#three hour plane delay :[

[libr-0-cubicularist]

more OC sketches because I had a long flight

[k1lltheparty]

kevince in the airport

[dxppercxdxver]

the warriors' bond forged between me and the passengers of flight [redacted] will never ever be broken

[obiwan]

.

[beagleboysinc]

screams dies melts

[night-creeps]

Idk if the airport floor smells bad or i do. This sucks

[phantomrose96]

God's Favorite

Lucy wakes to the soft tapping of rain against her window, and she is God’s favorite. She knows this in the absent sound of her alarm, and she knows this in the yawning rumbles of thunder, and she knows this before she touches her phone alight to the notification screen.

8:43 am. Far from the 4:30 am alarm she’d needed to heed to make it to her flight. Her screen is awash with airline notifications.

She scrambles from bed. Her urgency is an apology. Lucy skips the shower and skips the hair washing and paints on deodorant before stowing it back in her carryon and calling her uber.

“Crazy weather,” her driver with the big mustache remarks. His windshield wipers swish through a river of rain.

“Yeah,” Lucy answers. She glances at her rumbling phone. She glances at the rumbling clouds. The road is clear. It shouldn’t be, not this route and not at this hour. A gas main broke somewhere up the highway that feeds this street. A freak accident. 2 injuries. It’s kept this road clear for just the locals since it happened. Lucy encounters no traffic enroute to the airport.

There are pockets of planes grounded across the runways, barely visible behind the sheets of downpour. They look like herding animals, herbivores, standing stock-still in brace against the weather. Lucy stares at them only a moment while the driver pulls her carryon out of the trunk. She grabs her jacket closed against the wind, and grabs her carryon handle, and thanks her driver. The rain does not reach her here, though the wind does.

Inside Lucy drags her bag past the help desks swarming with the orderly filings of people in disarray. Parents leaning too hard on help counters with kids pulling on bag handles. Hurried conversations and requests and arguments. The electronic boards are awash with deeply red DELAYED and CANCELED. The airport is choking. Lucy, who God loves, glides through security unimpeded.

At gate-side, Lucy finally looks to the large red board of DELAYED and CANCELED etchings to confirm what she knew without even checking her phone notifications. Gate A14. Her carryon wheels pitter and patter across tile as she walks, striding quickly, with apology.

When Gate A14 comes into view it is smothered with the weight of two or possibly three flights worth of people. There are people asleep clutching backpacks and curled on the floor. There is a four-year-old girl with her face buried in an iPad and a mother having a phone call whose clipped urgency infects Lucy. There is a man leaning over the counter to talk to the gate agent, and his hands pulse with each tensing of his fingers. “…to the hospital before she…” Lucy makes out, or thinks she makes out. She doesn’t hear the gate agent’s response, but she can read the defeated shake of her head.

Lucy’s carryon wheels clunk where the smooth tile of the terminal shifts to carpeting. She doesn’t think to grab a seat because there are no open seats. So she positions herself in a way to unmistakably say she is at the gate, threading between stagnant suitcases and kids splayed on the floor. Lucy approaches the rain-splattered windows, and like a conversation shy upon being overheard, the thunder recedes from her advance. The rain draws to a polite close. The clouds split along a seam and pull away, as if they were only ever a wave that had transiently crashed to shore. The sky is beautifully blue.

There is a stirring hopefulness in the air. Other passengers have pushed past Lucy to stand closer to the window and peer outside, as if their confirmation of the changing weather can convince the airline of what to do next.

The gate agent puts down the phone receiver of a one-sided call. She pulls the microphone close and with grainy clarity she announces, “Boarding for Flight A1874 to Detroit will begin in 10 minutes.”

On the walkway, through the gap between the throughway and plane, Lucy sees the puddles rising with steam. They throw the iridescent spectrum of a rainbow up into the sky.

In a backlog of hundreds of flights, Lucy’s is the first out across the runway. This is because God loves her. She only wishes It loved her in a way to fix her broken phone alarm.

…

In childhood Lucy had heard “God loves you” and “Jesus loves you” in the placative ways that Sunday School teaches its children. With jingles and crayon-drawings of sheep and shepherds and a decorated ornament, crafted each Christmas Eve.

