.

Your stomach twisted.

Was he really mad?

Jealous?

The thought made your heart beat harder—frustration and confusion and something smug curling in your chest all at once.

Why would he be jealous?

You didn’t flirt. You didn’t even talk back. You were literally just sitting there, awkward as hell, trying not to make it worse.

But he was mad. Definitely.

You lay back on the bed with a groan, dragging a pillow over your face and letting out something between a scream and a laugh.

You should text him.

No. Fuck that.

You didn’t do anything wrong. You weren’t going to apologize for… what, being looked at? For breathing? For being his and not saying it out loud?

You weren’t going to chase him.

Not this time.

Still, your fingers hovered over your screen for way too long—over his name, the message bar, the unread silence that felt heavier by the second.

You threw your phone across the bed and grinned. Just a little.

Because if James Barnes was jealous?

Good. Let him stew in it for a while.

———

The next morning you turned the corner of the English building, clutching your travel mug and trying to walk slow enough that you wouldn’t be the first person in the classroom again. Your nerves had already done enough damage last night—spiraling into every version of Was he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?—and you weren’t about to make yourself an easy target for another cold shoulder.

Not today.

But of course, fate had a flair for cruel timing.

Because just as you passed the cluster of students lounging by the classroom door, he called out to you.

“Heyyy! Come here!”

Theo.

You blinked, surprised. He was leaning casually against the wall, surrounded by two other guys and a girl you recognized from one of your gen eds. All of them looked up when he waved you over.

You hesitated. But only for a second.

Because the truth was… you didn’t really have friends on campus. Not besides Sarah. And Theo didn’t seem that bad—just a little too friendly, maybe. But harmless.

You stepped toward the group.

“Hey,” you said, your voice more unsure than you meant it to be.

Theo smiled, shifting to give you space. “You heading to lecture?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Just about to.”

He grinned. “Cool. We were thinking about hitting that bar just off campus later. You should come with.”

“Oh,” you blinked again. “Um—maybe.”

“You should. Bring your roommate if you want. Or not.” He chuckled. “It’ll be chill.”

You smiled, polite. “Yeah, sure. Sounds fun.”

And that’s exactly when you felt it. That drop in the air. That shift. Like something passed through the hallway and sucked the warmth right out of it.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Professor Barnes walked straight past the group—dark suit, jaw tight, stride purposeful—and didn’t even glance in your direction. Not a flicker. Not a twitch.

Like you weren’t standing there. Like you didn’t exist.

Your stomach flipped. Heat crawled up your neck.

Theo was still talking beside you, something about what drinks they were planning to order, but you couldn’t hear a word.

Your eyes followed James as he disappeared into the classroom, his shoulders tense, his hand clenching slightly around the stack of papers he carried.

“…he’s so annoying, isn’t he?”

Theo’s voice pulled you back into the moment. You blinked, realizing too late that you were still staring at the door James had walked through.

You turned to Theo, trying not to look as rattled as you felt.

He smirked, misreading your expression entirely. “Professor Barnes,” he added, jerking his chin toward the classroom. “Total hardass. Always gives us way too much homework for no reason.”

You forced a laugh. Just a little huff of air, nothing too revealing. “Right.”

He chuckled. “Bet he thinks this is the only class we’re taking. Like we don’t have lives.”

You didn’t respond.

Because you couldn’t.

Your jaw was tight with the effort it took not to snap, not to correct him, not to defend the man you’d had your legs wrapped around the other night. The same man who kissed you like you were made of glass. Who whispered “I love you” into your mouth like it meant something sacred. Who was now… cold, distant, and glaring daggers at Theo from inside the classroom.

You didn’t dare look back at the door again. You just gave Theo a faint nod and an even fainter smile.

“Yeah. I should probably head in,” you muttered.

And then you stepped away, leaving him mid-sentence, heart pounding as you crossed the threshold and stepped into the classroom.

There were already a handful of students scattered throughout the room, chatting quietly, flipping through notes, setting up their laptops. James didn’t look up when you stepped inside.

You kept your gaze down as you walked toward his desk, clutching the paper he’d assigned yesterday—neatly stapled, with your name at the top. Just like everyone else, you set it down without a word. Didn’t linger. Didn’t meet his eyes.

You felt his stare, though. Burning through you.

You turned away and made your way to your usual seat near the front. But instead of sliding into it like normal, you paused—just for a second—and glanced over your shoulder. Just enough to catch him.

He wasn’t looking at your paper. He was looking at you. Jaw tight. Brow tense. Hands still.

Jealous.

And god—god—you kind of loved it.

You settled into your chair, letting your bag drop softly to the floor. You pulled out a pen with careful ease, flipping open your notebook, pretending like you didn’t notice the heat of his stare still dragging over your shoulders.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know what it did to you—seeing him like this. So composed on the surface, but brimming just beneath. That sharp, simmering edge of possessiveness, jealousy, frustration.

He didn’t know you’d spent the entire night thinking about him. That Theo meant nothing. That no one could ever mean anything the way he did.

The lecture hall buzzed with low conversation until James stepped up to the front, setting down his leather-bound folder with that familiar quiet authority. The moment he cleared his throat, the room hushed.

Your pulse ticked up. You sat up straighter.

Then—the door creaked open.

Theo.

He strolled in like it was no big deal, half-grinning as he made his way toward you again. And of course, of course, he dropped into the seat beside you with a casual little hey, like this was some meet-cute instead of the slowest unfolding death of your sanity.

But James?

He didn’t let it slide.

“You’re late, Mr. Reeves,” James said flatly, not even looking at him as he flipped open his notes.

Theo blinked, pausing mid-sit. “Oh—yeah, sorry, just lost track of time—”

“Time isn’t yours to lose in this classroom,” James snapped, still not raising his voice, but cutting clear through the air. “This isn’t a coffee shop. If you want to chat and drift in whenever you feel like it, I suggest transferring to a less demanding course.”

The room went dead silent. Every pair of eyes flicked to Theo.

And you.

And Theo just sort of… sat back. Awkward. Tense. Mutters an “okay, yeah, sorry, won’t happen again” under his breath.

You wanted to die.

You could feel the red crawling up your face, your ears burning, hands locked in place on your desk. It wasn’t directed at you, not really—but sitting right next to the target of James’s very obvious disdain made you feel like a spotlight had landed on your chest.

You could barely even look at James after that. Not when he finally started the lecture, not when he spoke like nothing had happened.

But you didn’t miss the quick glance he gave you.

Sharp. Possessive.

A flicker of something territorial buried beneath his otherwise controlled expression.

You looked away fast, heart pounding.

Oh, he’s mad.

The moment James dismissed the class, the room buzzed to life—chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, soft murmurs filling the space. You were still packing your things, and you barely had a moment to breathe before Theo turned toward you.

“Okay, what is this guy’s problem?” he muttered under his breath, voice tinged with annoyance as he nodded toward where James had already vanished through the side door.

You blinked, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Well… you were a bit late.”

“Yeah, like two minutes. Two,” Theo groaned, dramatically slinging his bag over his shoulder. “He’s always on my ass. It’s like he’s got something personal against me or something.”

You hummed, noncommittal, keeping your eyes on your notebook as you slid it into your bag. God, if only he knew.

Theo leaned a little closer. “Anyway—as I said bar tonight. Few of us are going. You should come. Seriously. Could use some backup in case Professor Grump shows up again and tries to ruin my life.”

You laughed softly despite yourself. “Okay, okay…” you said. “I’ll ask my roommate too.”

“Cool.” He grinned. “See you there.”

He left with a little wave, and you lingered for just a second longer, glancing once at the empty desk at the front of the room—already missing James’s gaze, even if it had been narrowed with jealousy.

God, if only he knew there was no one else. There couldn’t be. Not when your entire heart already belonged to the man who’d just stormed out without a word.

And something told you… his office hours were about to get very, very interesting.

��——

Back in your dorm, the door clicked shut behind you, and the scent of Sarah’s perfume still lingered faintly in the air. She was lying across her bed, flipping through a magazine, legs kicked up lazily in the air.

“Hey,” you said, dropping your bag onto your chair.

She glanced up, humming.

“So, uh… this guy from one of my lectures asked if we wanna go to a bar tonight. Him and his friends.”

That caught her attention.

“Ooooh,” she said, sitting up. “A guy, huh? Is he cute?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “He’s… fine. I mean, yeah, I guess. I barely know him.”

Sarah raised a brow, suspicious already. “Wait. Is that the guy?”

“What guy?” you asked, playing dumb as you walked to your dresser, pulling open a drawer with slightly more force than necessary.

“The guy you’re… y’know. Seeing. The one you won’t tell me anything about?”

You paused for a second too long.

“No. It’s not him.”

Her brows knitted, and she tilted her head. “Okay, then what about that guy? Your boyfriend or whatever he is?”

You looked over your shoulder, and your voice came out soft, careful.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

Sarah blinked. “Right.”

You sighed, grabbing a sweater and sitting down on your bed. “It’s just a bar hangout. Some drinks. Nothing more.”

Sarah stared at you for another beat, then shrugged. “Well, I’m down. I need a drink and some bad decisions. Let’s go be hot and mysterious.”

You laughed a little, but your smile faded quickly once she turned back to her magazine.

Because no—James wasn’t your boyfriend.

But he wasn’t nothing either.

———

The bar was already packed by the time you got there.

Music thrummed low through the floorboards, the scent of beer and perfume hanging thick in the air. The lights were dim, soft amber spilling over polished wood and half-empty glasses. You and Sarah slid into a corner booth, cheeks flushed from the wind outside, laughing about nothing as you pulled off your coats.

Theo waved the moment he spotted you, then gestured you over with two fresh drinks in hand. You didn’t even have time to think before Sarah gave you a little shove.

“There they are,” Sarah said, nodding toward the bar.

You turned, heart lurching for no reason at all. You headed there with Sarah.

Theo grinned and handed you the drink. “Wasn’t sure what you liked, so I gambled.”

You took it, gave it a small sip. “Not bad.”

He leaned against the bar, a little closer than necessary. “So… you made it. I thought for sure you were gonna bail on me.”

You smiled, polite but guarded. “I said I’d come, didn’t I?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Fair. Gotta admit, I’m glad you did. I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk, y’know, outside of all the ‘Modern Narrative Voice’ doom and gloom.”

You took another sip. “Yeah, it’s definitely… intense.”

“You’re one of the good ones though,” he added. “Barnes clearly likes you.”

That made your stomach flip. You looked down into your drink quickly.

“Anyway,” Theo continued, completely unaware, “he’s still a hard-ass. Gave me a B- last week and wrote a whole paragraph about ‘voice dissonance.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

You laughed a little, halfhearted. “Yeah, he’s… passionate.”

He grinned. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You shrugged and took another sip.

He leaned against the bar, comfortably close but not too much, taking a sip of his own drink. „It’s good to take the edge off after all that homework Barnes gave us.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from you. “Yeah, it was a lot. Feels like he’s always pushing us to work harder.”

Theo nodded, making a face. “Right? The guy’s intense.” A pause, then his eyes slid to you again, warm and curious. “But you must be his favorite. Every time we get grades back, I swear he’s looking at your essay like it’s the Holy Grail or something.”

Your stomach did a funny little flip, though you covered it with a shrug. “I just… try hard. That’s all.”

“I bet.” Theo grinned, taking a drink. “Anyway, I’m really glad you came tonight. Thought you might skip out after class today.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

“I dunno,” he said lightly. “Figured you’d be busy. Or maybe you just had better plans.” He held your gaze as he spoke, playful but not pushy.

You felt your lips curve into a small smile. “Nope. No better plans.”

“Good,” Theo replied, looking satisfied. “That means I’m officially winning my first bet of the night.”

You laughed—a real one this time—and took another sip of your drink, feeling the knot of tension between your shoulders ease just a little.

After some time of drinking and talking with Theo your phone vibrated against the table at the same time Theo’s did.

He frowned, unlocking his screen. “Looks like Barnes already graded the homework,” he said, turning his phone so you could see.

You quickly pulled yours up, breath catching as the grade appeared.

New Grade Posted: ENG 304 — Modern Narrative Voice

Assignment: Analysis of implicit desire in The Lover.

Grade: B-

Feedback: Needs more depth.

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at the screen in disbelief, rereading the short comment — “Needs more depth.”

More depth?

Your hands tightened around your phone. You’d spent hours on that assignment. Even reading it back last night, you’d thought it was good. Really good.

And he knew that.

Beside you, Theo groaned, “Ugh, I only got a C. That guy seriously hates us.”

You didn’t say anything at first, a strange mix of emotions burning in your chest — surprise, indignation… and, under it all, a sharp sting of jealousy.

God, was this because of him seeing you with Theo?

Your cheeks heated at the thought. You wanted to believe it wasn’t that petty, that James was better than that.

But then again, the look he’d given you yesterday—the way he’d been so clearly pissed—flashed back in your mind.

You swallowed, setting your phone face-down on the table.

“That’s ridiculous,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, but Theo caught it.

“Right?” he replied, nudging your elbow. “Your stuff is always A-worthy. Probably just a bad mood.”

You forced a smile, but your chest was tight.

More depth.

More like… you weren’t sure what the hell this game was anymore.

And god, you weren’t sure if you were mad at him or dying to see him—probably both.

“I gotta go,” you said abruptly, already reaching for your coat.

Theo paused mid-sip. “Wait, already? Thought we were going to stay a while.”

But you weren’t really looking at him anymore.

You grabbed Sarah’s wrist. “Come on,” you muttered, weaving through the crowded bar toward the door.

Sarah hurried after you, confused. “Hey—what’s going on?”

The cool night air hit you as you pushed outside, heart thudding in your chest.

You exhaled hard, feeling your hands trembling as you pulled your phone back out. That stupid B– was still glaring up at you like an accusation.

“That guy,” you said bitterly, shoving the phone into your pocket and rubbing your face with both hands.

Sarah frowned. “Your guy? What happened? Did he say something?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “No. He didn’t say anything. That’s the whole fucking point. That guy is fucking with me again.”

You started pacing, shoulders tight with a mix of frustration and disbelief.

“I try so hard and he…,” you muttered, voice climbing, “he’s trying to piss me off. Like some kind of petty revenge because I was talking to someone else.”

Sarah’s mouth fell open. “Wait — seriously? You mean he’s jealous?”

You threw up your hands. “I don’t know! Probably. I just feel like he’s playing some game with me—and I’m so sick of it.”

Your heart was still racing—part of you wanted to scream, part of you wanted to cry, and the other part wanted to march straight to his office and demand an answer.

Sarah moved a little closer, brows furrowed. “Damn,” she murmured. “Sounds like he’s really under your skin.”

You pressed your lips together, the heat rising to your cheeks.

“God,” you groaned. “He’s so under my skin.”

Sarah stepped closer, rubbing your arm. “That’s bullshit,” she said gently. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the dorm. You deserve better than this.”

You nodded, forcing a smile as you tried to keep yourself together— knowing that whatever was going on with him, whatever this was between you two, was something you couldn’t even begin to explain.

———

The next morning, you woke up with a bitter taste in your mouth.

Your alarm buzzed at the usual time—plenty of time to make it across campus, slip into your usual seat before the room filled up—but you stared up at the ceiling instead, lips pressed together. Normally you’d already be rushing to get dressed, double-checking your notes, telling yourself to breathe.

But not today.

Today you wanted to piss him off as well. Skip his class, simply out of spite.

So you rolled onto your side and grabbed your phone, thumb hovering over the school schedule. Ten minutes until his class would start.

Your heart gave a stubborn thump.

And then you switched it off.

You could already picture him looking up at the door the moment the class began, expecting you to slip inside. Maybe even hoping you would.

And you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction.

With a defiant huff, you burrowed back under the blankets, squeezing your eyes shut and telling yourself you weren’t going to overthink it—weren’t going to spend the whole hour wondering if he noticed, or if he cared.

But of course you did.

Every tick of the clock felt loud. Every page of the book you tried to read went fuzzy. Even when Sarah texted you a dumb meme halfway through the hour, you barely smiled.

And still you stayed put, feeling equally smug and miserable. Because skipping his class wasn’t going to make you miss him any less.

If anything, it just reminded you exactly how tangled up you were in this whole mess.

But fuck it. Today you needed to rest, to clear your mind.

And to prepare yourself before facing him at his office hours tomorrow.

———

You didn’t bother knocking.

The door to his office was already slightly ajar, so you pushed it open with a tight jaw, heart thudding. James looked up from his desk, pen held between his fingers, expression carefully blank the moment he saw you.

You closed the door behind you with a sharp click, making sure they’re locked.

“What the fuck was that grade?” you demanded, hands balling into fists at your sides.

His brow barely twitched. “That was your grade,” he answered evenly.

Your blood boiled. “That was not my grade. That was nowhere near what I deserved—I did good on that homework!”

He set his pen down slowly, gaze dropping back to the papers. “You could do better.”

That fucking icy tone.

You took a step closer, voice trembling with fury. “That’s such bullshit, James. You know it is.”

A tense silence stretched, humming between you like a live wire.

And then it hit you—the one thing that explained the sharp edge in his voice, the way he wouldn’t look at you.

Your lips parted in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”

His shoulders went stiff at that, hands flexing once against the desktop. He didn’t reply. Didn’t deny it. Just kept his eyes fixed anywhere but your face.

Your heart flipped.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, more astonished than angry now. “You are.”

He finally looked away, his jaw ticking, mouth pressed into a thin, stubborn line.

And there it was—James, perfectly composed on the outside but seething under the surface.

You stared at him across the desk, your breath coming quicker, feeling that reckless thrill rise in your chest despite the tension, despite the fight.

“You’re jealous,” you repeated, softer this time, like you couldn’t quite believe it yourself.

And still—he didn’t say a word.

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh—dark and bitter in the quiet of his office. “God,” you scoffed, “can’t I even talk to other people without you losing it?”

That finally got him to look at you properly, something heated flashing in his eyes as his voice dropped. “That was not just talking,” he shot back, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “You were clearly flirting with him.”

Your mouth fell open. “That’s not true,” you fired back, feeling heat rise up your neck. “We were just talking. I barely know him!”

James’s gaze stayed locked on you, sharp and unyielding, his hands curling into fists at his sides like he was holding himself back.

“You were in my class laughing with him. I saw how he looks at you,” he ground out, low and taut. “And then you skipped my class like I wouldn’t notice. Don’t play innocent with me.”

Your heart thudded faster, disbelief and that strange thrill tangling together in your stomach. “You really think I’d just go after someone else? After everything we—”

“You tell me,” he interrupted, voice rougher now.

You stared at him for a long beat, breath caught halfway in your chest, realizing just how much this was eating him up—and somehow, that twisted knot of jealousy and want left you trembling for a reason that had nothing to do with fear.

You felt the tension humming between you like a live wire as you took a cautious step closer.

“God, James,” you breathed, your voice softer now—trembling but sure. “I would never.”

He went very still at that, his eyes darkening as they searched your face like he was looking for any trace of a lie. But all you could do was look up at him—lips parted, hands aching to touch him.

You inched even closer, close enough that your knees nearly brushed his, close enough that you could see the way his chest rose and fell a little faster.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, and something in him finally broke.

In one harsh breath he pulled you flush against him — hands gripping your hips like he never wanted to let go — and his mouth crushed against yours, hot and needy. You moaned into the kiss, hands fisting his shirt as he pushed you back until the edge of his desk dug into the back of your thighs.

“Say it again,” he growled into your lips, voice low and raw.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, pulling him closer like you could never have him close enough.

He grabbed the backs of your legs and lifted you up onto the desk ass he kissed you deeper, messier — hands sliding up under your skirt, thumbs brushing your inner thighs as he groaned into your mouth.

“That’s right, you hear me?” he murmured against your lips, fingers tugging your panties aside, the pad of his thumb rubbing over your clit and making you whimper. „Just mine.”

Your hands flew to his belt, trembling, desperate—aching to feel him as much as he clearly needed you. And when you finally pulled him free and felt him hot and thick against your palm, the needy sound he let out was enough to make your whole body throb.

He broke the kiss with a low, feral sound—hands gripping your hips and dragging you off the desk just enough to turn you around.

Your palms hit the surface with a thud, papers scattering as he bent you forward, his body pressing up against yours until you could feel the hard line of him at your backside.

“I think I gotta teach you a lesson,” he groaned into your ear, voice gone husky.

You whimpered, cheek brushing the desk as his hands bunched up your skirt around your waist. You could feel him yank your panties down in one smooth motion — his fingers gliding between your folds as you arched into him.

“You’re mine.” he growled, dragging his thumb through your slick and circling your clit just once before positioning himself at your entrance, „don’t you dare fucking forget that.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, breathless, trembling with need.