Lucy had long since fallen out of it and had thought very little of her parents’ tepid god for the last 10 or 15 years.

It was last spring, 27-years-old, that Lucy had found her way out into the marsh. Mud sucking her boots and gnats plicking in swarm against her skin. Where she sat her tailbone in the muck and folded her arms over her knees and buried her face in her legs to cry. And cry. And cry. And there with the mugginess sopping her skin and the humidity coiling her hair, God decided It loved her.

It loved her with a parting of canopy for the robin-blue sky. It loved her with the chirp of cicadas. It loved her in the way a dog circles its owner and nudges a wet snout to palm, because It was here, and It would make her feel better.

Lucy’s seat is the window seat beside the man with the tensing fingers. He fiddles with a phone in his clutch until he locks it in airplane mode and stows it, to look at no more. Lucy wonders who this man knows in the hospital, and she wonders why God doesn’t love him more than It loves her.

…

In March, Marco breaks up with her over a plate of fish that is too dry. In the moment, Lucy wonders if it’s her fault, because of the fish. But that’s not it. The signs were there, in all the subtle and stuttering moments Marco had pulled away. Each little moment like a slightly missed step, on a staircase growing ricketier each month.

Marco leaves and everything is so quiet, to the point that Lucy thinks her own sounds are pretty stupid, and pretty embarrassing while she’s coiled snail-like and snottily-sobbing into her pillowcase. She thinks absently of how she has to wash the pillowcase now, and that’s fine, because she was going to wash her linens this weekend anyway. She sobs so hard she’s almost screaming. Oh, and kitchen towels. She’ll wash the kitchen towels too.

She’s alive enough the next morning to throw all her linens and her kitchen towels on the floor of the laundry room. And maybe Marco breaking up with her is fine, because his birthday is December 25th and who wants a husband whose birthday is the same day as Christmas?

Her doorbell rings. And somehow it’s Marco again. She opens it to him, and he smells like a wildfire.

“Sorry, Lucy, this is awkward,” and Lucy believes he means it. He’s clutching a jacket around himself for what looks like security more than warmth. His apartment burned down last night. A resident fell asleep with a cigarette lit and dangling from her fingertips. Unit right below him. All his stuff burned, or filled with smoke, or is now logged up with water. He’s been sitting outside on the cobblestone for the last few hours, watching the blaze, on the phone with insurance. His landlord hasn’t responded to him yet. He’s cold, and he’s smokey, and can he shower here maybe? Can he stay for just a day or two, maybe? Sorry. This is awkward. He has no family on this coast. He really has nowhere else to go.

“Sure.” Lucy lets in Marco who smells like a wildfire. She adds the towels to her laundry list because they will smell like a wildfire too once Marco has used them. When he is clean, Lucy asks him nice questions. He asks her nice questions back. She helps him figure out something strange on the insurance form. He starts cooking dinner before Lucy realizes he’d entered the kitchen, because she was busy with the linens and the towels.

Marco takes the couch and clean linens. “Thanks, again, really. I can pay you a few days rent, when I get the insurance payout.” It’s no problem. Lucy goes to her room and shuts the door. It’s warmer here with Marco again. She wonders how long he’ll stay. She wonders if it will be for as long as she thinks the sound of him breathing in the other room is a comfort.

Something twists in Lucy’s chest. She wonders why God loves her more than It loves Marco. Lucy wonders why God didn’t love the woman with the lit cigarette who did not make it out of the building.

…

In June Lucy is desperately throwing together the haphazard makings of a financial report. She meant to stay up late to finish it, and get up early to make it beautiful, but she’s had a cold for a whole week now and the new bottle of decongestant she grabbed wasn’t “non-drowsy” like she thought.

Her heart is beating, and she nearly twists her ankle with a misstep in high heels, and she almost loses her grip on the shoddy makings of a too-light financial report still warm from the printer. She can spin it, maybe, that it’s intentionally light and she’d simply wanted the esteemed and respected input from the executives in the room before she produces the truly polished report this evening. And when the eyebrows are raised and she is told the report is due now, maybe they will refrain from firing her on the spot since she is still the only one who can produce the report they need.

She pulls open the meeting room door as if she is not out of breath, as if her nose isn’t red from a thousand tissues. She takes her seat so hastily that she does not notice, until she looks up properly, and sees the CEO’s seat is empty.

No one speaks. No one acknowledges her entrance. Lucy hugs the warm binder to her chest.

The door latch clicks open, but Lucy knows it will not be the CEO. She heard the click of heels before the doorknob turned.

It’s his assistant with the lovely auburn hair that curls around her shoulders. Her suit is red and her eyes are red and she stands just behind the CEO’s chair. Everyone notices her in the way they did not notice Lucy.

She speaks. The CEO’s wife and daughter were in a head-on collision with a drunk driver 42 minutes ago. They’re in critical condition, and the CEO has gone to be with them. He asks everyone’s forgiveness and grace in this time. The meeting is rescheduled for tomorrow, same time, and he humbly requests if everyone in attendance can adjust their calendar to accommodate this. This is a big ask, he knows. The board will have questions, he knows. But these are extenuating circumstances. The assistant will help with any necessary reworking of everyone’s calendars. And Lucy, can you please deliver the report tomorrow? The assistant has a sympathy card, which she lays on the table along with a black pen, and she asks if anyone would care to sign it.

Lucy signs it. The card paper is so cold, compared to the warmth of the half-finished report squeezed tight against her chest. The half-finished report should have cooled by now, but God must know she’s cold and ashen-faced, and God loves her so much.

…

In July, Lucy is a perfectionist. Her mother swears she wasn’t always like this. Her high school best friend is surprised, when in town for a weekend and meeting up for coffee, by the way Lucy triple-confirms the time, and the place, and the way she wears two watches. Why two watches? he asks. Because the alarm on one watch might fail. What about your phone? The watches are the backup, if the phone dies.

There’s something off-putting in the way she talks, and the way she asks questions of him, and the way she exclaims in joy at every piece of good news he shares. Josiah glances behind himself, more and more, and it’s because Lucy stares back there like she knows someone else at the next table.

It’s all weird, and Josiah can’t help but pull away. But Lucy pulls away first, retroactively. She can always pull away retroactively, and declare to her four walls of her room how much she didn’t need that friend, like she doesn’t need Marco, or anyone else who God may drop at her doorstep like the dead bird bounty of a cat, happy to share with the person It loves.

Lucy finishes her reports early. She wiles away the sun at her office even in the summer finishing reports far before anyone could need them. She double-checks, every time. She triple-checks. Her boss pulls her into a meeting room and with hands folded on the desk, he asks if maybe she needs to take some time off. And instantly she declares to the four walls that no-one at the company is doing this to her. “I wasn’t implying that…” but she’s not looking at him when he answers.

In July Lucy returns to the marsh. She returns with stones she’s horded up and gathered in the trunk of her car. She walks through the boot-suckling mud and she weighs stones in her arms while she hurls them, and throws, and screams, and hopes one of them might strike God in Its snout.

“I HATE YOU!” she screams. She throws all her weight into a stone whose sharp edge nicks bark. She hurls one through the bushes and another into the leafy canopy above. She is sopping wet and the cicadas chirp at her. “I HATE YOU!! GO AWAY!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” She chucks a stone which lands in the sucking muck, capsizing like a ship beneath the algae.

She throws, and her gravity heaves forward, and her boots stay stuck in the mud. So she topples elbow-deep in the mud, spattered, soaking into her chin and her shirt and her jeans and her hair. She parts her lips and tastes the earthy wetness on her skin, coppery blood, split lip. The stones are all under her. She laughs. Lucy tilts her head to the sky screaming with laughter. Joyous to tears, with the wetness drawing rivulets down the mud on her cheeks. She laughs because sopping-in-mud-and-muck is NOT the state of something God loves. This wouldn’t happen to something God loves.

Lucy goes home. Lucy showers. Lucy does her laundry. And It crawls back into bed with her. Perhaps like a scolded animal, but perhaps It did not even know It was being scolded. Lucy cannot tell.