He pushed into you in one deep, unforgiving stroke, filling you so perfectly you moaned aloud—hands clawing at the edge of the desk for leverage.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise as he pulled back and thrust into you again, and again—rough, relentless, every inch of him driving into you like he was claiming you, like he needed you to feel him for days.

“You like that?” he rasped, leaning over your back as his mouth brushed the shell of your ear. “You like knowing you’re the only one who gets me like this?”

“Yes,” you choked out, dizzy and aching and so goddamn full of him.

He groaned at that — fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your face back as his hips snapped against you, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“You’re my good girl,” he growled into your ear, voice wrecked with possession. “And you’re gonna remember who you belong to.”

And god, you did—every perfect, brutal thrust carving him into your bones, every gasp and moan a reminder of exactly who had you trembling, aching, and ruined over his desk.

Your legs were trembling by the time his hands slid up your back, fingers gentle even as he kept you pinned against the desk. Every inch of you was on fire—breath catching in shallow gasps as you felt him slow down his rhythm just enough to lean forward and kiss the curve of your shoulder. Fucking you slow but hard, making sure you feel him well enough.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured against your skin, voice raw with need as his hips rocked into you again—slower this time, deeper.

A shaky moan slipped past your lips and you arched back into him, craving every last bit of his heat.

“Could anyone else make you feel like this?” he groaned, hands gripping your waist as he moved, deliberate and unhurried—like he was savoring you, like he never wanted this to end.

“N-no,” you breathed, eyes fluttering closed, body tightening around him as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

He responded with a low sound of approval, one hand moving up to your chest as he pulled you up slightly against him. His palm flattened over your heart, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Good,” he whispered into your ear, lips dragging over your earlobe before his teeth grazed it. “You’re mine, baby. Every perfect inch of you.”

Your lips parted in a trembling gasp — because god, the way he was saying it, like it was forever, like he was marking every part of you as his and you were so hopelessly lost in him.

“Please,” you whimpered, voice catching.

And whatever restraint he had left shattered.

He bent you back down over the desk and gave you what you wanted — what you needed — every thrust sharp and hard and perfect until you were crying his name, knuckles white as they gripped the edges of the desk, until you were right there on the edge with him.

And as you shattered, he held you so close you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began, breathing you in like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

He pulled back just enough to catch his breath—hands lingering on your hips as his chest rose and fell against your back. The office was still humming with the afterglow of it all when you felt him ease away and his hands guided you around to face him.

Your gaze flicked up to his, heart still pounding wildly as he brushed his thumb along your swollen bottom lip.

“On your knees,” he told you, voice deep and husky, the heat in his eyes making your whole body ache all over again.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your knees touched the floor, eyes never leaving his as you knelt before him—hands skimming up his thighs as you leaned in, lips brushing over his cock already slick from you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, fingers threading into your hair to guide you, his breath hitching as your lips wrapped around him.

You took him slow at first, tongue swirling around him before hollowing your cheeks and sinking deeper—feeling him tense, hearing that low, broken sound tear from his throat.

“God, baby… just like that,” he groaned, fingers flexing in your hair as he rocked his hips carefully into your mouth.

The taste of him, the way he was looking down at you like you were everything—it only spurred you on, hands braced against his legs as you took him deeper, letting him set the pace.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he hissed, voice strained and needy as you felt him throb against your tongue, his control slipping more with every breathless moan you pulled from him.

And you held his gaze the entire time—so willing, so eager to please—knowing you were his, and knowing just how much he needed you.

He was trembling under your hands—breath shaky as his gaze stayed locked on yours.

“I’m close,” he groaned, the words thick with need as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I wanna come in your mouth.”

His voice dropped to a husky rasp as he guided you deeper, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Will my pretty girl take it for me?”

You gave him a small, breathless moan and nodded, looking up at him with parted lips, aching to give him exactly what he wanted.

“God,” he choked out, jaw flexing as his hips gave a final, shuddering thrust — and then heat flooded your mouth.

You swallowed around him instinctively, eyes fluttering as you kept him there until the last pulse of pleasure wrung through him and his hands slowly released their grip on you.

When you pulled back, lips slick and swollen, you pushed yourself to your feet—reaching blindly for a tissue on his desk.

Before you could do anything, his hand was on your chin, thumb tilting your face back to him as his gaze darkened.

“Nu-uh,” he murmured, voice low and commanding. “Swallow it.”

Your breath caught—heat sparking in your belly at the possessiveness in his tone and without breaking eye contact, you swallowed.

He let out a low, satisfied sound, thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth like a final caress.

“That’s my good girl.”

He pulled you up into his arms without hesitation, hands gentle but firm as they settled at your back.

You melted into him, breath shivering as you tucked your face against his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat was a steady reassurance under your cheek, and for a moment you just stayed like that—held and safe.

“I never meant to make you jealous,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling lightly into it.

He let out a slow sigh, chin resting on the crown of your head as his arms tightened around you.

“I know,” he answered quietly, voice still carrying that edge of tension that hadn’t fully let go. “I believe you. It’s just…”

You felt him hesitate—his thumb rubbing slow circles against your spine.

“You have no idea how scared I am,” he admitted, voice almost too soft. “That someone else will see what I see. That they’ll look at you the way I do. And that one day, I won’t get to have you like this.”

His hands held you a little firmer at those words—like the thought was too much to bear.

And you held him just as tightly, heart aching at the worry threaded through him.

You eased back just enough to look up at him, hands sliding up to rest against his chest as you shook your head.

“It doesn’t matter,” you whispered, voice firm and gentle all at once. “Because I will never look at anyone that way. I only see you, James. And I love you.”

For a moment, his gaze searched yours — like he was holding his breath, needing to believe you.

And then something in him softened. The tension in his shoulders eased, and he exhaled slowly, his hands moving to cradle your face.

“You don’t know how much I need to hear that,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

You held his stare, heart aching at the honesty in his eyes.

“I’m just…” he began, his brow furrowing as though he was choosing his words carefully. “That boy is your age. I’m your professor. I can’t give you a normal relationship. I wouldn’t blame you if you ever wanted something easier. Something you could show off.”

Your hands slipped up to cover his, fingers lacing together as you pressed his palm closer.

“James,” you said, your voice steady, “I don’t want easier. I want you.”

And that was all there was — the quiet hush of the office around you, and him leaning in to kiss you like it was a promise he couldn’t quite believe you were making.

You melted into his kiss, hands tangled in the back of his shirt as his mouth moved over yours—slow and claiming, like he never wanted to let you go.

When he finally pulled back, his gaze searched yours, thumb rubbing your cheek.

“Was I too obvious?” he asked, a tiny crease between his brows. “With the… jealousy…”

That made you laugh — a soft, breathless sound that felt too light for all the tension that had been between you only moments ago.

“Yeah,” you admitted, lips quirking into a smile. “A bit. But it was cute.”

He huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh and ducked his chin, the ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “Cute,” he echoed like he wasn’t sure if he liked the word or not.

“Very cute,” you teased, reaching up to smooth your thumb along his bottom lip. “And a little obvious. You weren’t exactly subtle telling him off.”

He exhaled, shaking his head, though there was amusement in his eyes. “God, I thought I was keeping it together,” he muttered. “Seeing him talk to you like that—I wasn’t going to wait around.”

That pulled a quiet hum from you as you leaned into him again, savoring the way the tension bled into something warm and easy between you—knowing you wouldn’t change a thing.

He laughed under his breath, brushing his thumb over your cheek as the quiet settled again. “And I did mean it about your grade,” he added, eyes glinting. “You could do better.”

Your jaw dropped. “James,” you warned, giving him a look that could have set fire to the room.

“What?” he said, hands lifting like he was innocent. “You told me not to give you a good grades just because I fuck you.”

“But I spent hours on that homework,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him even though you felt the edges of a smile tugging at your lips.

He grinned, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Consider it motivation,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

You groaned, half laughing as you pushed at his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, voice low and playful. “But you’ll thank me when you pass with flying colors. And,” he paused, lips brushing your jaw, “I’ll reward you properly when you do.”

You chuckled and shook your head in amusement, pulling out from his embrace and grabbing your bag.

„I should probably go…” You said with a frown.

James nodded, running a hand through his hair. „Yeah… Text me when you’re home, alright?”

„Sure.” You smiled and headed towards the door.

You stopped just before reaching for a handle, glancing at him one more time. He was gathering the scattered papers from the floor already.

„Love you,” you said quietly but loud enough for him to hear.

James looked up at you and his gaze softened immediately, he tilted his head a bit and smiled genuinely.

God how you loved that smile.

„Love you too,” he answered and watched you leave.

———

You came back to your room. Your heart was still beating fast even though you felt much calmer now.

Your dorm was blissfully empty, the faint hum of the heater and the street noise outside the only company you had. Sarah had run off to who knows where, and suddenly the idea that had been tugging since you left James’ office wouldn’t leave you alone anymore.

You glanced around once, even though you knew you were by yourself. A thrill ran up your spine as you grabbed your phone and crossed to the mirror leaning against your closet door.

Your hands felt a little unsteady as you slipped your top off your shoulder just so, tugging the neckline down enough to expose a teasing glimpse of your bra. Then you ran your fingers slowly up your ribs, pushing the fabric down a bit more until you could see the swell of your chest in the reflection.

God, it was ridiculous how good this felt—knowing exactly who you were doing this for.

You tilted your chin, gave the camera your best smoldering look—lips parted, hair tousled—and took a few different shots until you found one that was downright sinful.

Your thumb hovered for a second over the send button. You felt a spark of wickedness light up in your belly.

You | 5:27PM

Thanks for the “motivation,” professor. Thought I’d give you some too.

And then you hit send.

Your pulse kicked up as you stared at the sent message and the preview of the photo—lips parted, eyes dark, shirt pulled low enough to leave very little to the imagination. Your hands were trembling, heart thudding wildly. Instantly, your body felt warm all over, a slow ache stirring between your legs just at the thought of him seeing you like that—knowing that beneath his composed professor persona was a man who could hardly keep his hands off you.

You bit your bottom lip and flopped onto your bed, phone clutched to your chest, grinning into your pillow. The air still smelled faintly like him, or maybe you were just imagining it.

And oh god, you couldn’t wait for his reply. If he was jealous before, this was going to drive him absolutely crazy.

Your phone buzzed against your chest—you nearly jumped, breath catching as you grabbed it and unlocked the screen.

James | 5:29PM

Jesus Christ. You’re making it very hard to focus right now.

Your lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile as you bit your thumb and kept reading. You could practically hear the edge in his voice, that low, tight control he always had before it snapped. A rush of heat went straight to your core.

You typed back quickly, fingers flying before you could second-guess yourself. Your heart was pounding so loud you were sure someone outside could hear it.

You | 5:29PM

That was kinda the point. Is it working?

A moment passed before the next message lit up your screen.

James | 5:30PM

More than you know.

You shifted on your bed, legs rubbing together instinctively as you replied. Your thumbs moved before you could overthink it.

You | 5:30PM

Still working this late?

The reply came quickly.

James | 5:30PM

Yeah. Too much grading left.

A wicked little thrill ran through you. Biting your lip, you shifted deeper under your blankets, already picturing him alone at his desk, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration.

You | 5:31PM

Poor professor. Bet you wish you were here instead of looking at homework.

A moment passed.

James | 5:31PM

You have no idea.

Your smile curved into a grin as you decided to push him further.

You | 5:32PM

Mmm… wish I could help you relax. I could come over. Maybe wear something pretty just for you. Or maybe nothing at all.

Your pulse quickened.

James | 5:32PM

Careful, sweetheart. You know exactly what you’re doing.

That was the encouragement you needed—heat spilling into every word as you typed your next message.

You | 5:33PM

And I bet you’d do more than just look. Remember how you had me bent over your desk just a few hours ago? I haven’t stopped thinking about it

A few seconds ticked by—long enough that you wondered if you’d finally pushed too far—then your screen lit up again.

James | 5:33PM

God. You’re going to drive me crazy. Keep that up and I’m going to end up leaving this pile of papers unfinished.

A shiver ran through you at the raw want under his words.

And you weren’t anywhere close to stopping.

Your heart was racing, and you could feel heat climbing up your neck as you shifted on your bed, knees pressed together.

You | 5:34PM

That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? You could have me all to yourself instead.

You paused before typing the next part, already knowing it would get to him.

You | 5:34PM

And this time, I could do everything you want me to…

There was a tense, breathless pause.

James | 5:34PM

Fuck, baby. You’re playing a dangerous game tonight, aren’t you?

You bit your lip, thumbs flying.

You | 5:35PM

Maybe I like dangerous. Especially when it’s you.

His next message was slower to come, like he was thinking—or picturing every word you’d sent him.

James 5:36PM

And maybe I like that you never make it easy for me to concentrate.

Keep this up and I’m going to give you a office hours you won’t forget.

Your lips parted, breath shallow. It felt like you could feel him already—hands gripping your waist, his mouth dragging along your neck—and all you could do was keep him hooked.

You | 5:36PM

That’s exactly what I was hoping for. You always look at me like you want to ruin me.

A tiny typing bubble appeared… then disappeared. Then came his reply, short and direct:

James | 5:37PM

I already have.

You shifted on your bed, breath coming faster as you thought of him sitting at his desk across town—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, probably pinching the bridge of his nose the way he always did when he was focused.

God, you ached for him.

Your hands moved before you could overthink it, sliding your skirt up just enough as you set your phone to take another shot. This one was closer—your fingertips brushing against the inside of your thigh, your panties barely in frame.

You hit send, then quickly followed with a message before you lost your nerve:

You | 5:39PM

Still working? Or did I just make that a lot harder?

You held your breath, heart thudding in your ears as you stared at the screen.

His reply came fast.

James | 5:39PM

Keep going. Show me what you’d let me do to you if I were there.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively at his words, a dizzy little thrill running through you.

You | 5:40PM

Not so fast, Professor… Maybe I’ll write you something instead, hm?

Your phone buzzed almost instantly after you hit send.

James | 5:40PM

Tease.

Your lips curled into a cocky little smile as you rolled onto your stomach, kicking your feet idly behind you. Your heart was still thudding wildly in your chest—you could feel the anticipation humming under your skin.

You bit your bottom lip and typed back quickly:

You | 5:40PM

Mm, I think I have some idea, professor…

And then, after a beat—before he could send anything else—you added:

You | 5:40PM

Let me show you properly. Give me a few.

Your hands were trembling just a little as you grabbed your laptop off your desk, already knowing exactly what you were going to do. The glow of the screen lit up the darkened room as you pulled up a blank document and took a breath.

You could feel him waiting. You could feel him already aching for you.

And God, the power in that—it was heady and intoxicating.

Your fingers moved before you could overthink it, spilling all the need and heat and breathless tension you felt straight into words, painting a picture for him of exactly what you wanted him to do to you. Of how he made you feel. Of what you thought about when you touched yourself to him. Every filthy, worshipful thought you’d been holding back.

You | 5:58

[PDF FILE ATTACHED]

Every time I’m alone, I find myself thinking about you in a hundred secret ways.

I wonder what it would feel like to have you pressed against me when I can barely catch my breath — your hands everywhere at once, hands that seem to know my body better than I do.

I picture your lips tracing a slow path down my neck, my collarbone, my ribs, and how you’d look up at me like you’re savoring every inch, making me ache before you ever truly touch me.

I want you to pin my hands above my head and kiss me until my lips feel swollen, until my whole body is trembling just for you. To feel your weight and your heat, your voice telling me how good I am for you, how much you need me — and I’d believe every word.

I close my eyes and I can already feel you inside me, deeper and slower this time, like we have forever, like you could take me apart one gentle thrust at a time. I want to moan your name into the dark and hear you groan mine back as you hold me so close I forget there’s even a world outside the bed.

You waited few minutes for his reply.

James | 6:01PM

You have no idea what you just started.

Your heart leapt at his words, heat pooling between your legs all over again.

Your thumbs flew across the screen before you could stop yourself.

You | 6:01PM

Oh yeah? What is it?

You stared at your phone for what felt like forever—one minute turned to ten, then fifteen, then thirty.

You thought maybe you’d scared him off, and were about to put the phone down when it buzzed again.

Your breath caught as you opened the message.

James | 6:33PM

[PDF FILE ATTACHED]

You say you want me but you never see what burns beneath my skin. You don’t know the way I ache to brand you, to leave my hands and lips where everyone else can see.

To taste you until you’re trembling, to press you into my sheets so deep you’ll never wash my scent off your body.

And God help me, I want them all to know you’re mine. I want them to look at you and see my name written in the purples on your throat, in the bruises I leave at your hips.

You make me greedy, you make me feral, and all I want is to have you tangled up beneath me, moaning my name so loud it drowns out any thought—except one—you’re mine.

You stared at the words, pulse thudding in your ears, eyes tracing each devastating line again and again.

Your hands were trembling — you could hardly catch your breath.

And there was only one thought repeating in your mind as you reread his message for the third time: God, I want him.

You stared at your phone in stunned silence, his words practically burning into you.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard before you finally sent back a single, breathless reply:

You | 6:35PM

Wow…

Almost immediately, your phone buzzed again.

James | 6:35PM

Are you free this weekend?

Your heart leapt into your throat.

You | 6:35PM

Yeah…

Three tiny dots appeared and disappeared—like he was thinking, deciding—before his next message hit your screen, heat rolling through you as you read every word.

James | 6:36PM

Good… Maybe you can fix that homework grade. I remember you said something about writing with my fingers inside you in one of your “works”…

You sucked in a shaky breath. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily as a dizzy little thrill ran up your spine.

God, he never missed a thing you wrote—and knowing he wanted to make it real just for you had your body already aching.

Your fingers moved before you could second-guess yourself.

You | 6:37PM

Guess I’ll need my professor’s hands-on guidance, then.

And just like that, you knew—this weekend was going to be unforgettable.

James | 6:37PM

Mhm… See you at my place tomorrow then. Come any time you want.

You smiled stupidly at your phone, warm fluttering in your chest as you stared at the text. A little giddy, you bit your lip and quickly typed back.

You | 6:37PM

I’ll be there <3

You didn’t expect another reply, not really. But then your phone buzzed again.

James | 6:38PM

What’s that?

You scrunched your brows in confusion, a tiny smile already tugging at your lips.

You | 6:38PM

What’s what?

You stared at the screen, nerves and amusement coiling together.

James | 6:39PM

That <3 thing.

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it—the kind that made you cover your mouth like someone might overhear. Poor old man.

You | 6:39PM

It’s a heart, James… Flip your phone to the side…

You tried not to wheeze as you could picture him frowning at the screen, turning his phone around like a puzzle. The image was too cute—your grin grew wider.

James | 6:40PM

Oh.

I see it now…

Your breath caught as a tiny pause appeared, the typing bubble blinking once, twice.

James | 6:40PM

<3

Your face felt so warm it was ridiculous. God, he was so cute.

You pressed the phone to your chest, heart thudding wildly as you stared at the ceiling, already looking forward to tomorrow more than you could put into words.

Part 5 soon 💋

tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @hiraethmae @im-feeling-blue-today @beforemdnight @just4w3irdo @bloodmocha @lovinqbella @its-in-the-woods @muchwita @iyskgd @harrietandcats @shortandb1tchy @luv4kook @grovelingmen @buckybarneswife125 @xamapolax @glitterspark @azrielsgirll @mortallydistinguishedwolf @shaheea @simp4f1 @voidanima @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @herejustforbuckybarnes @sebastians-love @wntersoidiertk @emcharra @user911224 @stell404

[yandere-romanticaa]

𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔶.

❝ Darlin', darlin', darlin', I fall to pieces when I'm with you, I fall to pieces. ❞ - lana del rey.

🌹: based off this little fic here, by the lovely @pomegranate-eater. also - happy birthday to me! i just turned 23! hurray! i just love being a cancer girlie! ❤️ i wanted to write something to treat myself, this right here is just pure indulgence on my part. you don't get more anacore than this.

His loud grunts blessed your ears before you could even open the window. It was impossibly hard to focus on any housework, no matter how easy it may be. Pots and pans clicked and clanged in the kitchen as you tried chopping some fruit in order to give to your dear friend as a treat - only to then accidentally cut your finger against the sharp blade. Regardless, you haphazardly threw the slices in a neat white bowl, the tart juice of the fruit sticking onto your fingers as you watched him from the window's corner.

Thank the stars, his back was turned. Those toned muscles of his were on full display, broad back and shoulders so bright, sweaty and perfect, as if a god himself had handcrafted him from top to bottom. His white hair clung to his forehead, the salty sweat so very clearly dripping down his biceps as he jumped off a tree unceremoniously, almost like an animal.

His cheeky grin was no better.