The wine stains came out of her linens today because God loves her.

[vibeswithdivs]

you dork - OP81

It had been over eight hours since the race ended.

You knew that because you’d rewatched the post-race interviews three times, counted two full cycles of the dryer, and checked your phone at least thirty-four times, give or take. You weren’t one to overthink — usually. But today felt different.

Oscar had won.

And not just won, but swept it. Controlled the race with the kind of quiet precision that always made your chest ache with pride. He’d been smiling on the podium, champagne soaking his fire suit, curls matted to his forehead. He’d looked calm. Steady. Golden under the lights.

But after that? Radio silence.

No post-race text. No selfie from the cooldown room. No “just landed, talk soon” message from the tarmac like he usually sent before flying out. Not even a little heart emoji.

You tried not to spiral. Maybe his phone died. Maybe his schedule was tighter than usual. Maybe he just crashed on the plane.

But that didn’t stop your mind from racing.

So here you were, long after midnight, folding laundry to stay busy, the hum of the dryer filling the quiet corners of your apartment. You wore one of his old hoodies — sleeves tugged past your hands, the fabric smelling faintly of cedarwood and the detergent he always used when you were back in his place. Your playlist was on shuffle, volume low. The air felt heavy with that nervous stillness only people in love understood — when nothing had technically gone wrong, but your gut whispered otherwise.

You picked up one of his t-shirts — the navy one he always wore under his race suit — and pressed it to your chest for a moment, your arms wrapped around yourself.

“I’m being ridiculous,” you muttered aloud, dropping it into the folded pile.

You didn’t hear the door unlock.

You didn’t hear footsteps.

You did, however, feel the sudden presence behind you — a weight of silence far too close — and just as you turned, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist.

You screamed.

Not just a startled yelp — a full-body, I’m-being-kidnapped kind of shriek that echoed off the kitchen walls. You stumbled forward, almost dropping the laundry basket, spinning on your heel with your hand already flying toward—

Oscar.

Standing there, arms half-raised, a startled look on his face, mouth already halfway through an apology.

“God—Oscar!”

He winced. “Okay, okay, I deserved that.”

“Are you insane?! You don’t just—” You clutched your chest, heart thundering. “You don’t sneak up on people like that when it’s pitch-black and no one’s heard from you for hours!”

His expression immediately softened. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t text me. At all.”

“I know.” He dropped his bag by the couch, stepping forward slowly like he was approaching a spooked deer. “I turned off my phone to sleep on the flight, and then we got delayed on the runway. I just… I wanted to surprise you.”

You were still frozen, hands slightly trembling, adrenaline high. But then — your eyes traced the details. His soft grey hoodie. The carry-on bag he always used. Hair flattened from headphones. The bags under his eyes.

And then it hit you like a wave — the kind of quiet relief that makes your knees weak.

“You’re home,” you whispered.

“I’m home,” he echoed, stepping close enough to pull you in.

This time, when his arms wrapped around you, you didn’t flinch. You collapsed into him instead, burying your face in his chest, clutching handfuls of hoodie fabric like it might vanish if you let go.

“I thought—” your voice cracked. “I thought something happened.”

“I’m sorry, love.” His voice was low, the apology real. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

You nodded against him, still not letting go.

He pressed a kiss into your hair, one hand gently rubbing your back in slow circles. “I missed you.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know. I’m never doing a surprise visit again.”

“You say that now,” you muttered.

He chuckled, and the vibration of it through your chest finally loosened the tight knot of worry inside you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowed. “You really thought sneaking in like a serial killer was romantic?”

“I had a key,” he said defensively.

“Oh, well, that makes it totally fine,” you deadpanned.

His lips twitched, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I brought snacks?”

You sighed and rested your head against him again. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I get that a lot.”

After a long pause, he murmured, “Were you folding laundry in my shirt?”

“No.”

He glanced down. “That’s literally my race tee from Austria.”

“Coincidence.”

He smiled and gently swayed you both side to side. “God, I missed this. All of this. Even you accusing me of crimes I didn’t commit.”

You looked up at him with a glare. “You broke into my house like a raccoon.”

“An adorable raccoon with good intentions.”

You bit back a laugh, finally exhaling the tension that had gripped you all night. “You dork.”

“I love you too.”

That stopped you.

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the ease of his voice — not dramatic, not grand, just matter-of-fact, like it had always been true.

You smiled, shy and slow. “I love you more.”

Oscar brushed his knuckles down your cheek. “I thought about this moment the whole flight home.”

“What, the part where I nearly sock you in the face?”

“No,” he grinned. “The part where I hold you like this. And breathe again.”

You melted then, fully, completely. No more fear. No more what-ifs. Just Oscar, in your living room, smelling like airport coffee and victory, arms around you like home.

You didn’t move for a while.

Eventually, he helped you finish folding the laundry — sort of. Mostly, he sat beside you, making fun of your folding technique and draping socks over your head until you threatened to tickle him.

Then you ended up on the couch, tangled in blankets, watching reruns of the very race he’d won, Oscar making commentary like a sarcastic broadcaster while you curled into his side.

And when you finally drifted off — warm, safe, loved — it was to the sound of his heart beating steadily beneath your ear.

He was home.

He was yours.

[fandomwritesstuff]

The Sun to my Moon

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds/The Void x Thunderbolts!Mutant!Reader Summary: After delayed on missions, you just want to go back. You miss everyone but you really miss Bob, as your relationship is evolving. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Light angst, smut (unprotected P in V, Oral m receiving, little possessiveness kink ig?, breastplay) (let me know if I missed any) A/N: First time writing smut(feedback appreciated but be kind). This story also took off from me. Slightly inspired by 505 by Arctic Monkeys. Let me know what you all think. Also may or may not be working on a Bob Floyd piece if anyone is interested... Word Count: 3,639

“Just a few more days” Valentina told you during your call to report in. Your eyes twitched in irritation.

“You said that two days ago.” You reminded her, voice harsh as you glared at the wall you were staring at. You couldn’t stand the shitty hotel room any longer, nor should you have to when you knew there was a nice, warm room with your bed in it at the Tower. 

This was the third mission that you had been sent on this month alone, and it was supposed to have ended almost a week ago. However, Val seemed to find more excuses each time to keep you away. 

The thought of relaxing back at the tower with everyone else was all that was keeping you going lately. Hell, you would even take sparring with Bucky, Yelena, or Walker right now over staying in this room for one more minute. 

What you really wanted though, was to get back to the book that you had been reading with Bob. You hadn’t been able to even get halfway through before you were pulled away again. 

It made you wonder how Bob was handling these delays. You had told him when you expected to be back. Now, you somewhat regretted that, knowing he would worry until you walked back through the doors of the Tower. You were glad that Yelena was still there, hopefully she could keep him steady enough. Not that you could ask–you’ve had no contact with the team for this last mission. One reason going undercover was never your favorite. 

Pretending to be someone you weren’t also played into the dislike you had for these missions. You hated the crawling feeling you would get when the lines blurred between yourself and who you were posing as. It was a tricky tightrope that you knew how to walk, but could slip either way. However, being one of the least recognizable on the team and a shadow manipulator, made you the first in line for the role.

Normally, you were fine pushing through–finishing to whatever end Valentina wanted. Missions were your payday afterall and could be for good causes. However, with three straight missions, and the abnormal pushes to continue–care was out the window.

“I want my extract, tonight.” The command was met with silence and then a deep sigh. 

“I can arrange for it to be tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.” Val claimed. Shaking your head, you scoffed. She wanted you to go back in the morning–not happening. 

“What’s so hard to understand about tonight?” You asked rhetorically. “There’s no more information to gain–I’m leaving tonight whether you have a plane ready or I pick up a car on your dime.” You knew the ultimatum would piss her off, but you were apathetic to her feelings at this point.

Val scoffed but you could hear Mel in the background discussing the options. It wasn’t clear enough for you to make out, but you knew Mel would do everything in her power to get you back tonight. 

“Fine, a jet will be there in an hour. If you’re not ready, you’ll pay for your own way back.” She snapped and ended the call before you could respond. Rolling your eyes, you set your phone down and started to collect the items that you had brought with you. 