Phainon held a simple tin bucket and it was filled to the brim with various goodies which were in season from your garden, cherries and strawberries most notably. That saccharine smile of his almost made you drop everything, the ever growing urge to just kiss him becoming impossible to handle. And oh, how Phainon had graciously offered to help with picking your fruits, the way he so cheerfully ran up to you like an adorable little boy, his wide blue eyes filled with sincerity and a delectable sort of intensity, as if he was not willing to take no for an answer.

"I'll gladly pay you." you had told him, a happy grin on your maroon red lips. Phainon shook his head at that, his eyes not so subtly tracking the corners of the very same lips.

You pretended not to notice.

"Come now, don't be like that! If you want, I can even give you some of the fruit!" you told him wistfully, eyes wide as you pouted playfully at him. The man could not help but to let out a chuckle at the cheeky display, his chest positively rumbling with amusement as his voice suddenly dropped, the timbre lowering to a degree you never heard from him before.

"Don't worry." he said, his blue eyes blazing.

"I'll be sure not to leave empty handed."

With a start, he suddenly turned his head to look at you, as if he could sense your very life essence. Making eye contact, you almost dropped the bowl completely, some of bits and pieces of the fruit scampering elsewhere.

Curses. His senses were too sharp for your own good. You just hoped he wasn't aware that you were so shamelessly oogling him, daydreaming about flat out licking off the liquid sin off his body, fingers grazing those pure locks and tugging like the wretched little thing you were.

Phainon didn't even grant you the luxury of finishing the daydream as he now stood directly in front of your window, a large finger tapping against the glass politely three times. Opening it in a rush you pressed yourself forward against the window sill, cheeks blazing with heat as you looked down at him with a cheerful smile. A giggle erupted from the back of your throat, the desire to call out his messy and dirty appearance too great. Just as you were about to say something witty, all of the air was knocked out of your lungs as Phainon's large palm pressed itself at the back of your head. Pushing your body a bit forward, Phainon stood just a bit on his tiptoes, those gems for eyes so full of life and... And something else you could never quite pinpoint.

"Time to pay up." said Phainon as he licked his lips in a gleeful manner. Just as you were about to offer him the bowl, the man lunged forward and pressed his lips against your own. Gasping, your cheeks became hotter than the sun itself as Phainon closed his eyes, his lips moving in tandem as he let out a long, drawn out sigh. It was if he was feasting on your body, a piece of sweetness offered up for him on a silver platter, all his to devour and enjoy. You felt how his fingers tugged at the back of your head, fingernails gently digging into your scalp in order to tilt your chin, granting him even greater access to your being.

He took his time, the kiss more a force of nature rather than contact between two human beings. It was as if your soul was set ablaze, the flames flickering forward for more and he took it all for himself, never once easing up.

With what felt like near suffocation creeping up, Phainon pulled away, his movements slow and deliberate. He cackled softly to himself, the wicked sound most likely not meant for your ears but it was still heard regardless of his intentions. He sighed, his pale chest heaving with air as he licked off the spit from the corner of his lips, never breaking eye contact with you.

"Mmm, you sure do know how to treat people well." he said with a lazy tone, as if he was planning to dive right back in. You stared back at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging wide open as he cackled once more, the hand at the back of your head now slithering closer towards your lips, his fingers gently dabbing away your own spit, his fingers now coated with the liquid.

"Don't look at me like that. I said I'd get my payment, right?"

His tone was firm, commanding even, as if he was speaking the sheer truth, as if you were the silly one for thinking that he would take nothing. His gaze finally shifted back to your garden, the wind gently caressing the green leaves which hung on the trees, the scenery practically tranquil, save for the devil before you.

"I'm not done yet you know. And I do require adequate payment. It wouldn't be fair otherwise, yeah?"

By everything that was holy and above - how would your raging heart ever recover from this? As if he could supernaturally sense your distress, Phainon gently let go of you, his fingers softly toying with locks of your hair.

"Don't go anywhere." he said sweetly.

"I don't mind you watching."

Busted.

Even so, he continued, his voice gaining an odd edge to it.

"I hope no one else receives such delectable payment from you..."

His voice trails off so casually, like he's talking about the weather. The tips of his fingers dance around your hair, as if he doesn't want to let go.

Do you even want him to go?

Like a whisper in the wind, Phainon breaks free from the spell he cast upon himself, his back now fully turned towards you. He craddles his lips as he grabs another bucket, his heart thumping as if it was pumped with liquid sugar.

He'd eat you alive if he could.

You just didn't need to know that.

[loserabby]

could you write something on eating out big pussy!abby for the first time

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚.     𝐒𝐎 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 (𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐈'𝐌 𝐀 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑) big clit!abby x reader

��₊˚ ☁️⋅𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ . ** MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS IS AN 18+ BLOGI DO NOT GIVE ANYBODY PERMISSION TO REUPLOAD OR PLAGARISE MY WORK. IF YOU SEE SOMETHING I'VE WRITTEN ANYWHERE ELSE OTHER THAN HERE OR MY A03, PLEASE LET ME KNOW VIA ASK **

₊˚ 𓂃 ₊ ˚ ✧     some people just aren't into receiving, or at least that's what you think the problem is when it comes to the fact that your girlfriend of two months still won't let you make her feel good. until you accidentally catch her naked for the first time and suddenly you start to get an idea about what might actually be the problem.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 :     explicit language and content, use of Y/N, no outbreak au (modern), established relationship, references to sex, enlarged clitoris (clitoromegaly), slight misunderstandings. sexual content: kissing, dry humping (once again, to quote madeline argy: BRING BACK DRY HUMPING), mentions of strap-ons and sex-toys, cunnilingus, cum eating. slight dirty talk. mentions of past bodyshaming, embarrassment 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 :     5,869k

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 :     i mean i imagine her pussy to be an absolute meal in all my writing but this one really focus' on it. shout out to @onlyheluvsme for being the mvp of team big clit abby i highly recommend going through her masterlist for that it's... chefs kiss. ngl the smut is not my best but this has been fermenting in my drafts for like a week and showed no signs of getting better I'M SORRY. and finally, clitoromegaly is obviously nothing to be embarrassed by and i don't want anyone to take abby's shame/bad experiences in the past as me mocking the mutation but it is something others might not be as well educated about so i didn't want to pretend that doesn't happen.     [ read on ao3 ]

[ border credit ]     [ resources for palestine ]     [ boycott tlou ]

Admittedly, it takes a few times before you start to pick up on a recurring theme and when you do pick up on it? You don’t just feel guilty but… Curious, and deep down… Disappointed. 

Abby had wanted to take it slow and to her credit, you guys had only been officially dating for two months. Taking that into consideration with classes, part-time jobs and other college related things that meant you were both busy, it was understandable that she wanted to take it slow when you guys were able to see each other. 

She was a gentleman, making sure to take you out on proper dates first — not just somewhere quick and then have her hand up your skirt on the car ride home but actual restaurants with recommended dishes and signature wines that just confused you. She’d kissed you properly for the first time in her apartment on date number three, a movie forgotten about in the background but even then, she’d wanted to keep the pacing of your relationship slow.

But when you did start to get hot and heavy? God, it was good. So blindsightingly good you didn’t notice that every time it seemed to always focus on you. 

Climb on her lap? She readjusts you so you’re straddling her thigh instead and you’re so lost to the pleasure of your clit dragging against your panties and the hard muscle of her leg to pick up on it. 

Your hand snakes down to try and touch her pussy? She’s got your wrists pinned above your head in one hand, your nipples caught between her teeth and her other hand rubbing fast circles against your clit before you know it.

It doesn’t help that by the time you’re both in those situations, it’s late and when Abby finally decides she’s pulled enough orgasms out of you — slick coating your thighs, sticky against your cunt, her chin shiny from where she’d used her mouth on you and fingers still smelling of you even after she’s sucked them clean obscenely in front of you — you’re too exhausted to even think about cleaning up, never mind returning the favor.

Which fucking sucks cause when you do realise you can’t help but pout at how many opportunities you’ve been robbed of seeing her eyes roll to the back of her head, to see what her pussy looks like as it quivers. 

You were no stranger to pussy, it’s not like you wouldn’t know what to do. In fact you were proud to say you were very much a giver in that you could spend all day between a girls thighs much like Abby has done for you previously.

You’ve dated other girls before that maybe weren’t as keen on reciprocating and, given the circumstances, you assume at first that maybe that’s what Abby thinks about you. You had just rolled over and gone straight to sleep (albeit after making her spoon you and wrapping her big, strong arms around you beforehand so you’d feel safe in your fucked out state) so it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that she had assumed you were a pillow princess.

Respectfully to all pillow princesses, that misconception simply will not do.

So you try and subtly make it clear that you are very much interested in being a munch the next time Abby has you pressed into her sofa at her campus apartment, fingers buried knuckle deep inside your pussy, so wet you can hear every movement as she fucks you harshly. Abby’s got her mouth on your neck, sucking dark marks at your collarbones that make you whimper and keen before soothing them with her tongue and soft kisses as her thumb strums over your clit.

“So fucking pretty, baby, look at you swallowing my fingers so easily… Greedy little hole’s sucking me in” The blonde hisses against your skin, having to use her other hand that was groping your tits roughly to keep your thighs open. They’re shaking, threatening to slam shut even with Abby lying between them and you whimper as you feel her fingers digging into the soft flesh. 

Last time she left the prettiest bruises there, you’d spent days pressing your own touch to them just to feel the ache, an embarrassing wave of sadness coming over you when they started to fade. So maybe you purposely don’t hold back from letting your thighs twitch and writhe so she’s forced to hold you tighter, just so you’re maybe gifted with another reminder of her touch.

“Please, please… Let me, I wanna…” It’s unclear what you’re begging for, to cum or to touch her. You’re so close but not quite lost to the delirium Abby brings by orgasm number three so you take advantage of that, shaky hand coming out to grip at the butch woman’s jeans but faltering, instead clutching at whatever you can grab when her fingers start pounding at that gummy spot deep inside only she seems able to find as your vision starts to white out. 

You can feel yourself clenching around her fingers, the sound of your weeping pussy obscene as she continues her relentless finger fucking. “Shit, baby, you’re so.. Fucking.. Tight” she grits the words out, chuckling when she looks at you beneath her with your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your back arching off the couch and your head thrown back so far. “You coming? Gonna make a mess on the leather for me? C’mon, lets see how messy this pretty pussy can get for me, yeah?”

It doesn’t take long after that, pussy squirting all over Abby’s hand and dripping down your ass to the leather couch like Abby predicted, but even then she doesn’t let up with her relentless torture of your clit and hole. You try to grab at her jeans again, trying to unbutton them but she shakes her head, eyes wide for a split second before she’s making soft coaxing noises, your hands pinned above your head again. “All about you, baby” Is all she murmurs against your skin, before she makes sure to send you over the edge again and again, effectively cutting off any urgency in completing your task.

The next time you try and focus on Abby, try to make it clear you want to reciprocate is when the two of you are watching a movie at her apartment, your body lazily thrown over her and your head resting in the crook of her neck and your arms tossed around her.

Slowly your attention drifts from the screen, bored by some adaptation of a historical-fiction book Abby read but you’ve never heard of. Your lips slowly trail down her neck, featherlight kisses pressed to her collarbones as one of your arms drops and begins to drift below the blanket she’d pulled out to keep you both warm.

Abby’s attention is still on the film, still pointing out changes they made from the book to the movie but you know the moment she realises where your hand has gone. You feel her reaction more than see it, how her breath catches and her body stiffens. Your hand immediately stops tracing her crotch, teasing line drug along her slit over the fabric of her basketball shorts. 

“Sorry, I didn’t— I shouldn’t..” You pull your hand away quickly, your apology rushed and face hot from embarrassment. 

“We should, um.. We should focus on the film, yeah?” Abby says after some consideration, and you just wanna hide in embarrassment and shame because she clearly didn’t like that. 

You miss how she clenches her thighs together, mistake her heart racing for being out of panic and try to ignore the failed attempt at seducing your girlfriend when she has you bent over the sofa a few hours later on her strap in the low light of her living room, cooing in your ear about how pretty you look dripping down her cock.

Maybe you come to the conclusion Abby might be a stone butch, a touch-me-not, whatever the hell you wanna call it. Because she seems to shy away with every advance you make to try and reciprocate. 

You get it if that is the case but can’t help but feel like that should have been mentioned, communicated in some way so you didn’t feel so… Weird about it. Sue me, you think, is it so wrong to want to touch your girlfriend? Your incredibly attractive girlfriend? No, surely not.

You wouldn’t exactly say it’s a deal breaker, you like Abby a lot. Even in the little amount of time you both have been together already, she’s amazing and not just physically — although that is certainly a perk. 

She’s thoughtful, caring, she makes sure to check in with everyone (seemingly knowing everyone on campus). She always sends a good morning and a good night text, even when she’s deep in her study sessions or writing papers. She makes sure all your dates are ‘real’ ones, even if it’s just going to her apartment to make dinner cause she wanted to make sure you didn’t feel like you were being used for your body. Hell, she even made sure to let you know where the spare key to her apartment was kept so you could let yourself in after that time you got caught in the rain outside waiting for her.

Which leads to now; Enter you, spare key in hand after sending a rushed text to Abby saying you were coming over to talk when you realised you couldn’t go any further without discussing boundaries. 

You should have realised something had thrown a wrench in your plan the second you stepped foot in Abby’s apartment really, the small space weirdly quiet and steam slowly rolling out of her bathroom. Distantly, you can hear the low murmur of music coming from her bedroom, the door slightly ajar.

You’re calling Abby’s name as you push through the door, not bothering to knock as you assume she’s read your text. It’s only when you process what’s in front of you that you come to the realisation that you seem to do an awful lot of assuming — and you know what they say, to assume is to make an ass out of you and me.

Because Abby clearly didn’t read your text, not based on the horrified look on her face when you walk in on her stark naked on her bed. Her skin is flushed, still damp from the shower she’d clearly just taken and her hair dripping big, fat water droplets onto her chest. Her muscled thighs are spread open, heels digging into the mattress as her fingers remain still stuffed deep inside her dripping hole. Her bush is wild and untamed, a light brown that curls through her fingers as her other hand spreads her lips wide open

There’s a voice in the back of your head, a really unnecessary one that points out that it seems like Abby does like being touched after all, but maybe just not by you.

But the best part of the sight — or the worse part, taking Abby’s look of utter shock into consideration — is her pussy, just as a whole. Her enlarged clit, erect and pulsating as it seems to stand to attention. Her pussy as a whole is big, the kind of big that makes your mouth begin to salivate, embarrassingly, as you think playing with it.

It makes you realise you’d never actually seen her pussy before, that every time the two of you fucked she was either fully clothed or had her strap on over her boxers. How cruel of her to hide that perfect pussy away.

“I… I texted” You say weakly after a few moments of silence, stood in a half step in the door way. 

Abby doesn’t move, and you don’t know what else to say as you spiral, murmuring apologies and rushing back out the door before Abby is able to process what just happened.

Communicating isn’t going so well, more so after you accidentally walked in on Abby’s post-shower masturbation session. She’s avoided pretty much all your texts asking to talk and even gone as far as changing her routine to avoid running into you.

It kind of leaves you in a weird limbo where you’re not quite sure where you went wrong. There’s definitely areas you could have improved on (i.e. actually communicating about boundaries from the start so all this assuming bullshit didn’t happen) but you texted, you said you were coming by. Maybe you could have shouted a hello when you first entered the apartment but the last time Abby was in when you did she said you didn’t have to.

You’re also just incredibly unaware as to what the state of your relationship even is anymore? Is Abby still your girlfriend? Does she only like to touch herself and not be touched by others? It’s frustrating, yes, but you can’t help but feel like you owe Abby the time to digest what happened.

After all, it was her that got walked in on in her own home, completely naked and knuckle deep inside of herself. You can cut the blonde a break.

Doesn’t stop you from salivating at the memory of how beautiful and fucked out she looked that split second before she realised she’d been caught, face contorted in pleasure and juices spilling down past her knuckles.

After a dozen texts to Abby, ranging from apologies to simple messages telling her you missed her and you would wait until she was ready to talk, it’s a week later you finally get a response. It’s simple, to the point and very Abby.

[ Abs ] : You can come to my apartment for dinner, we should talk.

A terrifying text to receive, given the circumstances. The ‘you can come for dinner’ aspect giving you a sense of security, it makes you feel like everythings fine but the ‘we should talk’ part? That’s sending ‘break up talk’ alarm bells ringing through your head.

You text back nervously, asking what time and if you should bring anything. You end up outside her apartment door, pointedly ignoring the space where her spare key is hidden like it might burn, with a bottle of wine in hand as you wait for her to answer.

When she does, there’s a tension between the two of you the moment your eyes meet and — thank god — it’s not a bad kind. It’s like suddenly you’ve both had the air knocked out of you, like you hadn’t realised you’d been missing a piece of yourselves until you saw what was missing right in front of you. Two months you’ve been together, god Lesbians were stereotypically quick to get attached.

You can see how Abby’s eyes soften, warm when she sees you and she has to steady both her hands on the door frame as she welcomes you inside.

“Dinner might be a while,” She says, uncharacteristically timid seeming, her hand drifting to your lower back as she guides you into the apartment. “Sorry, took a little while longer than I thought but, um… We can sit on the sofa? Maybe, uh, if you want we could talk now? Get it out of the way?”

Get it out of the way?

You place the bottle of wine on the coffee table, heart racing as you consider what Abby might be about to say. God, is she about to break up with you? No, she couldn’t be… She’s made dinner, it would be epicly cruel to break up with you and then expect you to stay for whatever homemade pasta dish she’s made.

“I’m sorry!” The words spill from your mouth at a rapid speed, not even bothering to stop to give her a chance to cut in — her brows shot high and eyes wide as you ramble. “I-I texted and I thought that was enough but clearly I didn’t think that through, and I totally should have shouted to let you even know I had arrived in the apartment but I just didn’t think. But.. You.. I.. I froze when I saw, I mean how could I not but I thought you didn’t like that, and I guess that’s my own fault cause I never asked what you do and don’t like — we kinda forgot to have that talk a-and—”

“Woah, woah, Y/N, slow—” Abby tries to cut in, hands coming to your arms to try and stop them from moving around wildly as you talk. “What are you talking about, c’mon, slow down.”

“It’s my own fault, I didn’t notice for way too long and when I finally did, I realised you probably thought I was just a pillow princess so I kept trying to subtly show my interest but you— a-and then you kept pushing me away or turning it back on me so I just figured you didn’t like being touched, stone butch or whatever but then i-in your bed… you… you were touching yourself a-and—”

You only stop, words cutting off suddenly, when Abby takes your face in her hands and forces you to look at her.

“Y/N. Baby, stop. I need you to breathe, calm down for a sec’ okay?” Her words are spoken so softly, the care dripping off each word as she brushes a strand of hair behind your ear gently. “Can you do that for me, slow down and take a breath?”

You nod slowly, watching her reverently. Abby’s tongue darts out to wet her lips as she watches you, taking a deep breath of her own. “I should have talked to you sooner, I’m sorry I just… got caught in my own head. Maybe none of this would have happened if I’d of done that, but if you still want… If you’re still wanting us I’d like to talk now, if that’s okay?” She sounds nervous as she speaks, the words almost practiced. You nod, giving her the time to speak and watching as her hands drop from your face to twiddle nervously on her lap.

“I… It’s not that I don’t like to be touched, I want— I really want that, but I… I haven’t had the greatest experiences in the past when it came to… Other people and what they thought of my body” Your heart aches as Abby speaks, her blue eyes cast down to where her hands lay nervously on her lap and her voice going soft.

“I just… Got used to hiding my body, you know and I didn’t even realise I was doing it until you… You remember that night we were watching the City of Thieves film and you—” She didn’t need to go any further, your face brightening in shame as you recall the awkward rejection. “I just didn’t know how to… broach the subject, y’know, and it’s not like I really thought you’d be judgemental and mean about my body but it’s just built up after so many negative reactions”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, eyes narrowing slightly as you stare at your girlfriend. “Why would I judge you? I know you’re big, I know you’re muscle-y, why would I be mean about that?” You ask in genuine confusion, causing Abby to freeze and look at you equally as confused.

After a beat, she speaks slowly. “You… You think that I was talking… about my body-body?” After a beat, you nod just as slowly. “I was talking about my pussy” She finishes after a long space of silence, blunt and to the point.

Your head cocks to the side, confusion still clear in your expression as you process what she’s saying. What the fuck is so wrong about her pussy? You didn’t see anything wrong with it in that small (but well committed to memory) glimpse you’d had of it. “I don’t?—”

“Shit, you don’t… You really don’t see a problem, do you?” She sounds like she’s in awe, like your total lack of an issue around her genitals is something groundbreaking which makes a simmering bit of rage begin to boil inside of you because who in their damn right mind made the beautiful, the amazing Abby fucking Anderson so insecure in her body she couldn’t even show her girlfriend what she looked like?!

“Shit, okay, uh… I mean, you know — you saw — it’s big. Fatter than the norm’ I guess. It’s a mutation, congenital… I just.. I guess a lot of people I’ve been with have found it weird, ugly a-and they didn’t really wanna.. return the favor or do anything I guess.”

Yep, definitely rage you feel below the surface. The idea that Abby has been dealing with this because of people that were supposed to care for her speaking so badly about her body, for their reactions to something she cannot control makes you clench your fists. But you force yourself to relax, fingers stretching out on your thighs as you try to remain cool.

“Like I said, I didn’t really realise I was doing it until you started to, y’know… And I don't know, I couldn’t stop myself from panicking that it was gonna be the same reaction all over again. I just.. I couldn’t handle seeing that look of… of disgust on your face, not… you.”

Your delicate hands reach out to capture hers, stopping her from picking at the skin around her thumbs nervously as she speaks, to get her attention. “Abby, I.. I know other people have reacted that way but I would never—”

Her cheeks tinge red, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth and a small smirk etching its way onto her face. “I know, Y/N”

“You— You do?”

She nods, looking up to meet your eyes. “Yeah, I know. I, uh.. I figured that out.”

Your face pulls together again in confusion and slight annoyance, if she knew that then why did you spend the last week getting ghosted?! “What do you mean?”

“You have this look that comes over your face whenever you get turned on… Normally see it whenever I’m getting you off but, uh… That day, when you walked in on me? You had it when you were looking at me”

Your mouth drops open, breathless as you take that in. It’s no surprise though, you had been incredibly turned on at the sight, even thinking about it now has a wet spot forming in your panties at just the thought of Abby’s legs spread to unveil that beautiful cunt.

Shaking off the haze of lust, you focus on Abby. “So… Why did you, I mean I was happy to wait as long as you needed — I mean, again, I walked in on you a-and you needed to process that shock — but… why did you wait so long to talk?”

She heaves out a slow sigh, scratching at the back of her neck. “It was just weird, this bizarre 180 I was experiencing where this thing about me and my body that was always… weird for others and that I was kind of, y’know, expecting to be weird for you was suddenly attractive. That made you get that fucked out, horny expression on your face and I… I couldn’t believe it.”

“And now?”

“I mean… I believe it”

At that, your hand comes out to lightly smack at her arm, the both of you falling into light rumbles of laughter. Your hand lingers on Abby’s arm, dropping after a moment too long.

“Asshole,” softly you shake your head, a smile forming on your lips as you dip her head down. “I meant and now what? I mean, I take it this isn’t you breaking up with me like I was worried about?”

Her eyes widen in slight horror, like she hadn’t considered all of the nightmare scenarios that had been swarming in your mind over the last week. “N-No, no, absolutely not. Shit, you didn’t think— God, okay. No, no breakup was ever considered for the record”

That definitely eases the weeks worth of tension that had built up. 

You bite your lip, leaning forward into Abby’s space slightly. After a moment of silence, your needy eyes lift to meet Abby’s “Can we just skip to the part where we kiss and make-up?”

The other girl barely gets her own eager nod out before you’re clambering onto her lap, hands in her hair as you kiss her hard and messily. Your tongue licks into her mouth aggressively, small noises falling from the two of you as your hips rocks against hers. You missed this, missed how Abby tasted, how her tongue felt against yours as she explored your mouth just as thoroughly.

“I missed— missed you… so.. much” Heavy pants bracket each and every word, only broken by Abby pulling your lips back to hers as she devours you whole. She only pulls back with a high-keening hiss when you roll your hips in a certain way against her that makes her clit throb in her boxers. “Fuck, baby, careful” She sounds so pretty when she whines, her lip bitten as her head rolls back against the back sofa cushions.

Her head rolls to the side, looking at the kitchen before she swallows thickly, looking back at you. Her large hands move down to your hips, tapping the hip bones to get you to stand up. 

“Gonna save the food before we forget and burn the apartment down, you… Get in the bedroom” The way she breathes the words out, like she’s as affected as you are makes your head spin and you’re quick to scramble off her lap and into her bedroom.

Abby’s on you quicker than you realise, shoes barely kicked off before she’s at your back and kissing down the column of your neck with her hands running up and down your sides. Turning to face her, you drag her down into a punishing kiss until you feel her bed hit the back of your knees. You don’t fall back though, turning the two of you so Abby now has her back to the bed.

You’re panting when you break the kiss, wetting your lips despite the messy kiss as you look up at Abby through thick lashes with deep arousal. She looks equally as fucked, hair messy from where your fingers have gone through it as you both made out and her blue eyes dark with need. “Get on the bed for me, Abs. Like… Like you were that day” You sound fucked out already, thinking back to when you caught her touching herself like a wanton whore. You see the moment it registers in Abby’s mind what you’re asking her to do, a single raised eyebrow as she breathes heavily.

Slowly she strips her clothes, kicking her own shoes off. You spend equal time helping her discard her clothes as you do standing back and admiring her form, salivating as her tits spring free of her sports bra. She’s just got her boxers left when she crawls onto the bed, laying back against the headboard before lifting her hips and pulling them free.

She pulls them past her ankles and throws them on the floor, landing with a soft noise by your feet. Not that you notice, no, you’re too focused on Abby. Lay back on the bed, completely bare with only her knees propped up straight and infront of her to cover that pretty pussy of hers.

Your eyes are dark, hungry as you stare ahead, right where you know her crotch is covered by her legs. “Abby, that’s not how you were lay when I caught you” The words are low, almost rough as you wait, watching.

Her long hair, free from the braid she always wears, cascading messily down her shoulders is pushed behind her nervously before she slowly spreads her thighs and finally mirrors the position you’d caught her in a week ago.

Her heels aren’t quite digging into the mattress with need the way they were that day, but Abby isn’t nearly as worked over as she was then either. Still, you move forward hungrily, almost drawn to her like a magnet with your palms spread on the mattress to catch yourself as you instinctively move to get closer to her glistening slit. You look like a predator, crawling up from the foot of the bed and settling between her thighs, eyeing her pussy like prey.

She’s wet, so fucking wet you know your fingers would glide with ease through her folds. It makes you dizzy with lust, watching how her large clit throbs as you stare it down.

“Fuck, what… What now?” Abby whines, voice soft and breathy.

“Show me what you were doing before I walked in” Your voice is low, rough and your eyes don’t lift once from her drenched core.

You can hear the needy whines from Abby, her soft little moans that make you want to bite and kiss at her skin but she does as she’s told. Her hands come down to her pussy, one hand spreading her lips wide to show you everything while her other eases in with slow circles against her clit.

Not that she needs warming up, not with how quick she is to react to the barely there circular motions she does. “C’mon baby, you can do more. What did you do with this pretty pussy after that?”

Bottom lip drawn between her teeth, Abby can’t help but watch your darkened gaze as she drags two of her thick fingers through her slick, coating them with her juices before working them inside her hole.

Instinctively you lean in closer, inhaling her scent as you watch her twitching hole stretch to take her digits. Each time she fucks her fingers into herself, slowly and so fucking erotically, you watch as her hips lift slightly to meet her fingers, clit bumping against her palm and leaving a messy trail behind.

“So fucking gorgeous, look so pretty stretched around your fingers” You barely register your own voice, that you’ve said anything as you practically drool at the sight. No, wait, you’re actually drooling. Okay, between that and the obscene sounds of Abby fucking herself you can’t stop yourself, deciding you’d waited long enough to give.

Still, you can’t stop yourself from teasing before you stop her as you begin by kissing up her ankles. Your lips make sure to suck the occasional hickey the closer you get to her inner thighs, laughing low and wickedly when you hear her whine so pretty and the muscles of her thighs quiver. By the time you make your way close to where she wants you — and more importantly, where you have been wanting to be all this time — you have to take a moment to just… stare.

Take it in.

Fucking beautiful.

Licking a stripe up her pussy, slow flat tongue against her before sucking her fat clit into your mouth and laughing as she keens, hips lifting off the mattress before moaning at the taste of her. Above you, Abby’s head eventually falls back against the headboard with a soft thud as she makes a low, whining noise.

That’s when you start eating her out like a woman starved, messy and unashamed as you go to town. Licking her long and rough, spit falling from your mouth as you suck her clit into your mouth and lay one of your hands flat against her abdomen to keep her from lifting off the bed. She melts like honey on your tongue, the sheets beneath her messy with a mixture of her arousal and your saliva as it drips both down her ass and off your chin.

You’re eating her out half with the desire to bring her over the edge, to show her what all her other partners should have been giving her this entire time, and another part of you wants to just lap at her pussy with no regards. Hungry for the taste of her juices on your lips, to swirl your tongue around her protruding bud like you’re lazily licking an ice cream cone.

Her hands are in your hair, torn between yanking you off her when you suck harshly on her fat clit, laughing as she whines and whimpers, or pressing your face against her cunt to keep you fixed in one spot when you start to go rogue

“Oh.. Oh god, yes!” She’s a mess, completely gone beneath you when you finally decide to focus on getting her off. She’s soaked, dripping down your hand when you do touch her, and flooding your mouth with her arousal so much that when you grow desperate — yanking her up and throwing her on her hands and knees, eating her out from behind — you can’t stop the way her arousal drips onto the sheets beneath. She’s too damn wet for your mouth to capture all of it and the thought makes you feel feral.

“C’mon, Abs, I wanna feel you cum on my tongue okay? Wanna feel that pretty clit throbbing in my mouth”

You’ve got your hands at the junction where her thighs and her ass meet, spreading the skin so you have the max amount of access as you bring her over the edge, Abby’s neighbours no doubt able to hear her reaching her apex with her wailing. You move one of your hands down as you focus your mouth on her clit, fingers pushing inside of Abby’s warm heat again and sighing against her slick as her hole sucks them in greedily.

It doesn’t take long until Abby goes rigid, screaming and babbling that she’s coming with her head thrown back as you continue your ministrations, working her through her orgasm happily.

“Fuck, you coming from my fingers or my mouth, Abs?” You tease against her pussy as she gushes down your wrist practically, lapping her juices up with your tongue and feeling it drip down your chin. 

Her strong fingers thread through your hair and practically have to rip you off of her once overstimulation sets in, toned thighs twitching, desperate to slam shut and hide her pussy away from you. You let her pull you off, licking your lips with a wicked grin as you hover over her.

She’s redfaced, skin glistening with sweat and she looks completely fucked out. It’s a good look on her.

“What’s the verdict?” You ask with a teasing lilt, watching as she huffs out a laugh with her chest rising and falling rapidly still.

“Uh… Might let you do it again” She tries to play it casual but you swat at her chest lightly and she quickly falls into laughter. “Fine! I loved it, 10/10, I’ll write a damn Yelp review if you want me to”

“Who the hell even uses Yelp anymore, damn how old are you” You tease, caressing her cheek. “Promise me you’ll let me do that more? No more hiding” Your voice is tender as you speak, eyes warm as you look down at her. Abby’s breath catches in her throat at the softness, the love she can feel and she nods up at you. “I promise. No more hiding away.”

[danidrabbles]

well.

this is why fiction is so important because i am never writing letters to people in prison but i am very interested in reader-insert-me's choice to do so

really love the characterization throughout this, how they kind of match each other's obsessive freak right off the bat. it's so sweet that she goes to the beach to write that first letter, it's so funny that his reply starts with "thanks for the sand"

the way he detectives himself to her is so... so him, i really liked how you wrote his almost like internal monologue, how he sees it as a puzzle, how he doesn't even know what she looks like but can close his eyes and dream about her to the point he envisions the colour of her apartment, and how he cuts himself to get into the emergency room.

really enjoyed how their interactions were so.. stiff but also laced with familiarity, and how you intwined their more at ease conversation with kisses. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.” “you think i’m nice?” “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.” and omg all the colours being yellow just like he pictured. GOD. feeling sooo normal about it. this line also killed me :') and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

smut had no business being so soft. the introspection from his pov was so nice, how he thinks so much about how it is vs. how he imagined it, and that it's better and he can't quite believe it, and he just wants to give her everything.

the ending made me laugh so hard. her being scared about his reaction to her naming her cat after him and him being like, “do you think we should get married?” they're perfect for each other!!!!!!!!!!!! made me laugh, made me swoon, which isn't something i thought i'd say about a you send a letter to a man in prison fic, but you really pulled it off wonderfully. thanks for writing and sharing!!!!

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[softjeekies]

Waiting After The Rain

↳ chapter 5

previous chapter // next chapter

Paining: ot8!stray kids x pregnant omega!reader

Synopsis: An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.

Genre: strangers to lovers, angsty but lots of fluff to even it out.

Warnings: a/b/o, past abuse physical and verbal, past sexual abuse(mentions of past non-con), mentions of past violence, trauma, self esteem issues, pregnancy, aftermath of abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, pack dynamics, angst but it will be okay, polyamory

A/N: been a little busy seeing stray kids live and all but chapter 5 is finally here, enjoy!! + I’m already deep into writing the next chapter so get ready ;)

Hours, You had spent hours sitting in front of the bag of nesting supplies Chan bought for you. Felix and Han had basically begged multiple times to help you, and it did hurt to turn them down every time they asked but you didn’t want to burden them like that. Something sick deep inside of you wanted to prove to the alphas that you could be a good omega, that you could nest, and that they didn’t need to worry about you. That was so far from the truth. You couldn’t even bring yourself to open the bag and take anything out, voices shouting in your head reminding you not to be a lazy slob anytime you even got close to the bag. One look at the clock tells you it’s two am, but your body’s exhaustion already told you as much. You want to go to bed so bad but you need to prove yourself to the alphas, You smile at the picture of them checking your room in the morning and seeing the perfect nest, showing them that you were a good omega worth keeping.

But you weren’t a good omega, so you accidentally fell asleep on the floor.

“Y/N! Oh my god, what happened?” The abrupt awakening scares you, out of instinct you push the person back away from them. You blink for a moment before you realize it’s Han you just pushed, your chest tightens.

“Oh my god, No! I’m so sorry Han, You scared me but that’s not an excuse, I shouldn’t have pushed you, god I’m such an idiot! I’m going to be in so much trouble, aren’t I? I ruined everything.” You ramble, unsure how to fix this. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire, How could you do this?

“Hey. It’s okay, I’m okay. I shouldn’t have woken you up like that, I just saw you on the floor and thought something had happened to you. I have anxiety too, I’m always worried about my pack. Just please try and breathe, this was just a misunderstanding, it’s not a big deal.” Han keeps his hands up as he walks towards you and gets down to your level.

“I’m sorry.” A pained whimper rips from your chest.

“It’s okay! Tell me why you were on the floor and we’ll call it even” You focus on his face in an attempt to ground yourself, he has the most gorgeous smile, cheeks so soft perfect for chaste kisses, he’s perfect, the perfect omega.

“I’m a horrible omega. I couldn’t nest. Part of me is worried I don’t deserve it, like nesting isn’t meant for me. The other part worried I won’t be good at it. I’m scared Han, so scared.”

“We told you we’d help you, you don’t have to do this alone. Please let me help you.” You take a moment to look into his eyes, searching for any malice, and you’re left confused when you find none. With your nod of approval, Han takes the bags of nesting materials and dumps them on your bed. You’re immediately hit with the intense urge to fix it, to nest. You get up and take careful steps towards the bed, as if it were a wild animal you needed to be careful around.

“Don’t think too hard about it, touch everything and let your instincts guide you where it needs to go.” Han's encouragement does something to you, your omega coming to the forefront of your mind almost puppeting you as you touch the various fabrics and pillows.

You’re now sitting up on the bed, pushing around the pillows and blankets, kneading at them to try to assess where it would be best suited. After placing the final border pillow you look up to meet a pair of glassy eyes. Your heart skips a beat. Never in your life have you been able to say someone looked at you with that kind of love and care, but now you could see and smell the love radiating off of Han.

“Did I do good?” You’re nervous for his answer, somehow a fellow omega’s approval feels more daunting than any alpha’s.

“Oh, it’s perfect, so perfect. May I come into your nest?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Han enters the nest carefully, taking extra caution not to mess up any of your hard work. He takes a seat in front of you and gently takes both of your hands.

“My love, nobody enters your nest without your permission, do you understand? Nobody is entitled to your space, and none of us will ever enter this nest without your explicit permission.” You’re certain you’re as red as a tomato now, This was yours, and Han is okay with that, he says the whole pack will be okay with this being yours. It feels euphoric, having something that you can control like this, something in you snaps, like a small crack in an armored wall.

“Thank you. Thank you for this Jisung.” You don’t realize there are tears in your eyes until your smile causes one of them to fall down your cheek, for once they are happy tears.

“You don’t have to thank me for caring, we’ll always care.” Every wolf in the world can hear your heartbeat right now. Tears continue to flow down your cheeks, you’re so overcome with emotions that it’s almost overwhelming. Before you can ground yourself, you feel your omega come back to the forefront of your mind.

“Can we cuddle?” Your hand immediately flies over your mouth and panic sets in. Your words are blunt but Han can’t help the flutter those words cause in his chest.

“Don’t worry! Of course, we can, you deserve a nap after sleeping on the floor last night.” Han takes it upon himself to lay you both down together in the center of your nest. He lays your head on his chest and lets you drape your leg over his. Now Jisung is crying, not only is he proud of this step you’ve taken, but he's honored you wanted to take it with him. You don’t notice Jisung’s tears though, your mind too preoccupied with settling into dreamland once again.

“She has to get up and eat something.” A sharp voice pulls you from your sleep, you don’t open your eyes just yet a little dazed and a little concerned about what the conversation is about.

“But look at her, so cute and sleepy, and safe. She fell asleep on the floor last night, Can't she just sleep a little longer?” That whiney voice could only belong to Jisung.

“Ji, it’s almost noon.” The realization that an alpha wants you to do something hits you like a truck, you have to get up, you can’t upset Minho. So before Jisung can respond you cut him off.

“It’s fine Jisung, we can go eat now, our nap was nice.” Jisung’s face contorts into one of shock, but he smiles down at you accepting your answer without a fight.

Without a word you take Jisung’s hand, your mind still a little hazy from his scent surrounding you. When you make it to the dining room you notice the rest of the pack isn’t there but before you can question it Minho speaks up while pulling out your chair.

“Everyone already had breakfast, and it’s just us for now. Chan is spending the day with Felix and the rest of them are at work. Chan told me everything the doctor said and what foods were recommended for you so I did what I could. Please tell me if there’s something here you don’t like, I don’t want you to get sick again.” You take a moment to examine the plate, aside from the fact that it seems like way too much food you can confidently say nothing on the plate will make you gag.

“This is good, thank you Minho.” He smiles before taking a seat to watch you and Jisung eat. About halfway through the plate, you put down your utensils to wait for Jisung to finish.

“Are you full?” Minho speaks sharply but there’s no malice in his words, he seems more shocked than anything.

“It’s just a lot of food.”

“I gave you the minimum portions the doctor recommended, if you’re full that’s fine, you can just ask for more food when you get hungry again, but if you can eat just a little more that would be good for ou-“ a cough cuts off his words. “your pup.” He gives you a nervous smile but behind his eyes, you can see the encouragement, and just this once you feel safe to give in and eat more. You actually eat the whole plate and Minho’s face shows something you’ve never seen before from really anyone.

“I’m proud of you. If you get hungry again you have free rein in the kitchen or I can make you something.” But before you can give Minho a response you’re interrupted by Jisung.

“Minho hyung last week you said you’d take me to the store to get new headphones so I can stop using yours, can we go today?” If you were Minho you'd never be able to say no to him, his puppy dog face game is insane.

“Ji, Y/N just went out yesterday. I don't know if it’s a good idea if she goes out again, she needs rest.”

“I feel fine, we can go to the store, it’s no big deal.” Yeah, you definitely can’t say no to Jisung.

Jisung gasps and runs upstairs to get ready to go. You get up as well but Minho stops you.

“You don’t have to give in to him, if you don’t want to go for any reason, Say the word, nobody will be mad.“

“I’m okay.” You give Minho a gentle smile before retreating to get yourself ready. You take your time getting ready, admittedly a little nervous to go out with Minho. You don’t know him, you don’t know any of them. It's only been three days but with Felix, Chan, and now Jisung at least you’ve spent some time with them and they don’t seem like they mean any harm. But you at least have a little trust in Han, if he thinks going out with Minho is a good idea you’ll do it. So you continue getting ready, the anxiety settling into a small hum in your mind.

As you three walk towards the electronics section, Minho keeps a steady pace behind you and Jisung. You can feel his eyes burning into your back, so you aren’t surprised when he notices how your eyes linger on the baby section for a second too long.