Packing up was fairly simple for you, as you never fully unpacked to begin with. Most of your clothes were still in your duffel bags, it just took a little rearranging of them to fit in your hygiene items. You then packed the items from the nightstand, your chargers, book, and you couldn’t forget the keychain that Bob had given you just before you left. It was a little moon that fit like puzzle pieces with the sun side that he had kept. 

You saw the keychain on your last shopping trip. Bob had come with you just to get outside for a little, or so he had said–Yelena made it known that she believed he went just to be closer to you. You made a comment about how they're keychain fit the two of you–him having the power of a thousand suns or something like that and you being a shadow manipulator working better at night. 

Bob had agreed and didn’t say anything as you walked away from it in the store. Little did you know that he had grabbed it and quickly paid for it when you weren’t looking. He didn’t even give it to you right away, either. He waited until right before this undercover mission. It brought a smile to your face thinking about it. 

He had been so nervous to approach you as you were grabbing a few items from storage. You had noticed him lingering in the hallway of storage. 

“Hey, Bob.” You called as you grabbed a weapon cleaner, having run out during your last mission. “You need something?” You asked with a gentle smile as you prepared to leave the room. 

“No, well n-not from there.” He told you. You noticed his hands were behind his back and he was rocking on the balls of his feet. He was wearing a light sweater with sweatpants, both slightly rumpled. 

“Then what’s up?” You asked, tilting your head as you closed the door to storage. 

“I, uh, wanted t-to give you this.” His hands moved to be in front of him holding the keychain that you saw in the store. “I remember you liked it in the store and I t-thought that maybe it could remind you of m–of the t-team while you’re gone. With you having so many missions and having to be away. I also thought you could pick which one you wanted and all.” He started to ramble. 

You stepped closer and gently grabbed the moon from his hands. “I can’t take the sun from the man with the power of a thousand of them.” You joked. “Maybe this will remind you that you’ll always be my sun god.” Flirting with him hadn’t been your goal–if asked you would blame it on being tired–but Bob’s face made it worth it. 

His eyes widened as his jaw dropped to the floor. You could see the gears turning and the glow of his power in his eyes at his unexpected overwhelming emotion. A flush filled his cheeks and his breathing was shaky as he started to blink harder. 

“Thank you, Bob.” You spoke softly. You wanted to hug him, but feared it would overwhelm him even more than he already was. Instead, you decided to continue getting ready for your next mission. “I’ll see you in a few weeks.” You reminded him as you walked past. He nodded as he watched you leave, feet firmly planted as if frozen to the ground. 

Chuckling lightly, you wondered how long he had stayed there after you left. The thought of one of the others finding him–especially Ava or Yelena–was especially funny to you. You couldn’t wait to ask them when you got back. Although talking with Bob was all you really wanted to do. 

Wanting to be comfortable, you changed into cargo pants, a plain shirt, and your tactical vest. Once you had double checked that everything was packed, you threw your backpack on and carried your dufflebags in your hands.

You were right on time as you made it to the launch pad, the jet was just landing. You smiled as you stepped on, ready to go home. Thankfully, it was a short flight and you stepped out onto the roof of the tower.

You felt your muscles relax–no longer as on edge. Taking a deep breath of the night time air, you closed your eyes allowing yourself a moment to yourself. Away from the missions, away from Val telling you what to do, and away from chaos that the team unintentionally brings. A calm washed over you like a wave, dragging away the tension as it receded. You were safe–you were home.

Inside of the elevator, you felt it couldn’t go any slower. You bounced on the balls of feet–ready to break out any moment. You only knew it was moving with the ding of each floor change. Each bell is a signal that brings you closer–not close enough–to your sanctuary. 

It was as if you could hear your bed calling your name, ready to sing you a song to help you sleep. However, when the elevator door opened the record skipped as Yelena leaned against the wall, waiting for you. 

“Yelena?” 

“Oh, good you’re back.” Her words were sarcastic as she pushed herself away from the wall. “We had a slight mishap while you were gone.” She used a slight gesture as she met your eyes. The we in question had nothing to do with the whole team. 