“Y/N did you want to look?” You and Jisung stop in your tracks and turn towards Minho.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Oh my god yes let’s look at all the cute itty bitty clothes!” Jisung takes your hand to drag you further into the baby aisles, Minho making sure to catch up quickly.

“Have you thought about whether you want a nursery or do you want the baby to stay in your room?” Jisung’s question makes you freeze, because no you hadn’t thought about it. It feels wrong to think about it, like that future where you and the baby are staying with the pack feels unpromised, undeserved.

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it. I think I’d like to keep my baby safe with me, you know? But I don’t know…” You trail off and look anywhere but at the two men in front of you.

“We have the space upstairs, if you want a nursery it wouldn’t be an issue and the pup wouldn’t be far from you at all, they wouldn’t be far from any of us,” Minho speaks up and something about the way he speaks with certainty almost eases your nerves, keyword being almost.

“Yeah, and if you want the baby to bond with all of us it might be good to have a neutral space where all of our scents frequent for them to sleep in.” His statement throws you off. Did you want your baby to bond with them? Is your baby safe with them? Would you all even make it to that point?

“Jisung!” Minho almost growls at him, clearly realizing that it was a touchy subject for you.

“What? What’d I do?”

“I’ll have to think about it, I guess.” And just like that immediately Jisung gets distracted and moves on.

“Oh look at these little fuzzy onesies! This one’s a bear! Oh, and this one’s a bunny! Oh, we have to get both, they are so cute and Minho hyung looks like a bunny, so he could have a baby bunny!” Jisung’s excited voice cuts through your thoughts, and you take a look at Minho just in time to catch the blush spreading across his face above his now prominent pout.

“You have to ask Y/N if she wants them Ji, it’s her baby.”

“Don’t you think they’re cute Y/N. Minho should buy them for the pup right?”

“Minho doesn’t have to buy me anything.”

“That’s not a no!” Jisung almost squeals as he picks out one of each onesie and continues browsing the adorable clothes.

“I’m sorry about him, he really likes cute things, and it doesn’t help that he already has his heart set on having a baby one day so this is something he thinks about often, if you need me to tell him to tone it down I can.”

“It’s fine, if I can do this for him, at least I'm being useful for once.” With that, you walk towards Jisung to do some looking around yourself. Just focus on your baby, yeah that will distract you.

[belli5]

Off Limits .ᐟ ೀWS²

╰ Synopsis Will insisted that you’d meet his teammates, but he didn’t think he’d be jealous of his teammates, but how couldn’t he though?

Tags/contains Fluff, Angst if you squint, Will Smith x fem!reader, jealousy, Will being protective, kissing(grow up pls), not proofread(yet)

➺ from Sera, to you📨. Lowkey missed writing for Smitty, so hoping to see soon more Smitty requests. In real life scenario I KNOW Smitty would not talk to his friends like that but I like to be a little delusional about how he'd be as a boyfriend.

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it! Please do NOT rewrite/repost my work anywhere else without permission!

It starts with Will tapping his fingers on your thigh. Not seriously, more like like he’s working up to something, the way he does when he’s thinking hard but trying to act casual about it.

You glance over at him from your spot on the couch, tucked his arm with your legs curled up. His phone glows in his free hand, screen half covered by his thumb. You try to read it, but he tilts it away from you with a little smirk.

“Why are you hiding your phone?” You ask, voice light and teasing a bit.

He chuckles. “I’m not hiding. Just figuring something out.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

Will hesitates, just long enough for you to know it’s something he’s been thinking about for a while. And then he blurts it out. “I want you to come to the team dinner tomorrow.”

You blink. “Team dinner?”

“Yeah.” He lifts his arm from your leg and leans back, a little more animated now. “It’s nothing fancy. Just the guys and a couple staff, probably at a steakhouse or something. But I want them to meet you.”

You smile, because it’s sweet, it really is but the nerves bubble up fast. “Are you sure? Like.. is that something people do?”

Will frowns, sitting up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“I just mean..” you pick a loose thread on your sweatshirt. “Isn’t that a lot? Bringing your girlfriend to something that’s usually, like, just the team?”

He pulls a face. “It’s not that serious.”

You snort. “Sounds kinda serious.”

Will leans closer, ducking his head until your noses are almost touching. “Okay. Maybe I want it to be serious. And the guys said they’ll also bring their girlfriends aswell.”

Your stomach flips, and he grins like he knows it. Because he does.

Sure, you’ve seen his teammates when you go to his games, but you’ve never met met them like that. And not to mention you’ll meet some of the other wags.

“I’ve already told them about you,” he adds casually, like it’s no big deal. “So you might as well come meet them. Save me the pain of hearing them speculate for another week.”

You narrow your eyes. “Speculate?”

He groans. “You don’t wan to know. Smitty this, Smitty that. ‘Why doesn’t he bring her around?’ It’s relentless, because I do bring you around, but they haven’t met you..”

You laugh, fully picturing Mack or Tyler egging him on in the locker room. “Okay. I’ll come.”

He lights up, practically vibrating with satisfaction, and pulls you into his lap with no warning. You yelp, hands landing on his chest as he presses a kiss to your jaw up to your lips.

“But I swear to God,” you mumble into his shoulder, “if they’re weird or mean or make you feel weird—”

“They won’t,” he says quickly. “They’ll love you.”

You can’t help but melt a little at the confidence in his voice. Maybe it won’t be so bad meeting his teammates, to you it just means he’s taking you more serious, which makes you feel good.

You spend most of the day obsessing over what to wear.

Will insists that it’s not a big deal, but you can’t help it. Meeting a whole NHL roster of guys who are basically brothers to your boyfriend? Yeah, that’s a big deal.

And you’re gonna meet the other wags, which is a lot more motivation to you, to make a good impression to fit in with them, because you plan to spend rest of your life with Will.

He’s lounging on your bed while you tear through your closet, tossing tops over your shoulder and rejecting everything out loud.

“Too casual. Too formal.” And more.

Will watches you with a lazy grin, arms folded behind his head like he has all the time in the world. “You can wear anything and you’ll still look good, babe.”

You pause. “That’s not helping.”

He shrugs. “Sorry, babe. Facts are facts.”

Eventually you settle on denim skirt and a black top you know he loves, one that hugs you in all the right places. Will throws on a simple button up and jeans, and the two of you head out.

The restaurant smells like steak and butter by the time you step through the front doors. Warm lighting bathes the space in soft golds, catching the shine of glassware and polished cutlery. There’s music playing low under the hum of conversation, and Will’s hand slides naturally into yours, fingers laced tight.

“They’re already here,” he murmurs, tugging gently as he leads you toward the back of the restaurant. “Big long table. You good?”

You nod, offering him a small smile even as your nerves tap quietly at your chest. “A little nervous.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “They’re gonna love you. Just be your cute, sweet, hot self.”

You roll your eyes. “Wow. Great combo.”

He smirks, leaning in to whisper, “You’re my whole combo.”

You barely have time to laugh before you arrive at the table and see them all and a handful of girls scattered along a long wooden table, already deep in conversation. A few drinks have clearly already been had.

“There he is!” Someone calls, and heads turn like coordinated play. And then they see you.

It’s not aggressive. Just a collective, slightly too long pause as they take you in.

Will’s hand drops to your waist, possessive in a quiet, casual way, like it belongs there. “Guys,” he says, voice steady. “This is my girlfriend.”

The way he says it makes your chest tighten. He’s so calm, so confident. No room for debate in his tone. “This is Y/n.”

You smile, lifting a small wave. “Hi.”

And then they greet you at once. You see Mack start talking, you knew Macklin was his best friend. “There’s a spot here,” he insists, tapping the back the chair beside him. “You don’t have to sit across from Will. He never shuts up.”

Will’s hand stay on your waist, firm. “She sitting next to me,” he says, not in a rude way though.

You glance at Will, he doesn’t say anything else, but his hand slides under the table to rest on your thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles.

Introductions fly by, many names, you barely catch half of them. Their girlfriends around the table smile at you kindly, some more curious than others. One of them, lean over to ask if it’s your first team dinner. You nod.

Throughout the dinner, it becomes clear that several of the guys are trying to get your attention. Not in a weird way. Just a little much.

Mack leans forward across the table everytime you speak, like he wants to catch every word. William is quick with a comment whenever you so much as smile.

Even a few of the others throw in jokes, chime in when you laugh, or ask a question about your program, your hobbies, what brought you to San Jose.

It’s nice. But noticeable. And Will definitely notices.

His hand never leaves you. He keeps it on your leg or waist the whole time. At one point, he gently tugs your chair closer to his until your knees are brushing. When Ferraro asks what you two did on your first date, Will answers before you even open your mouth.

“She doesn’t remember the name of the place,” he says. “But I do. I planned it.”

You smirk, nudging him. “I remember! Just.. not the exact name.”

“She said I was a better date than she expected,” Will adds, eyes gleaming. “Swear.”

“She told you that? On the first date?” Mack asks from the other side of table.

Will shrugs. “She did.”

You look down at your drink to hide your blush. When you glance back up, William is looking at you, a little focused if you could say. “You play any sports?” He asks casually.

“Nope,” you reply, shaking your head. “Not anymore.”

“You look like you could’ve,” Mack adds.

“Good genes, I guess.” You say, laughing.

Will’s arm wraps around your shoulders now. “Okay, you two don’t need to run scouting reports on her.”

Some of the guys at the table laugh, but you don’t miss the subtle edge in his voice. You lean in to murmur, “baby..”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head down to brush a kiss to your temple. “She’s not a prospect.” Will mutters quietly, that only you could possibly hear him.

By dessert, things mellow out. A few of the girlfriends start asking about school, and you fall into conversation with them while the guys argue about some call from the last game. Still every now and then you catch one of the boys eyes lingering just a little closer than necessary.

Will plays it cool. Doesn’t call it out. But you feel it. In the way he keeps you close. In the glances he shoots across the table. In the way he responds to anything said to you that could even vaguely be taken as flirtatious.

And when it’s finally time to leave, and everyone’s saying their goodbyes, some of the guys hug you a little too tight, leaving Will holding your arm gently tugging meaning he wants to leave faster.

You catch the way Will tenses beside you, thanking them quickly before steering you toward the door. Once you’re outside in the cooler night air, you exhale. “That was a lot.”

“You were perfect,” Will says, unlocking the car. “They loved you.”

“You okay?” You ask as he opens the passenger door for you. “You were a little quiet toward the end.”

Will doesn’t answer until you’re both inside the car, engine humming low. “I just don’t like the way a couple of them looked at you.” He finally admits, glancing over.

“Too friendly?”

He nods. “Yeah. That.”

You smile, reaching across to rest a hand on his knee. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He looks over at you, expression softening. “I know.”

You add, teasing, “You were kinda hot though. Quietly fuming.”

Will groans. “I wasn’t fuming.” He laughs, but reaches for you hand and brings it to his lips. He looks at you for a beat longer, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I hated every second Mack looked at you,” he mutters.

You grin. “You gonna bodycheck your best friend over me?”

He leans in, kissing you. “Don’t tempt me.”

[jarofstyles]

Pls pls plsss mrs jaws a blurb for the squirting community. We are so underrepresented🥲💦

I’ve got you, lovebug! Here you go. I hope you like it

Check out our Patreon for early access and over 300+ exclusive writings and series!

Warnings- squirting, soft dom!H, dirty talk, messy sex, etc

Harry gripped her hips firmly as he slammed into her from behind, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through their bedroom. She was on her knees, cheek pressed against the pillow as she let out little huffs of breath as he gave it to her, just how she liked.

His thumb pressed firmly against her clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure while he fucked her, each thrust was powerful and deliberate, pressing where she needed inside her that made her whimper and push back against him eagerly.

"That's it, love." Harry praised gruffly, his other hand snaking up to tangle in her hair. He tugged her head back slightly, arching her back and changing the angle of his thrusts to hit where he wanted. "You take my cock so well, don't you? Like you were made for it." He punctuated each word with a hard snap of his hips, his fingers on her clit never stopping their relentless motion. “Made for me. Perfect fuckin’ pussy, snug around my cock.”

A sharp gasp escaped Y/N's lips as Harry's filthy words washed over her. The intense pleasure of him giving her the thrusts she needed and eager fingers circling her swollen clit had her approaching a feeling that made her want to squirm. She pushed back against him shamelessly, meeting his thrusts as her pussy clenched around him, already tightening at the building pressure. "Harry, oh God..." Her hair spilled over her shoulders and into her face, and she couldn't help but whimper. “It’s… I’m gonna make a fucking mess.” Y/N mewled out. “I’m sorry.”

Harry felt the change instantly - her inner walls tightened almost painfully around his length, and she let out a high-pitched moan that made him realize she was close. Real close. Like she was actually going squirt all over his dick close. His sheets were the least of his concerns.

His thumb pressed harder against her clit, spreading her wetness around the sensitive nub. He knew that spot - knew how easily she went from "almost there" to gushing if he hit it right. He kept the same pace, letting out a deep groan as he felt her clit throb against his fingers.

“Yeah? Gonna gush ‘round my cock, sweet girl?” He wanted it. She’d been able to do it a few times with him, but each and every time was the hottest thing he ever saw. “That’s what I want. Want you to make a mess for me, baby. God, I can fucking feel it coming.” He hissed through his teeth. “Give it t’me. Give me what I want.”

Harry's encouragement sent her over the edge. Y/N let out a loud, guttural moan as entire body tensed as a massive wave of pleasure hit her, the feeling almost as if she was going to lose control. Her pussy spasmed violently around his cock, and then it hit, hot liquid gushing from her in pulses. Harry’s face contorted in pleasure as he pulled out, immediately rubbing his cock over her clit, spreading her own slick around the sensitive nub to keep it going.

"Fuck, yes, just like that, love. There it is. Jesus Christ, look at you - absolutely flooding the sheets for me." Harry was breathing heavily, his voice thick as he rubbed her clit with the head of his sensitive dick, drawing out every last drop. "You're such a good girl when you fuckin' squirt like this..." One hand stayed on her hip while the other let go of her hair to spread her open to watch. "Keep cumming... keep cumming all over my cock. There you go, Thatta-fuckin-girl."

He could feel her pulsing against him, the sensation driving him wild. It was a reward for him, getting her here. The day they figured out how to make it happen for her, he had been trying to ensure she got as much as she wanted. "Drenching that cock, my balls, the bed... fuck, I love it. I love watching you make a mess for me." Crooning as he felt her body tremble under him, he felt his cock throb as he pressed it back into her shallowly as he let her calm down.

Y/N's mouth was open in a silent 'O', her face hot and eyes squeezed shut as her pussy contracted and released in waves around nothing. She was completely overwhelmed by the intensity, her whole body shaking as she pushed back against him, trying to get more and also pull away at the same time. Her body didn’t know what it wanted. "Oh my god... I can't... s’too much. Too empty.." She whined, burying her face in the pillow. “Please?”

"Shhh, baby, I know. I know it’s overwhelming. Just breathe for me, hmm?" Harry slowed his movements to a complete stop, burying his cock deep inside her, filling her completely. "There we go... just breathe. I’m here. Feel how full you are? Like you can’t even tell where your pussy ends and I begin? M’right here. " He whispered, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her back onto anchor her. "Just squeeze around me. I’ve got you. So gorgeous."

Her body relaxed slowly as she adjusted to having him inside her again, her trembling subsiding. Harry stayed still, not moving even an inch, letting her feel just how full he was making her, grounding her to the moment. "That's my girl." He cooed softly, pressing gentle kisses along her shoulder. "God, your pussy is still pulsing around me." He let out a low hiss at the feeling. "You okay, lovie? Still with me?" His hand stroked her soothingly.

"Mhm.” She mumbled into the pillow, her voice soft and hazy from pleasure. Her inner muscles continued to flutter around him, still sensitive. "I'm... I'm still here." Her breath hitched slightly as she adjusted to having him so deep. "Don't move... just-stay right there." She needed a moment to recover - and also never wanted him to leave. Having him there felt perfect, complete. “Can go again in a few minutes.” The woman whispered as her body grew more lax.

A low chuckle escaped him as he felt her body relax completely around him. "Take your time, love." His voice was gentle, almost tender. He knew her well enough to understand that it left her sensitive and needing a moment before she could handle more. “I’ll always take care of you.”

[xoxorory]

Where’s the dog !

POV: Fem!Reader & Damian Wayne Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff | Humor | Chaos | Domestic Softness Featuring: Titus Word Count: 1K .Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!) requested by: @simpingmyassoff sorry it took long!!! I was finishing classes A/N: English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy! ! ! A/N 2: It's kind of inspired in how @fromdove (💕💞💓💗💖💘💝) writes damian. . .,please GO CHECK HER BLOG ! ! ! !

“He hid again,didn’t he?” 

‘’Pffft– what? Of course not!”

©𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐,𝑹𝒐𝒓𝒚🐚 —-do not copy, repost, plagiarize,translate or feed any of my work into ai. I work hard to give quality content.

POV: You

Dog-sitting Titus should be easy. I mean, come on. He’s a dog. A big dog, sure, but mostly a big, fluffy, lovable dog who just wants to nap, chew his squeaky toys, and occasionally judge me for my lack of treats.

I’d done this countless times before. Titus stayed with me while Damian was off doing who-knows-what, and I’d happily take care of the giant fluffball. Feed him, walk him, throw his favorite toy until he got tired, repeat.

Simple.

Today was supposed to be just another normal Titus-sitting day.

And yet here I was, standing in my living room with my hands on my hips, heart thumping, and pillows thrown all over the floor like a tornado had hit my apartment.

Because Titus had vanished.

Literally.

It started an hour ago. I was cleaning up after one of Titus’s enthusiastic toy-chasing sessions, when I glanced around and noticed he wasn’t at his usual spot by the couch. No gentle snoring. No wagging tail brushing against the carpet.

Nothing.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

Lil’ Bratman 🦇:  I’m on my way to pick up Titus.

Oh great.

Great.

Because Titus was nowhere to be found.

“Okay,” I muttered, dropping onto my knees, scanning the floor for any signs of him. “Keep calm. He’s probably hiding. He loves hiding.”

Except that usually, when Titus hid, I could hear him. His nails tap-tap-tapping on the hardwood, or the faint squeak of his favorite red toy being tossed around. This time? Silence.

And the clock was ticking.

Damian’s text came again.

Lil’ Bratman 🦇: I’m five minutes away.

I was about to text back a frantic, “Hey baby! Um…I think I lost your dog,don’t kill me. xoxo” but I knew that would only make things worse. Damian’s eyebrow raise would be legendary.

No. I had to find Titus before Damian showed up.

So I launched into full search mode.

First, the couch cushions. I flipped and dug through every crevice, fishing out dust bunnies and a couple of crumbs, but no Titus.

Next, under the coffee table. No wagging tail. No big eyes staring at me.

“Come on, Titus,” I whispered, voice catching. “Please don’t make me look bad in front of Damian.”

I moved to the kitchen, thinking maybe he was trying to steal some snacks, but no. Empty floors.

The balcony door was closed, so no chance he escaped outside — plus, I was pretty sure he’d never survive the drop without some serious bat-gadgets.

Then I heard it. The tiniest squeak.

My heart jumped.

Titus’s toy.

I followed the sound, creeping around my bookshelf — and suddenly, there he was.

Curled up in the tiniest corner behind the books, happily gnawing on his red squeaky toy like it was the best thing in the world.

Oh my god.

Relief slammed through me in a tidal wave.

“Titus! You little stinker!” I scooped him up before he could run off again. His tail thumped against my arm as if to say, “I was just having some alone time, chill.”

I didn’t care.

I hugged him tight.

And then, because I was officially losing my mind, I looked around at the disaster zone my apartment had become.

Pillows from the couch tossed everywhere.

Blankets flung like flags of defeat.

My coffee table now sporting a suspiciously large scratch.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” I told myself. “Damian’s coming. You can do this.”

Almost like the universe heard me, the doorbell rang.

My heart jumped again.

“Okay, Titus,” I whispered, setting him down. “Time for Operation: Don’t Look Like You Lost Him.”

I straightened my hoodie, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Damian stood there, expression unreadable, as usual.

His dark eyes flicked from me to Titus—who was now sitting politely by my feet, tail wagging.

“Welcome back,roohi! ,” I said, voice a little too cheerful.

Damian’s lips twitched—maybe the closest thing he had to a smile.

“You seem… relieved.”

I flushed. “Really? You’re making up things again”

He took the leash from my hand and clipped it to Titus’s collar.

Titus immediately jumped into Damian’s side, tail wagging furiously.

Damian glanced back at me, then said quietly, “I suppose I won’t ask where he was.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

But the way his eyes softened told me he already knew exactly what had happened.

And maybe, just maybe, he was choosing not to make me explain.

POV: Damian Wayne

I texted her fifteen minutes ago.

I’m on my way to pick up Titus.

Simple enough.

When I arrived at her place, I expected to see Titus sprawled on the floor, maybe half-asleep, or at worst, begging for a walk.

Instead, the door swung open, and there stood her—looking disheveled, slightly flustered, and clutching Titus like he was a fragile treasure.

My eyes scanned the room.

Pillows were strewn everywhere.

The coffee table bore a fresh scratch.

Blankets were tossed haphazardly.

The couch was upside down.

Clearly, some kind of Titus-related chaos had ensued.

I kept my expression calm, though inside I was amused.

“Titus,” I said softly, kneeling down to the dog’s level.

The giant mutt wagged his tail, tongue lolling happily.

Relief was written all over her face.

“You seem… relieved,” I said quietly, not really expecting a reply.

She flushed and gave a small laugh.

“Really?,” she said, “ You’re making up things again”

I clipped the leash to Titus’s collar.

The dog immediately pressed against my leg.

I glanced back at her.

“Where was he?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

I didn’t press.

Some things were better left unsaid.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

First in Class Part One

Lt. Robert ‘BOB’ Floyd x Reader

Words: 5623

Summary: Your graduation from Top Gun seems like the perfect opportunity to introduce your boyfriend to your father…except they’ve already met. 

Notes: I don’t know anything about flying, obviously, but god it was fun to write. So much so, I think want to keep this character arch for other stand alones. Call sign ‘Rebel’ will just always have this backstory and general traits. I just had such a blast and I hope you guys enjoy and look forward to part two! 

-

Bob watched and tried not to hold his breath so long that he passed out, which seemed like a real possibility judging by how lightheaded he was getting. He wasn’t even the one in the plane, but with every impossible maneuver at an impossible speed, his stomach did more and more flips. 

“You alright there, Baby on Board?” Hangman patted him hard on the shoulder. “You look a little green.”

“It’s an intense dogfight,” he reasoned. 

Phoenix snorted. “It isn’t even real.” 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t do this when you were in Top Gun.”

“Of course I did,” Bob snapped back, hating the smugness perpetually painting Hangman’s features. Sure, the team of them had gotten close over the last year, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an asshole. He was just one Bob occasionally liked to have around. This was not one of those occasions. But when Phoenix suggested they all get together to get a preview of the new graduates’ skills, he didn’t really feel like explaining why he was already going to be there. 

“Besides, their ranking is already decided,” Rooster added, bringing them all another pack of beer. “This is just a few of them getting permission to show off.”

“They don’t know that,” Phoenix pointed out. “They never tell them when they’ve decided. They like to keep them on edge, the bastards.” She grinned, remembering her nerves from her time in Top Gun. 

“Which makes it worse, doesn’t it?” Bob leaned forward on the rail of the boat they were watching from. “A bunch of hot heads getting ready to graduate?”

“Remind me not to take you to any parties,” Hangman snickered. 

A roar echoed out above them, drawing their attention back to the two aircraft circling each other like vultures on a kill. 

Bob ignored the others and their barrage of critiques and kept his eyes on the plane being pursued. 

“Come on, baby,” he muttered. “You can get 'em.” The plane getting closer and closer to the blue waves captured every ounce of his focus. “Come on, baby. Shake them off.” 

On the carrier, more were watching the dogfight take place. 

“Come on, kid,” Pete said. “You can do this.” 

Maverick watched his daughter’s plane pull up at the last second, invert above her opponent, and swing back around to lock on the kill shot. He felt a swell overtake his chest, like he was being pushed under the water they floated on. Pride. That’s what it was. Pride. 

Bob clenched his fists around the rail, doing his best to hide his enthusiasm from the others. 

“That’s my girl.” 

-

When you took off your helmet and the cool ocean air hit your face, you were beaming. The chaos of the carrier set you at ease. People darted back and forth to check the planes for damages and refuel them for the next round of graduates to test their meddle. But you already knew they wouldn’t beat you. They hadn’t announced rankings, but you knew. You could feel it. 

Just like you could feel the presence of the man at the end of the flight deck before you saw him. 

Pete Mitchell. 

Maverick. 

Dad. 

You were running across the deck before the other pilot even landed, catapulting yourself into his arms. 

Pete laughed, spinning you around with his arms locked around you. 

“You said you weren’t going to make it,” you said into his leather jacket. 

He set you back down, pushing a sweat-stuck strand of your hair back. Pete shrugged, grin growing. “I lied.”

Your smile matched his. “I think I did it.” 

That pride in his chest came up in waves again. “I know you did.”

Your grin turned teasing, and you gave him a playful punch to the arm. “Jealous?”

“Hey, second in class is nothing to scoff at.” He pretended the punch hurt, rubbing the spot where you hit. 

“But it’s not first,” you smirked.

He raised a brow. “I’ll remember you said that when I’m thinking about buying you a drink tonight.” 

With your opponent, “Saint”, coming in, you knew you had to get back before your superiors chewed your ass. 

“Speaking of tonight,” you said, starting to back away, “there’s someone I want you to meet.” 

“Who?”

You said something, but Pete couldn't hear you over the bustle and noise of the flight deck. 

“What?”

You said it again, getting further away.

Pete huffed a laugh and asked one more time. “Who am I meeting?”

Finally, he heard your bright laugh over the sound of the planes. “My boyfriend!” You turned and hurried off before he could fully react. 

Dumbfounded, Pete Mitchell stared after you, wrapping his mind around the word. 

Boyfriend?

-

By the time you got back to the beach, you were ready for a drink. After long, long weeks of training and dealing with the boys’ club of Saint and his buddies, you’d made it. You’d done what you’ve been working your whole life towards, ever since you were a little kid and you snuck out of your mother’s house to watch the test planes. 

Your dad was meeting you at Penny’s, promising that he had a surprise for you. If you were being honest, you thought he was acting weird ever since you mentioned having a boyfriend. 

It wasn’t like you’d never dated. You’d had plenty of relationships throughout high school and the Naval Academy, but they hadn’t exactly gone well. You always fell for the hotrod, the arrogant bad boys who promised adventure and excitement. They never delivered on those promises, of course. 

And then you met Robert. 

He was a few years ahead of you in the academy. You’d been having problems with one of your instructors and, in order to not risk getting kicked out, you decided to find someone to tutor you. If your instructor was determined to have a problem with you because of who your father was, then you were determined to come out top of the course. Robert was the best at weapon systems, so you approached him to tutor you.

You were pretty sure he spent the next few months being terrified of you, but the rest, as they say, is history. 

Opening the door to Penny’s, the familiar scent of beer and salt water filled your lungs. The jukebox played a Tom Petty song, accompanied by the quiet clanks of pool balls sinking into pockets. 

The cheer that followed, you’d recognize anywhere. 

“As I live and breathe, Bradshaw,” you said, a grin slowly spreading across your face as you approached the group of people in naval uniforms around the pool table. Bradley Bradshaw was the closest thing you had to an older brother. Hearing your voice, his head snapped up. You stole his pool stick to set it aside and pull him into a hug. “Hey, Ugly Duck.” 

He rolled his eyes at your nickname for him. 

“I wondered if that was you up there.” Rooster raised a brow. “Cinderella.” Two can play at the name game. 

You punched his arm and hugged him again. 

Someone cleared their throat behind you. 

“Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Roost?” A tall officer with the kind of smirk you always used to fall for leaned on the corner of the table, eyeing you with a confident green-blue gaze. He held out a hand. “Jake Seresin.”

The name clicked in your head. “Hangman.”

“The one and only.” He shook your hand with a firm grip and a flirty grin. Yup. Definitely the kind of guy you used to go for. “So that was you this morning?”

“Y/F/N Y/L/N, but my call is Rebel,” you said. “And yeah. That was just for fun.” 

He chuckled. “Looked like it.” Sauntering toward you, he motioned to the bar. “Can I get you something to drink? Our buddy’s up there now getting a round.” 

You knew that head of light brown hair anywhere. 

“I think I’ll help him carry.” You made sure to give him a final glance over your shoulder before strutting your way to the bar. “Hey there, sailor.” 

Bob jumped, almost dropping the five bottles he was trying to pick up. 

You giggled. “Want some help?”

“I-I got it,” he said, brows coming together in focus. When he finally looked up at you, his eyes widened, and he almost dropped them again. “Y/N, hey. I thought you were one of the guys messing with me.” A sheepish smile spread across his face. “You were amazing today.”

He was the only one who could make you blush. You didn’t know anyone could be so sincere, so sweet, until you met him.

“Your friend wanted to buy me a drink,” you said. 

Bob looked over at Hangman, who was looking over at you. “Oh?” He glanced down. “Yeah. He’s um-”

“A bit of a prick?” You finished, laughing.

Bob snorted. “You could say that.”

You glanced over, finding that everyone was now watching the two of you. “Can you do me a favor?”

Bob’s face snapped back up. “Anything.”

“Put the bottles down, Bobby,” you smirked. 

His brows came together again, this time in confusion. It was adorable. He did as you said, setting the beers back on the bar. 

Then, you put your hands on either side of his face, and crashed your lips into his. 

And while the jukebox switched to Billy Joel’s “Shameless”, the bar went silent for the naval officers around the pool table. You reveled in the moment, but most of all, you just took him in. It’d been weeks since you’d been able to spend any real time with him, and just feeling him there, feeling his lips softly respond to yours, was everything you needed. 

“She’s with…” Hangman trailed off, rendered speechless for the first time. 

Rooster just whistled. “I didn’t know someone could turn that red.” 

Sure enough, when you pulled away, your boyfriend’s cheeks had gone such a shade, he matched the 3 ball. You flashed him a wink, grabbed three of the bottles, and calmly walked back over to the table. 

“Which one of these is yours, Hangman?” You asked, handing one to Rooster. Still unable to speak, he just pointed. You gave the opposite to the only other woman at the table and kept the final bottle for yourself, taking a swig. “Not my usual, but not bad.” 

“I-um-”

Rooster patted him on the back. “Don’t hurt yourself.” He strung an arm over your shoulder as your still-pink boyfriend trailed behind you with the other two drinks. “It’s easier to just accept her and move on.”

You elbowed him in the side, earning a breathy ‘Oof.’

“Are we playing or not, Ugly Duck?” You circled the table and gathered pool balls. “You and flyboy over here versus me and Robert.” 

Rooster and Hangman exchanged a look, overconfidence quickly overcoming the latter’s expression. 

Fanboy leaned over to Phoenix. “Who the hell is Robert?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. 

While you broke, Bob could feel everybody staring at him. Of the group, he was seen as the most secretive. It wasn’t because he kept secrets. He was just… quiet. That, and nobody ever asked if he was seeing anyone. Still, did they have to look that surprised? 

He watched you sink two stripes on the first break. Across the table, your sparkling eyes met his, and suddenly, nobody else’s stare mattered. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from grinning like an idiot. You made your way around the table to stand next to him, despite there being better shots on the other side. 

You purposely bumped his hip with yours, and he felt himself go red all over again as you leaned down to take the shot. 

“So,” Rooster started, brows furrowing, “why did you tell me about-” he motioned to the two of you, “this?”

You shrugged. “Robert and I met when you still weren’t speaking to me. After that, I guess it just never came up.” You gave him a faux-innocent doe-eyed look. 

You grew up with Bradley. He was basically your brother. But when everything went down between him and your dad… he cut you off almost entirely. It took years to build up your relationship again. You weren’t still mad about it, of course. But every once in a while, you liked to rub it in that you were the better friend. 

Bob cleared his throat. “You two, uh, know each other?” 

“Since we were kids,” Rooster answered, nudging you out of the way with his pool cue. “Unfortunately.”

You smacked him with the end of yours. 

“Oh, that reminds me,” you said to Bob. “He’s coming tonight.”

“Who?”

“My dad.” 

All of the color drained from his face. “T-tonight?” 

“Don’t look so scared. He isn’t that bad.” Rooster studied the two of you. His eyes went wide, and a slow, menacing smile spread across his face. “Does he not know?”

“Not know what?” Bob squeaked.

The older officer just snorted. “This should be good.” 

Sure enough, on the other side of the bar, the group’s former instructor entered, a large gift bag swinging back and forth by his legs. He flipped his aviators up onto his head, eyes scanning the crowd. You stood on your toes and waved so he could see you over Rooster and Hangman’s shoulders. Bob tried to peek around them, but the crowd was too thick around you for him to get a good look. All he saw was a flash of dark hair topped with golden-shaded sunglasses. 

Rooster snickered as he leaned down to sink two pool balls and flip you the bird. You stuck your tongue out at him and snuck back through the swell of people to meet your dad halfway. 

Pete spotted you for a second, but lost you again. Penny tended the bar and, as attentive as ever, had a feeling something was about to happen. Between Pete’s confusion and the very nervous-looking young man by the pool table, she wondered what you were up to. 

“Dad, over here!” You called, squeezing between two annoyed tourists. “Hey!”

Pete finally found you again and tucked the bag behind his bag to give you a one-armed hug. “Hey, kiddo. Don’t tell me the party started without me.”

“I told you I had someone I wanted you to meet.” You started to lead him back toward the table, but from his position now, he could see the group gathered, and he froze. 

“Don’t tell me it’s one of them,” he said, trying to wrap his mind around the odds. 

“It isn’t Bradly if that’s what you’re worried about.” You snorted at the idea. 

Pete winced, waiting for you to tell him that you’d been seeing the cockiest pilot in the whole group. 

“No,” you pointed, “him.”

Bob caught your eye and waved, at least until he saw who was with you. If he was pale before, he was ghostly now, eyes widening to the size of headlights. 

“Him?” Pete guffawed. “You’re dating Bob?” 

Your head tilted as you looked back at him, still leading your dad to join the others. “Wait, you know Robert?”

The two of you broke through the wall of people. 

Hangman choked on his beer. 

Rooster howled with laughter, both at his fellow pilots’ expressions and Maverick’s efforts not to look anyone in the eye. You stood in the middle of it all.

You glanced between the two sides, arms crossed. “I don’t get it.”

“Well,” Pete cleared his throat, “Y/N, sweetheart, you didn’t exactly tell me you were dating someone who graduated from Top Gun.”

Bob, who looked ready to lose his lunch, couldn’t manage any full words, so Rooster did it for him. 

“I take it she didn’t tell you her dad is one of the most decorated pilots in the Navy.”

Bob did manage to shake his head, unable to look at you or his former instructor, choosing the safety of the green felt tabletop instead. He tried to make it all make sense. 

He knew that your mom and dad weren���t together and hadn’t been in a long time. He knew it was partially because of your dad’s job and that she didn’t exactly support you joining the Navy, especially to become a pilot. So much so, she wasn’t even here. You were her only daughter, and she didn’t come to your graduation from an elite program, not that you’d mentioned it. He could tell it was bothering you. 

In that moment, however, all he could think about was how he didn’t see it sooner. Well, that and the fact that Maverick was staring him down with a puzzled look, like he was trying to fit two mismatched pieces together. 

Bob swallowed hard under the pin of those calculating eyes and tried to wash it down with more beer, which just made it worse. He ended up sputtering through his sip and had to turn away so he didn’t spray foam all over your feet. 

“I don’t tell many people because it tends to freak them out.” You sent eye daggers at Rooster while you walked around the table to stand beside Bob. You laid a hand on his shoulder while he got control of his coughing. “If I had known you two knew each other, I would have-”

“It’s-” He wheezed, “fine.” 

“So,” Maverick inhaled, “I didn’t mean to interrupt the party. I just wanted to give this to Y/N.” He drew the bag out from behind him and held it out to you. 

Keeping a hand on Bob’s arm, you grabbed onto the little twine handles and peeked inside. 

“You got fancy paper and everything,” you teased, pulling out blue and white tissue paper. Glancing up at the others, you smirked. “On my tenth birthday, he used the newspaper for wrapping after he’d spilled coffee all over it.” 

“Sounds about right,” Rooster said. 

When you got passed the paper, the bag fell right out of your hands, and your fingers fell away from your boyfriend’s bicep. You started to shake. 

“Y/N?” Bob’s head tilted forward to look into your face, which had gone pale. “You okay?” 

You held up the dark leather bomber jacket, reading the embroidered name on the pocket. 

Y/F/N/ “Rebel” Y/L/N. 

“Dad, this is-” your voice caught in your throat, finding yourself shaky on your feet. You leaned against Bob to keep upright. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” Setting the jacket on the green felt, you threw your arms around your father. 

Bob made sure the jacket didn’t fall off the corner and watched the happy moment with the shock of the moment fading into the feeling of seeing that smile on your face. 

The rest of the group applauded. Hangman rolled his eyes playfully, but Bob could tell he was just being… well, Hangman. 

“Alright, enough ‘Father of the Bride’,” Hangman teased. “Can we get back to our game now? I believe Roost and I here were about to kick the lovebirds out of their nest.” 

Bob scowled at him. Well, as much as Bob could scowl. To you, he just looked adorable. 

“You ready to put some money where that mouth is, Hangman?” You challenged, breaking away from your dad to put your hand on your hip. 

“She did learn from the best,” Maverick added. “Fair warning.”

“If you’re as good a pool player as you are a teacher, I think we’ll be just fine.” A grin spread across Hangman’s face. 

“Alright, Confirmed Kills,” you said, letting him know you knew exactly who he was and you didn’t care. “Whoever loses buys the next round-” Before he could scoff, you continued, “and treats everyone to a round of duet karaoke to a song of the winner’s choice.” 

You were going to enjoy wiping that cocky smirk off his face. Hangman held out his hand. 

“You’ve got a deal,” he winked, “Mini Mav.” Hangman lined up another shot. 

Pete watched you settle in with the group, fitting in like you’d all known each other forever. Of course, you and Bradly had known each other since you were kids, but the way you were with the rest of them… it was easy to see that you belonged there. 

What he still couldn’t quite figure out was the boyfriend situation. 

Bob? 

Really?

It wasn’t that he didn’t like him, of course. It just came as a bit of a surprise. Pete had met the guys you’d dated in the past, and they certainly weren’t, well, Bob. 

As if the kid could read his mind, he glanced over at Pete. 

Bob instantly looked away, trying to focus on you as you hit the Q-Ball. Of course, you were bent over, which meant he was looking at your ass, which of course made him panic even more. The last thing he wanted was for your dad to watch him watching you… in that way… oh God, this was going to be really hard. 

The voice in his head, which sounded weirdly like Hangman, made a crude joke. 

Bob chugged the rest of his beer before his turn. 

-

The group migrated out of the Hard Deck like a little tipsy flock of geese. Rooster and Hangman had just finished their stunningly bad rendition of ‘It’s Raining Men’ after losing to you and Bob at the pool table. They also each bought a round for the whole group, hence the slight sway to your step as you all climbed down the steps leading to the sand. 

Hangman, of course, had decided that everyone needed an encore.

“I’m gonna go out,” he sang, “and let myself get-”

He held out an empty bottle to you like it was a microphone. You rolled your eyes, but just couldn't help but join. 

“Absolutely soaking wet!” 

Everyone erupted in laughter, and you hooked your arm around Bob’s waist, to which Hangman, Coyote, and Fanboy all made kissy noises. 

“Gross!” Rooster whined over them, flashing you a grin. “Get a room, you two!” 

“Oh, I plan to,” you shot back. You could practically feel your boyfriend blush. “I’ll see you at the ceremony, yeah?” 

Rooster rustled your hair. "Wouldn't miss it, Cinderella.” 

“We will be there, Mini Mav,” Hangman said. He glanced over your shoulder, winking.“Take it easy with that one, Baby on Board.” 

Bob scoffed, shaking his head as the group shuffled off. 

“Oh, ignore him.” You leaned into him, the leather of your jacket smooth against his skin. You mussed his hair and stood on your toes to kiss his cheek. “He’s just jealous.” You wrapped your arms around his middle, tucking your head under his chin. You breathed him in along with the salt of the ocean and the lingering scent of beer. “I missed you.”

Bob enveloped you in his arms, smiling contently against the top of your head. “I missed you, too, baby.” He tensed suddenly, stepping away. You let out a pouty sigh, finding his gaze focused behind you. “Hi, Captain Mitchell.”

“Lt. Reynolds.” Maverick leveled his stare on your boyfriend, feigning seriousness. After he was sure the young man was good and freaked out, he cracked a smile. “Relax, Bob. It’s supposed to be a celebration.”

Bob, in fact, did not relax. 

You hugged your dad again for a long while, lowering your voice. “Thank you, Dad. For everything.” 

“I’m so proud of you, Y/N.” Pete fought to keep his voice from cracking. He cleared his throat. “You’re, um, you’re mother wanted me to tell you congrats, too.”

Bob watched your shoulders stiffen and your head tilt. 

“Sure she did,” you said. Tugging on your sleeves, you put a smile back on your face. “And this is too big, by the way.”