“What happened?” The tension was back in your shoulders. You braced yourself for the storm you couldn't see.

“Relax, we handled it–or really he did. He got upset with the delays, worked himself up a little, almost shattered a couple things, but was able to get control and bring himself back down.” She told you, motioning with her hand as she did. 

You stared at her blankly. “When was this?” 

“A couple nights ago, he’s been okay the last few days, but he has shut himself in your room.” 

“My room?” You asked. 

“We didn’t have time to make a plan and he was missing you, so I figured that was the closest he could get without you here.” She explained with a shrug. “Sue me.”

“Alright, make a plan later, got it.” You mumbled and took a breath. “It’s fine, he’s there half the nights I’m here anyways.” You let out a laugh with a sigh. Nodding and looking down at your feet, allowing the tension to ease. 

“Exactly!” She exclaimed. “Well, I’m going to bed.” 

“Night, Lena.” You called after her as she started to walk away.

“Night.” She gave you a small wave, not bothering to turn and face you. 

You then made your way to your room. The hallway was dark, lit only by the moonlight coming through the windows. You watched your shadow as it danced along beside you. Getting to your door, you opened it slowly–in case Bob was sleeping. You didn’t want to wake him if you could help it. However, when you saw him, your heart melted. Kicking off your boots, you walked closer.

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed, a smile pulling at your lips. He was curled up into a ball, blanket barely covering him and you could see the sweat stains on his light shirt from him overheating. His hair had fallen lightly in his face as he rested his head on one pillow and hugged your second one to his body as if it were an anchor keeping him stable. 

You brushed back his hair gently, unable to resist the temptation. His eyes fluttered before sluggishly opening, taking a moment to adjust to the low lights you had turned on. When they did, his eyes widened and you could see the yellow glow flicker as his excitement grew.

“You're back!” he exclaimed, moving to sit up on his hip. Your hand fell from his hair and on to the bed between you. 

You nodded, becoming hyper aware of the little space between you–the fact that he was in your bed and comfortable enough to sleep. It made you aware of feelings that you had been pushing down for a while.

“A-are you okay? Why were you so late? Y-you told me two weeks but then Mel was telling us about d-delays with little info. She'd tell us what Val had said–that you were supposedly alright just needed more time. I was so worried because you couldn't talk to us so we just had to trust her and-”

“I know, I know. I'm okay, she just wanted me to try and get more info. But I'm here now.” You interrupted his spiraling. 

The glow in his eyes was more prominent, his mind racing. His eyes were darting between yours as if trying to verify this wasn't just a dream. You moved your hand to cup his cheek and felt him lean into your touch. 

“I couldn't keep my sun god waiting, now could I?” You teased, causing his eyes to widen. You dropped your hand as his head moved away slightly to be level. 

“You mean it?”

“Mean what? That you're a sun-”

“That I'm your's.” he whispered as if afraid speaking too loudly would scare you away and make his loneliness real.

“If you want to be.” 

He nodded, biting his lip as his gaze met yours.

“I need words, Bob.” 

“I'd like that–t-to be your's, I mean.” he answered, pausing for a moment. “Can I… can I kiss you?” his eyes darting between your eyes and lips. 

“Yes,” you whispered, slightly leaning in as his hand came to cup your face. 

Closing your eyes, you leaning into him. His lips brushed your lightly, hesitating only a moment before pressing them onto yours softly. His lips were warm and slightly chapped. He hesitated to press harder, scared to hurt you unintentionally with his strength. Scared you might break like the glass he almost shattered when you didn't come back. And as soon as the kiss had started, he ended it, pulling back. 

You quickly brought your hand up to the back of his neck to pull him back in. Pressing harder against him, sending a message to him that you wouldn't break. You could take whatever he could give you. He slowly leaned back, still holding onto you, falling back on his elbows as you leaned with him. 

You moved to straddle him as his hand slowly came up to the zipper of your vest. Breaking the kiss he met your eyes in a silent question, gold more prominent than before. You nodded and he pulled the zipper down in one quick motion–vest slipping off your shoulders and on to floor soon after. You began to trail a line of kisses down his neck, and he tilted his head to give you more room. You sucked at the sweet spot on his neck earning a light whimper from him.