Pete’s face fell. “Really? I could have sworn I-”

“Dad,” you snickered, “I’m messing with you.” You punched his shoulder, glad to be passed the unpleasant topic you’d been avoiding for the last several days. Raising a brow, you added, “You staying with Penny?”

“Don’t give me that look,” he laughed. 

“What look?” You shrugged innocently. Reaching back for Bob’s hand, you laced your fingers together. “I’ve been renting her place down by the water.” You looked back at your boyfriend. “I figured we could head back and make some s'mores.” 

It was very clear by your tone that you were not talking about marshmallows and chocolate. Bob’s blood surged, rushing by his ears. 

He really missed you. 

You glanced back at Pete. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Hey, I’m allowed ‘that look’,” Pete said. “And I’ll be by in the morning for a run.”

You groaned. “Really? Do I have to train the morning of my graduation?”

He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “Just be decent by the time I get there, yeah?” He ignored the paternal urge to lecture you about not being stupid- which, of course, he knew would make him a hypocrite. 

“Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, Dad.”

“Night, kid.” He started back toward the bar to meet up with his girlfriend- a woman more like your mother than your actual mother since you moved to North Island for the course. Maverick waved back at the two of you. “Goodnight, Bob.” Bob started to say something, but the words just caught in his throat, so he ducked his head instead.

You hooked your arm through his and started along the beach to the quaint property you’d been renting from Penny for the last few months. The moon was high in the sky, shining down on the water in ripples of light. This was your favorite time--when the waves caught reflections of the stars and the moon in every crest and the world was an odd mix of still and alive, peaceful and energetic. There was an electricity to the evening that most people missed, but you always felt it, whether it was in the jukebox at Penny’s or walking along the beach now, head leaning against the shoulder of the man you loved. 

“You’re doing that thing,” you said, jutting out your bottom lip in a mock pout.

Bob blinked, like you’d snapped him out of a trance. “What thing?”

“The ‘I’m overwhelmed so I’m going to just stop talking and maybe forget to breathe a little’ thing,” you teased, but your eyes were sincere as you looked up at him, bringing you both to a stop along the sand. “Does it really bother you?” Confusion made his nose crinkle in that really cute way, so you clarified with a snort. “My dad being, well, my dad.” 

“Oh. Um. That.” Bob fixed his glasses further up on his nose. He did that when he was nervous, too. “No.” And his voice went up an octave- another tell-tale sign that he was on the verge of a mini Bob Breakdown. “W-why would it bother me?”

You raised a brow.

He exhaled a short sigh. “Okay. Maybe it’s a little weird.”

“Tell you what.” You played with the collar of his shirt. “How about, for tonight, it’s just you and me? No Top Gun. No famous pilot dads or moms who don’t-” You cut off with a sharp breath. 

Bob took your hands in his, pulling you forward to kiss your forehead. “I think that sounds great.” Bob wrapped an arm around you, keeping you tucked next to him while you walked across the beach. 

And just like that, the constant buzz in your body, the one that had kept you going at Mach 10 for the last few months, settled. You never knew how he did it, but Bob was the only person in the world who could bring you back to earth. 

-

There was something you took pride in knowing when nobody else did- WSO Lt. Robert Floyd was a really good kisser. Whether it was your lips or your neck or another stretch of skin against his lips, every touch was slow and perfect and just enough to make you a little bit crazy. And, at the moment, that was exactly what he was doing. 

Bob’s mouth trailed lazily over your collarbone, his arms draped around your waist, hair tussled from the night before, and pressed so close to you it was almost hard to tell whose warm, sweat-dotted skin was whose. 

“Morning,” Bob muttered sleepily against you. His lips made their way up to yours, but not before stopping at your jaw, at the little spot behind your ear he knew would make you blush. 

The small touch alone was enough to make your body ignite with the memory of everything that you did last night. The two of you had a lot of making up to do and, needless to say, you certainly succeeded. 

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and gave him a tired smile. “Good morning.” 

“Want some coffee?” Bob asked. His hair, usually neat and slicked back, flopped into his face in messy spikes. You pushed it back, letting your fingers glide through his light brown strands. 

“You’re a godsend.”

The corners of his lips teased upward. He kissed you again. “I know.” He pulled back, but couldn’t resist just one more kiss. “I love you.”

You almost took him again right there. “I love you, too, Robert.” 

He climbed out of bed despite your little huffs of protest and put on some sweats. You started to get up after him, but he stopped you. “I’ll bring it to you. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Breakfast in bed?” You said. “How fancy.”

“Well, I think that the top of Top Gun deserves a little spoiling.”

“We don’t know if I’m first yet.”

“Then call this wishful thinking.” He pointed at you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You gave him a mock salute. “Aye aye, lieutenant." 

Bob chuckled, shaking his head, and went out to the kitchen to start the pot of coffee and put bread in the toaster. 

A knock at the door barely stirred you from the bed. 

“I’ll get it!” Bob called back. “You stay in that bed or I’ll make you.”

“Promises, promises!” You giggled back. 

Bob was turned back, looking toward the bedroom where he could just see you grinning at him from the bed, when he opened the front door. 

“It’s a little early to be selling something-” He started, immediately cutting himself off when he saw that it was definitely not a salesman at the door. 

Maverick cleared his throat. “Good morning, lieutenant." 

Bob- who wore a t-shirt to play beach football- stood there in the doorway, shirtless, without his glasses, and his entire body turning the color of a bad sunburn. 

It was in that instant that you remembered you were supposed to go for a run with your father. Who was now at the door. With Bob. Who definitely looked like he got laid last night.

“Shit shit shit.” You scrambled to gather your running clothes, almost falling over when you put on your leggings. “I’ll be right there!” 

“You better!” Pete yelled back at you. “If you aren’t out in five, I’m showing your boyfriend baby pictures.”

Your mind immediately went to all of the worst ones, and you got dressed a little faster. 

“I’m gonna, um-” Bob tried to figure out how to talk again. “I’ll go put a shirt on.”

Maverick stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Good idea.”

Bob shuffled toward the bedroom, getting enough courage to turn back and say, “I do want to see those baby pictures, though.”

Maverick cracked a smile and took a seat on the sofa. “They’re pretty hilarious. She’ll hate it.” 

Bob slipped into the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him. “I think I just lost five years of my life.” 

You couldn’t help but snicker and lay your hands on his very pink cheeks. “You’re adorable.”

“I’m half naked!” He squeaked, trying to keep his voice down, which was just even cuter. “Do you think he knows? Does he think that we…”

“I’d rather not speculate as to what my dad has realized about my sex life, baby.” You pressed a quick kiss to his lips and finished getting dressed. “And yes, he definitely knows.”

Bob groaned and fell face-first back onto the bed. Sitting on the edge beside him, you slipped on your running shoes. Bob rolled over, frowning. 

“I’m meeting up with the others to go to the ceremony, so I’ll probably just see you there,” he said. 

“That’s fine,” you shrugged. “I’m getting ready with a few of the women in class. We’re helping each other get our hair to stick down, because, believe me, it’s not easy.”

“Don’t I know it?” he teased. “It takes me hours to look this good.”

You reached over and rustled his hair so he yelped. Bob tackled you in revenge, attacking your sides with tickling jabs. 

“If you aren’t out in five seconds, I’m coming in there!” Pete yelled. “And believe me, I really don’t want to. One… two… three…”

You opened the door. Behind you, Bob sat ramrod straight on the bed. With an innocent smile, you jogged passed your dad.

“Come on, old man. Let’s see if I can still beat you to the water.” 

“I always let you win and you know it.” 

The two of you ran out of the small beach house, leaving Bob to catch his breath. He wanted to say he was happy. He admired Maverick more than anyone. That was the problem. He admired Maverick because of a mission Bob had grappled with for months. 

How could he tell you he’d left your father to die?

[linedbycaro]

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 - 𝐃𝐨𝐣𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐭 (𝚸𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢) 𝐩𝐭. 1

“I have a secret” Azzi murmurs.

“Yeah?” Paige barely chokes out, tilting her head to disguise her nervousness.

Azzi crawls over, closing the space between them until she’s beside Paige, Azzi’s warm scent washing over her. She can’t breathe. Or move.

Then Azzi leans in, delicately whispering,

“I want you all the time. But you always stop me before I can say it sober.”

𝐎𝐤𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐀𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐀𝐳𝐳𝐢 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨. 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐂— 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐃!!!!!!!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4𝐤

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞.. 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐢𝐭? 𝐈 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬.

The music had stopped hours ago, but Paige still feels something buzzing under her skin. The kitchen is dimly lit, solo cups litter the counters, their teammates are passed out in the living room, but Paige and Azzi are not tired in the least.

They're both the kind of hard-core tipsy where everything is funny.

"Okay, but listen," Azzi says, barely able to get it out between hiccuped laughter. She's doubled over so hard she can't finish her sentence. "If—if—if..."

Paige nearly chokes on her water.

"Stop, "I'm gonna—"

Water spews from her mouth and nose, and Paige has to cross her legs and fold over to keep from peeing herself.

They're gone.

Azzi collapses on the floor, dragging Paige down with her.

"Ow—my stomach!" Azzi wheezes, feeling her abs cramp.

Paige can't even respond; she just shakes her head, fist-pounding the floor.

They're laughing so hard it's gone silent—shoulders shaking, faces buried in sleeves. Just on the floor, side by side, hands swatting at each other in some useless attempt to make it stop.

But the hitting just makes it worse.

Which makes them laugh harder.

And God, how Paige loves moments like this, just the two of them. Goofy and connected and so utterly themselves in ways they can't be with anyone else. To be known this loudly, to feel Azzi's presence, it's like home.

And while there will always be a part of Paige that aches around Azzi, knowing she can never fully have her— moments like this make the pain worth it.

Until suddenly, Azzi goes quiet. 

The air shifts, the laughter fades, and Paige feels it before she even looks. She turns her head anyway. 

Azzi is staring at her.

Her face is soft, her gaze is bare. She studies Paige like she's something sacred and rare and desired. Her pupils are blown wide and unguarded—adoring in a way that makes Paige burn.

Azzi gives her a small smile and breathes out a short laugh like she knows she's been caught but doesn't care.

It's easy to write it off as drunk affection. Paige almost does. But there's something in Azzi's expression that feels too steady. Too sure.

It makes Paige's stomach flip and fizzle.

Makes her feel all kinds of things she knows she shouldn't.

And it sobers Paige up a little.

Because Jesus, when Azzi looks at her like that—like she wants her and means it—it makes Paige want to risk everything. Makes her want to throw away all careful boundaries and the restraint she trains herself into in order to preserve their friendship. Not that she doesn’t let them slip from time to time. She does.

Sometimes she can’t help but let Azzi look at her, touch her, kiss her in ways she shouldn't. 

Falling into the dangerous game of 'we're just friends who sometimes kiss but never talk about it'—that's Paige's fault. She lets it happen. And it's killing her softly.

"Az," Paige shakes her head, voice slightly raw. "You can't look at me like that when we're drunk."

"Look at you like what?" Azzi hums innocently.

"You know like what."

Azzi shrugs goofily.

"No, I don't. Tell me."

"Az—" Paige shoves her playfully and sits up, leaning against the sink cabinets.

Azzi follows, settling across from Paige. She lets her knees brush Paige's as she leans back against the oven. Her voice comes out slightly slurred, like she's trying too hard to sound casual.

"What? I can't help it, so you might as well tell me."

Azzi pauses, her grin faltering.

"How do I look at you, Paige?"

Her voice is so goddamn flirty it should be illegal. 

Paige wants to shove her up against the cabinets and kiss that smirk off her face— unravel her ‘til she admits she knows what she’s doing.

Instead, she just stupidly gives in to the baited question.

"Like... like you want me," Paige says lowly, almost a whisper. 

"Well... maybe I do," comes Azzi's mischievous reply.

Paige's heart stops, unable to meet Azzi's stare. She wants to believe it’s a joke, but Azzi isn't laughing anymore.

"But only when you're drunk. You only want this when you're drunk."

"I do not."

Paige forces a smile. Deflect.

"Whatever, Az."

"No. Not whatever," Azzi protests, trying to get Paige to see her.

And then Azzi tries again, softly.

"I have a secret."

"Yeah?" Paige barely chokes out, tilting her head to disguise her nervousness. Heat pools in her stomach.

Azzi crawls over, closing the space between them until she's beside Paige. The blonde's pulse spikes as Azzi's warm scent washes over her.

She can't breathe. Or move.

This is the thing Paige hates. Feeling like she can't help but let her in. Can’t help but let Azzi get under her skin, say unhinged, bold things, and tempt her to believe she means it.

Azzi gracefully leans in, back arching slightly, breath hot against her ear.

And ho-ly fuck. 

She whispers, delicate and deliberate,

"I want you all the time. But you always stop me before I can say it sober."

Azzi's voice snakes down Paige's spine, curling hot and low. Her brain short circuits. Dizzy. Her pulse screams danger, and her body— well... Let's just say she’s ovulating. Impeccable timing. 

Azzi pulls back just slightly.

Enough to look at her.

Enough to where Paige feels like she's sick with how much Azzi affects her.

Danger, danger, danger.

She’s in full gay panic mode because now Azzi is staring at her— deadly serious, eyes upturned, lip caught between her teeth like she’s nervous.

It’s dirty as hell.

And oh so unwillingly, Paige's eyes drop down to Azzi's mouth, plump, and full, and slightly parted.

Azzi does the same—waiting, willing, wanting.

Automatically, Paige's forehead falls against Azzi's, letting their noses nuzzle, their breaths mingle. Her hands find Azzi's shoulders. Azzi’s fingers brush her cheek.

She lets them feel it for a moment, holds their gaze.

And then Azzi's eyes flutter closed like she knows what will happen next.

And Paige knows what will happen next because she's let it happen so many times before.

A sharp pain clutches her chest.

She's pulling back because she has to. Because if she lets herself fall again, she won't be able to stop. Not this time. She has to control it before she loses everything.

"Azzi, fuck. You have no idea what you do to me. You can't just say shit like that so casually." Paige breathes, voice gravelly.

Azzi's eyes blink open, her spine hitting the cabinet like she's suddenly aware of how close they are.

"I didn't say it casually," she protests breathily. Her voice actually sounds desperate. Pleading.

"No, you say it like it doesn't cost you anything... And it kills me every time. And then we—" Paige pauses, unable to say it out loud. More quietly, she admits,

"And then you get to forget it in the morning, but I never do."

"You think I forget? I don't forget, but you always make me feel like I have to," Azzi mumbles.

Paige blinks. She hadn't expected that.

Hadn't considered that maybe Azzi had remembered every slip, every almost, every kiss—and had been burying it, too.

But- but she never acts like she wants it in daylight. She’s dismissive. Has a whole ass situationship.

"You make it feel like something it's not supposed to be." Paige protests, voice on the edge of an argument. Her voice falters, "A-Azzi, you're literally talking to someone right now... a guy."

"I know, I'm sorry," Azzi murmurs.

"Don't be. It's okay."

It's not your fault you don't want me in the same way I want you, Paige thinks.

And then she admits, voice raw and cracked,

"I don't think you understand how hard it is to un-feel things for you. And it scares me because I can never really tell if you mean it."

Azzi, voice barely above a whisper, replies,

"It scares me too—how much I do."

And because Paige physically can’t stand being near Azzi another second— Azzi, ever overstepping, casually, or so un-casually it's hard to believe she doesn't know what she's doing.

Azzi, unknowing to the ways in which she affects Paige, the ways she tortures her— deeply, slowly— Paige can’t take the way her presence makes everything ache.

 She gets up and walks away.

“If you really want this,” Paige says without turning back, “prove it.”

Because it's easier to pretend Azzi doesn't mean it. Easier than risking being wrong. 

___

When Azzi wakes up, she blinks. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, replays her conversation with Paige in her head, and opens them again.

You’re kidding.

Then Azzi rolls over and screams into her pillow. 

Like fully screams. Until-her-voice-goes-raw screams.

Because nothing— nothing is more confusing than falling in love with your best friend. Who also happens to be a girl. 

Who you’re pretty sure is at least a little bit in love with you back. 

Who also walked away from you last night after you literally confessed you wanted her?

Like—hello? 

She had said, “I want you all the time.” and, “I didn’t say it casually.”

Verbatim.

How much clearer could she get?

Okay, fine.

Maybe she gets how it could be a little confusing from Paige’s perspective. Azzi is technically kind of talking to a guy.

But it’s not like that. Not like it is with Paige. Not even close.

And what even is ‘talking’ anyways? They hang out a few times exclusively, kiss once and suddenly there’s a label?

The way she feels about Paige- with certainty— it terrifies her. Not just attraction, not just in want, but need. To the point where she can’t even verbalize it properly.

Azzi has tried. Even when she wasn’t talking to Theo. Been braver in ways she’d never thought she could be. And.....

Was she the problem?

She knows she’s being unfair. Talking to Theo, then saying things like that to Paige… it’s cruel, even if it’s unintentional.

She’s just scared. Overwhelmed. Unsure of how someone’s even supposed to navigate this.

Paige is the gay one after all. The one who is confident in her identity—in who she is and who she likes.

And Azzi’s feels like she's playing catch up. Late to the game. Still trying to figure it out— trying to unpack what liking Paige even means. What it changes. What it doesn’t.

Not that liking girls was a bad thing, and if she was really being honest with herself, it's something she'd always tucked away— something that felt too big to really name until now.

But if Paige actually felt the same way, wouldn't she have said something? Initiated the first move instead of just giving in to Azzi's temptations?

Because the kinds of girls Paige attracts—

they’re confident. Gorgeous. Sure of themselves.

And Azzi has a sinking feeling she’s not like them.

Not what Paige wants.

And it’s driving Azzi batshit crazy—not knowing if Paige actually wants her back, or just likes watching her ache.

Taunts her with shit like “If you really want this, prove it” like she didn’t see Azzi bleeding out— being vulnerable the only way she knows how.

Because Azzi is scared too. Scared Paige only ever sees her when it’s easy. Scared the rejection will hurt too much if she says it sober.

She shoves her thoughts down and slides out of bed. Because— joy, she has practice in half an hour. With Paige.

____

Practice goes... pretty much worse than Azzi could have imagined. 

Paige doesn’t even fully acknowledge it.

Paige walks in all relaxed, friendly, nods her way like nothing happened and they’re back to playing besties. Like she isn’t the one who walked away before Azzi could even speak.

During warm ups Paige throws a few jokes her way, laughing in that effortlessly charming way of hers. That quirky and smooth and cocky persona that makes straight girls on the internet question their sexuality. How unfortunately Ironic.

When they're scrimmaging, Azzi’s shots aren’t falling.

She feels too quiet. Like she’s not leading in the way she knows she should. Not calling out plays, not making decisions during drills. Just… following.

And Paige is confident. Pulling the team into huddles, encouraging everyone, calling the offense. Talking mad shit to the practice players.

And it hurts, because how on earth has this not affected her? Is she really this unbothered? This indifferent?

But then Azzi sees through it.

It’s during a water break when Azzi reaches down to grab her bottle—resting beside Paige’s like always— and sees her stiffen. Just slightly. Just enough. An involuntary response to Azzi’s close proximity.

Paige tries to cover it up, scratching at her shoulder like she’s itchy or adjusting, but it’s too late. Azzi notices.

After that, Paige avoids direct eye contact. Every interaction too measured. Too controlled. Like they didn’t nearly unravel the night before.

When Coach calls for 1v1s, Azzi turns to Paige automatically. Because they always pair up. It’s a given.

But Paige doesn’t even glance at her. Just sidesteps Azzi seamlessly, pairing with Nika instead. Like it was normal. Like Azzi wasn’t already halfway turned her way.

And when they’re shooting around at the end of practice, Azzi doesn’t just catch Paige looking, she feels it. The weight of her stare, hot against her back. 

She turns.

And there Paige is, gaze unflinching, face unreadable, eyes soft with something that looks an awful lot like longing. But then her expression shifts. It turns blank. Cold. 

Paige turns around and walks out of the gym.

Hot and cold. Push and Pull.

So no shit Azzi is terrified to make a move. 

She heads to the weight room after practice, wanting to get in an extra session in and clear her mind. 

And guess who’s already there? Paige. Of course. 

But Azzi ignores her. Walks over to a rack on the other side of the training room, and adjusts her headphones. Turns the volume up.

Azzi’s actually kind of fired up. Angry at the situation. Pissed they can’t get it together and that she played like shit. So she channels her thoughts into each set. Each press and pump of the dumbbells blocking out the stare she feels burning into her from the other side of the room.

Azzi syncs her reps to the rhythm of her music. Her arms burn. She blows away a stray curl sticking to her cheek and pushes through the exhaustion.

Lifting makes her feel empowered. And strong. And bad ass.

And something clicks. 

Azzi Fudd is not a pussy.

And you know what?

Fuck it.

Yeah, what-if Paige is being a coward. Maybe she’s scared, or hurt or indifferent or whatever. But don’t they at least deserve to know? Haven’t they been dancing around it for too long?

Maybe Azzi is late to the game. Maybe Azzi is only now realizing she's into Paige in a more than friends way. But now that she knows? Like knows-knows. She's gonna find out hell or high water.

Paige literally taunted her, walked away and left with a “prove it” and nothing else.

Challenge. Accepted. 

Paige wants to hide? Wants not to believe her? Fine. Azzi’ll be more obvious. More bold.

Because it was high time for Paige to Fudd around and Find out.

Azzi waits until Paige is taking a break between sets, elbows resting on her knees, not so subtly observing Azzi through the reflection.

Then Azzi sets her weights down gently and locks eyes with Paige through the mirror.

Smirking ever so slightly, she reaches down to the hem of her shirt, thumbing it. Tracking the way Paige's eyes follow her movement. 

And slowly, performatively, Azzi lifts it up, peeling the sweat soaked fabric from abdomen, arching just slightly as she lifts it over her head, tossing it carelessly to the ground. 

She cocks her head in the mirror, rolling her shoulders back once, then casually thumbs the band of her sports bra to adjust it— flashing the tiniest bit of underboob, nipples already peaked from the open layer of sweat hitting air conditioning.

Her chest is glistening. Her abs are sculpted. Her sports bra hugs her chest perfectly, skin tight and slick over miles of bare, gleaming muscles. 

Azzi tugs at the waistband of her shorts, revealing the v line of her hips, fingers dipping under the material with mock innocence, rolling the top twice for good measure. 

Azzi smiles as she watches Paige’s eyes jumping from Azzi’s back to her frontal reflection in the mirror. Watches as Paige swallows thickly, unable to tear her gaze away. Watches the red bloom across her cheeks when she realizes Azzi caught her.

Azzi just gives a little tilt of the head. What’s wrong?

She puts her headphones back on. Slips into her next set like nothing happened. But this time, each movement— each bend, each thrust is accentuated with taunting calculation.

When she finishes, she tilts her head back, panting, letting out a breathy groan of exhaustion.

She doesn't have to look to know Paige is watching— ogling the way her sweat glistens on her chest and neck, the way the over head lights catch the curve of her breasts, heaving with each pant.

And then—clang.

She looks over.

Paige, red-faced and scrambling, has knocked over a rack of resistance bands and sliders.

Perfect.

Azzi walks over slowly, each step intentional. She crouches beside Paige, smirking.

“Need help?” She keeps her voice low and sultry. 

“Oh! Uh—sure. Yeah,” Paige stammers, eyes everywhere but her.

Azzi picks up a band and tosses it into the bin. “You should be more careful,” she says, intentionally brushing Paige’s shoulder with a hand. “You could hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Paige mutters, flustered. The blonde tries to stand, but trips over her feet. 

Azzi steadies her. 

One hand grips Paige's bicep, the other presses flat against her stomach. 

Azzi feels Paige's abs clench.

She doesn't move. Not right away.

Not when Paige is looking at her like that— wide eyed and breath shaky. Azzi lingers. Studies her face, searching for a hint of truth, a hint of something real.

Is she nervous? Turned on? About to run again?

Paige's throat bobs. Her lips part like she wants to say something. Nothing comes out.

Azzi's gaze drops to her mouth, then back up, corner of her lips twisting. Then she leans closer, until there is barely an inch of space between them.

“You don’t seem fine.” Her voice is a syrupy calm.

Then, deliberately, Azzi's hand drags up Paige's body. Fingers working into her arm muscle, palm dragging up her abs, grazing the underside of her chest. And then she stops at the slope of Paige's shoulders. Starts massaging them out.

And Paige just lets her. Breathless. Rigid.

“You seem…” Azzi scrunches her nose as if thinking. Smiles when she lands on it. “Tense.”

She drags the word out like she's tasting it. Like she wants Paige to feel it, deep in her spine.

“I could help you with that too.” Her voice is sweet like sugar.

Paige blinks. Panting. Her voice barely audible when she gravells out, “What the fuck are you doing, Fudd?”

Azzi blinks up at her like it’s obvious. “I’m doing what you asked.” 

I'm proving it.

She watches as Paige's eyes narrow into slits, trying to decode the ambiguity. Azzi smirks, savoring the moment realization flicker across Paige's face— confusion melting into recognition, and then something darker. Hunger. Want.

Paige opens her mouth to say something, maybe to kiss her or confess or tell her off, but Azzi doesn't let her.

Doesn't want her to, not yet.

She needs Paige to want for it. Ache for it. Feel it.

Prove it back.

So Azzi steps away, leaving Paige stunned and aching.

She stalks back to her rack. Picks up her gatorade bottle, and lazily squirts into her mouth. 

She lets some of the liquid drip down the side of her lip, sticky red drops trickling down her chin, rolling down her neck and into the valley of her breasts, disappearing into her sports bra. 

She swallows, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 

Holds the bottle out to Paige. 

“Thirsty?” 

And Paige Bueckers quite literally darts out of the room. Flees for the door, letting it slam behind her, abandoning her phone and her water bottle and all her belongings behind her.

Azzi just laughs. 

This was going to be fun.

[brokenengene]

omgg congrats on 100 i’m glad to be one of ur followers ur work is amazing i was wondering if u could write smut with jake and him filming idc for the plot the combination js came to mind thank uuu

☆ Tape Me - s.jy ☆

a/n: AHHHH this is so good! I hope you like it!!! <3

pairing: jake sim x fem reader

word count: 1.8k

genre: smut, y2k, established relationship

synopsis: It’s 2005 and your boyfriend finally paused his PS2 game so you can ride him. You bounce on him recording his fucked out face as he swears this isn't what the camcorder was for.

Content for readers 18+

content warning: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex(pls don’t) praise kink, consensual recording, dry humping, grinding riding, slight dom!reader, subby!jake energy, creampie, dorky jake, slight dirty talk

Tape Me

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

“Fuck you know those damn jeans drive me crazy,” Jake whispers as you straddle him on the bed.

His face is illuminated with hues of blue from the chunky television screen set up in the corner of his messy room. His goddamn PlayStation was messily hooked up to the grainy screen.

He finally paused his stupid game for you. The controller is somewhere tossed in the navy blue duvet covers. Finally giving you the attention you've been hinting at for hours.

It's confirmed. Your boyfriend is not the quickest at picking up hints

You grind your hips into his, a soft moan slipping from your perfectly glossed lips at the sensation. You reach down, popping the button of your lowrise jeans before pulling the zipper down.

"Jake you really aren't the best at picking up hints," you say with a weak chuckle as you lean in, gently capturing his lips with your own.

"If you wanted to fuck should've just told me..." Jake mumbles against your lips, his eyes half-lidded with desire as he kisses you messily again.

"Wanna fuck you Jake...let me ride this time?" You say breathlessly against his lips between messy kisses. Your hips still grinding into his, his hard bulge already straining against the zipper of his jeans.

"I would be an idiot to say no to that. God, you're so pretty.." Jake mumbles biting his lip as he pulls away from your mouth.

You sit up gently, your thighs still straddling his as you pull the thin fabric of your tank up and over your head. Jake watches with a stupid grin on his face.

He never gets tired of this.

You toss the fabric somewhere off the side of the bed, sitting up to give Jake a perfect view of your tits sitting perfectly in your bombshell bra with rhinestone straps.

His breath catches in his throat as his eyes linger on how the pink fabric contrasts gorgeously with your skin tone. His eyes linger lazily on how perfect it makes your tits look.

"You're killing me here—" Jake mumbles under his breath.

You let out a soft chuckle at his reaction before you lean back down, kissing him again with a satisfied moan. You suck gently on his bottom lip, causing his hips to jerk underneath you.

Jake whimpers as you gently part his lips with your own. Your tongue slips in briefly to taste him more. He's swiftly matching your energy, his tongue melting against your own.

Your hands fidget with the edge of his shirt. This time Jake takes the hint.

He lets out a soft groan as he reluctantly pulls his lips away from your own. Your lipgloss smeared across his swollen lips and down his chin.

He pulls his shirt up and over his head, revealing his toned muscles and porcelain skin beneath.

"Fuck" you curse under your breath at the sight. The warmth between your thighs only grows by the minute.

You can't wait for another second. You let your fingertips slip into the waistband of your jeans, pulling them down and over your hips in a swift motion. Your underwear is already damp as you toss it off the side of the bed.

Jake follows suit, his own jeans and boxers swiftly getting tossed aside. His cock springs free slapping against him. It's already hard and leaking with anticipation.

Jake lets out a sigh of relief as you lie back on top of him. The soft ringing of his CD player in the corner of his room cuts through the silence.

You gently rub against his hard cock, your wetness already providing a warm slip as the friction draws short breaths from both of you.

You bury yourself in the crook of his neck, the faint scent of his cologne lingering. Hollister.

"You seriously still wear Jake?" You tease as the familiar scent fills your senses. You gently place a gentle kiss on the soft skin of his neck.

"What makes it easy to remember which bottle I have when it's time to buy a new one," Jake says defensively.

"God you're so dorky. That's why I love you though." You say playfully in response. Your lips gently dragged against the pale skin of his neck, sucking on the sensitive skin to leave a faint mark.

Jake throws his head back, wincing through gritted teeth at the suction, his dark hair spread across the pillows.

You come up from his shoulder and that's when you notice it. A silver camcorder lying on his bedside table. Why on earth would he have that next to his bed?

"Jake, why do you have a camera by your bed?" You ask, brows furrowed with confusion. Your hips still grinding against his hard cock, wetness slipping between your bodies.

"Trust me it's not what you think," Jake says, his voice dropping an octave as he turns to look you in the eyes.

"What it's not like I've been filming myself—" Jake says weakly, his cheeks flushed a hot red telling you exactly what's been going on here.

"You little freak—always full of surprises." You say breath catching in your chest as you lean over, grabbing the silver camera off the bedside table.

Your brows furrow as you hold the camera, rotating it in your hands until you find the power button. You hit it once but the screen doesn't light up.

"Does this thing work—" You mutter under your breath as you smack the camera against your palm.

After a moment the screen lights up and so does your expression. You bite your lip as you look down at Jake. Heart beating fast in your chest.

You hit record.

You hold the camera in one hand and line his cock up with the other. Your thighs anchor yourself onto the mattress on either side of him as you notch his cock into your hole.

Jake's breath catches, his face flushed red from the feeling of your wetness on his aching cock. You smirk, pointing the camcorder straight at his face, catching every whimper as you sink down onto him with no warning.

Your grip on the camera tightens as you let him stretch you full. You let out a sigh of relief at the feeling of being completely stuffed full of his girthy cock.

"Smile for the camera Jake..." You tease as you slowly start to ride him. Hips dragging up his length before slamming back down onto him bouncing with a steady rhythm.

Jake's large hands find your hips as you ride, his hands loosely guiding you up and down. His cock drags against your walls deliciously every time you slide back down.

You focus the camera on his face, the scene enough to make you wetter as you watch him whimper and moan through the small screen. The marks you left on his neck only stir you on more.

Jake is a mess, moaning, cursing, gasping your name with every roll of your hips. Just how you like it, and you're catching it all on tape.

"Fuck... you're so perfect gonna make me come on film," Jake says with a soft chuckle of disbelief.

"Is this what you wanted? Me soaking your cock on tape?" You tease, your hand gently resting on his shoulder to give you a better angle to thrust.

"Holy—God I'm so in love with this, with you" Jake confesses for the camera.

You continue to record.

Jake moans, the soft flush across his cheeks, It's turning you on. Your body doesn't hide the signs.

You're soaking, wetness causing extra slip as you ride, dampening the navy sheets below.

Jake whimpers, his hips jerking beneath you as he starts to lose control.

"Shit. give me the fucking camera.." Jake stutters out breathlessly.

You comply. His warm hands brush against your own as he turns the lens towards you. The film still rolling.

"Take off your bra for me, wanna see all of your gorgeous body," Jake says breathlessly as he watches you through the mini screen of the grainy camcorder.

You comply, still rocking your hips against his as you reach behind you, unclasping your bra and letting it fall from your body.

Jake zooms the camera in on your tits as they drop free of their restraints. He bites his lip, completely focused on perfectly capturing this moment.

Your hands reach up to cup the weight of your tits. Jake zooms in, capturing the details of you feeling yourself up.

"Look at how pretty my girlfriend is—" Jake narrates as he drags the camera lens away from your tits to focus on your face. Sweat running across your brow, your makeup is smudged and lipgloss now nonexistent.

"She's gonna make me come, she's a little too good at it." Jake continues as he drags the camera from your face to focus on where your bodies are joined.

"You gonna fill me up while the camera's rolling Jake?" You say as you pick up the pace, thighs burning as you ride him harder and harder.

Jake lets out a deep groan, his grip on the camera slipping for a moment as you pick up the pace. He keeps the camera focused on your wet pussy slamming down on his cock over and over again.

"Gonna fill you up so full—" Jake says as he's cut off with a shaky breath. His hips lift off the mattress, thrusting into you in time with your movements.

His cock drags against your walls deliciously. You curse and whimper as the warmth knots in your stomach. Your thighs shake as drive yourself close and closer to the edge.

"Fuck you're close, aren't you? You're squeezing me so good." Jake mumbles as he zooms in even more.

Your hand finds his free one, gently lacing your fingertips with his before you pin his hand down to the mattress. Your hips move faster with perfect rhythm, chasing your own release.

"Come with me Jake, for the tape." You say completely breathless.

"Three" Jake says, his voice a strained whisper as he twitches inside of you.

"Two," You say with a shameless grin, your thighs aching as you pulse around his invading length.

"One," You say together as you both let go.

You grip his hand tight as you slam down onto him one last time, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. Hot release coats his cock as you ride out on top of him.

Jake buries himself deep inside you as he spills his load. Hot cum painting the inside of your pussy with delicious warmth. He lets out a soft sigh as he gently rocks into you, making sure not to spill a single drop.

"Goddamn, that was—" Jake whispered huskily, his attention shifting back to the camera in his hand as it beeps again.

His brows furrow as the camera beeps again before the screen goes completely black.

It flashes back an image.

**Battery Dead**

© brokenengene

[ashthesalamipiece]

This might be a bit specific but I’d like to request a fic where reader and Bakugou have twin boys who are already teenagers in like high school age (they can have more if you want, but these two are the oldest ones) where one of them does nicely academically, behaves properly, never disobeys his parents and the other —who’s the younger twin— is the complete opposite, basically a teenage Bakugou who likes to revolt and worry his mom and dad.

Anyway, it would go something like this; it’s like in the middle of a school night, maybe 2 to 3pm and reader feels like something is wrong and goes to check on her children finding out that the younger twin sneaked out. She wakes Bakugou up and they wait for him while he tries to calm her worries down. When he gets home they bicker until it turns into a full argument, both guys are screaming at each other and the son lets something out about how he thinks reader is not a good mother, that he hates her and that she favors his brother more (something like that) she has to hold her husband down for him not to jump on their kid and he runs to his room, she calms the man down and goes to talk to her boy and they talk, even with him being reluctant at first he apologizes and things turn out fine, but he was kind of an asshole still so she can’t help but cry when it’s just her and Bakugou.

I’m so sorry if this is too much I just needed to get it out of my mind, it will be totally fine if you prefer to ignore this love your writing💕

Thank you so much♡

enjoy♡

"We’re Still Learning"

Bakugou x Reader | Family Drama | Angst & Comfort | Long One-Shot

It was 2:46 AM when you woke up, heart pounding for no clear reason.

You sat up in bed, eyes scanning the dark room. Katsuki slept beside you, one arm stretched across your side protectively, his face soft in sleep — a rare sight. But something gnawed at your chest. An itch in your ribs. A mother’s instinct.

You slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, and padded down the hallway. First stop: the twins’ room.

The older one, Haru, was sound asleep, arm flung over his head, mouth slightly open. But the other bed — Kaito’s — was empty.

Blankets pulled back. Window slightly cracked.

Your stomach dropped.

You rushed back into the room and shook Katsuki awake. “Katsuki—wake up.”

He jolted up immediately, eyes sharp even in half-sleep. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Kaito’s gone.”

It only took two words.

He was out of bed in seconds, tugging on a hoodie, checking the hallway, the back door, the garage. You called his phone. No answer.

“God, what if something happened to him—what if he’s out with those older kids again—”

“Oi, stop,” Bakugou growled gently, grabbing your shoulders. “Breathe, baby. We’ll wait. He’ll come back. You know he always does.”

But your mind spiraled. Kaito had been distant lately. Angry. Cold. He snapped more. He was only fifteen, but it felt like he carried the weight of the world on his back and refused to let anyone help.

You sat on the couch, fingers twisted in your shirt. Katsuki sat beside you, holding your hand, his grip steady but firm.

“I should’ve seen this coming,” you whispered.

“Tch. Don’t start blamin’ yourself for his shit. We’re doin’ our best.”

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the clock.

3:38 AM.

The front door creaked open.

Kaito stepped inside, hoodie up, earbuds in, expression hard.

You shot to your feet. “Kaito—!”

“Don’t start,” he muttered, brushing past you.

Bakugou’s voice cracked through the room like thunder. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Out.”

“Don’t get smart with me, brat. Do you know what time it is?! Your mom's been losin’ it over here!”

“Yeah, well, what else is new?” Kaito said, loud. “It’s not like she actually listens when I’m here anyway.”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You only care about Haru. You always have,” he snapped, voice rising. “He gets better grades, he talks more, he’s easier, right? So why would you ever wanna deal with me?”

“What?! Kaito—”

“I hate coming home to this! I hate how you look at me like I’m always the problem!”

Bakugou surged forward, voice like a war drum. “You don’t talk to her like that—”

“Or what?!” Kaito shouted back, stepping toward him. “You’ll hit me?! Do it! Just get it over with!”

“Katsuki—!” You grabbed your husband around the waist, stopping him before he lunged. His muscles were coiled, trembling with restraint, jaw clenched so tight you could hear it creak.

“Let me go,” he growled.

“No,” you whispered. “Don’t be that kind of father.”

Kaito’s eyes widened—not in fear, but in challenge. But when he realized you weren’t letting go, that Katsuki wasn’t going to blow, he scoffed and turned on his heel.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “I should’ve stayed gone.”

He slammed the door behind him.

---

Ten minutes passed before Katsuki finally moved. He sat down hard on the couch, hands on his knees, breathing heavy. You knelt in front of him, touching his face.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No. I’m sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I almost lost it. He said that shit about you and I just—”

You kissed his knuckles. “I know. You were protecting me. But he’s hurting. I need to go talk to him.”

“I don’t know how you’re so calm.”

“I’m not,” you said, standing. “But I’m his mom. If I fall apart, he’ll never learn how to put himself back together.”

---

You knocked softly before entering Kaito’s room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, staring at the floor.

“Can I come in?”

Shrug.

You walked in anyway.

Silence.

“I don’t love Haru more,” you said quietly. “I love you both. Differently. Equally. But I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise.”

He scoffed. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” you said, kneeling in front of him. “You said you hate me.”

He flinched. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He stayed quiet for a long time.

“I don’t know,” he muttered eventually. “I just… I always feel like I’m messing up. And you’re always disappointed. Even when you’re not saying anything, it’s just… there. In your face.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Kaito, I’m not disappointed in you. I’m scared. Because I see you pulling away and I don’t know how to reach you.”

His eyes welled up. “You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.”

He wiped his face angrily with his sleeve. “I don’t know how to not be angry all the time.”

Your heart shattered. “You’re allowed to feel angry. But you’re not allowed to use that anger to hurt the people who love you.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I feel so lost.”

You wrapped your arms around him, and for a moment, he let himself be held.

“I’ve got you,” you said. “We’ve got you. Even when you’re lost.”

---

Later, when the house was quiet again, you crawled back into bed beside Katsuki. He was awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“How is he?” he asked.

You let out a breath. “Better. Still angry. Still hurt. But… he apologized.”

He turned toward you, pulling you into his chest. “You’re too good at this,” he mumbled.

You didn’t answer.

Because the moment his arms wrapped around you, the tears you’d been holding back finally spilled. You buried your face in his shirt and cried quietly—out of relief, exhaustion, and heartbreak.

Katsuki stroked your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“We’re not perfect,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”

He held you tighter. “None of us do. But we’re not quittin’. Ever.”

And in that moment, with the weight of the night settling over you both, you realized something: being a parent didn’t mean having all the answers. It just meant loving your kids enough to keep showing up.

Even when it’s 3 AM.

Even when it hurts.

Even when they say they hate you.

You’d still be there.

Always.