You slipped your hands under his shirt, and before you could ask he was moving to take it off. You smirked and continued the trail of open mouth kisses down his chest, dragging your nails lightly over his abs followed by your lips until you got to his waist. 

“May I?” You asked, looking up at him, fingers playing with the knotted string of his sweats. His eyes were wide, breath shaky, and there was a flush to his cheeks. 

“Ye-yeah.” He stuttered. Undoing the knot and hooking your finger into his pants–he helped you remove them by lifting his hips. His erection sprang free, curling slightly toward his stomach. The tip was red and you could see a small amount of precum. You smirked as you flattened your tongue against him, licking from base to tip. 

Bob’s eyes shut as he fell back completely with a moan. You wrapped your hand around the base and stroked a few times before swirling your tongue around the tip. You then closed your mouth around the head and sucked. 

“Oh, fuck.” Bob groaned, one hand moved to cover his face, the other found the back of your head. 

You felt his hand urge you on, lightly pushing your head further down. Taking more of him into your mouth, you started a steady tempo, using your hand for what couldn’t fit. He continued to whimper and moan, turning you on more. 

Suddenly his hand tightened in your hair and he pulled you off, causing you to stop everything. 

“Everything okay? Did I do something wrong?” You asked, attempting to meet his eyes. 

Bob dragged his hand down off of his face and shook his head. 

“Just didn’t want to cum yet.” He explained. There was a slight dazed look to him that brought a grin to your face.

Leaning up to kiss him, you felt his hands start to explore your body. His hands slipped under your shirt, drifting up past your ribs and cupping your breasts. You threw the shirt off, not caring to see where it landed.

Your bra soon followed as Bob started to trail open mouth kisses over your chest. You moaned as he sucked a nipple into his mouth while your hands started to undo your cargo pants. 

Moving off the bed for a moment, Bob let out a whine that made you nearly go crawling back. However, you decided to tease him, turning away as you slowly dragged your pants and underwear down your legs–giving Bob a good view of your wetness, earning a groan from him. You then slowly walked back to the bed–a slight strut in your step. Bob was on his elbows, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Crawling on the bed, you moved to straddle him once more.

“You tell me if it's too much or you need to stop, okay?” You asked, placing your hands on his chest. 

He nodded, before remembering to use his voice. “Y-yeah, I will.” His eyes were brighter than you had seen in a while, like little stars in the dark night sky.

Smiling you then dragged one of your hands down between the two of you. Grabbing him and lining him up with your entrance. 

You moved slowly–dragging out the pleasure for both of you, as you sank onto his length. Your hands rested on his chest as you watched his expression change. His face contorted with a moan and he fell back, hands moving to grab your hips. Once your hips were flush, you gave yourself–and Bob–a moment to adjust. 

Slowly grinding on him, his eyes snapped to yours causing you to smirk. You then slowly started to move. Bob's grip became tighter on your waist and you could feel him slightly lifting and pulling you back down each time. 

Your name was like a prayer on his lips. You moaned at the sight of his wrecked state. A man with that much power brought to a whimpering state, by you. 

Your sun god. 

Your's.

“S-say it.” He managed to say in between moans suddenly. 

“Say what?” 

“That I'm–fuck–that I'm your's.” 

“You're mine.” The words caused him to twitch inside you–a moan falling from both of your lips.

“You're mine, Bob.” That seemed to make him short circuit as he let out a visceral moan. His hands pulled you down as he bucked up into you. 

You then moved a hand down to touch yourself. A moan fell from your lips and you closed your eyes, relishing in the pleasure. Increasing your pace, when you opened your eyes, Bob was looking at you again. His pupils were blown wide but you could still see the gold burning there. Raw power flowing through him. His name overflowed from your lips like a fountain. 

Suddenly, Bob flipped the two of you and attached his lips to yours. The kiss was passionate but messy. A display of emotion as Bob set a quick pace.

You clenched around him–you wouldn't last much longer at this rate. He wouldn't either, his pace just barely faltering a little. 

“Mine.” You moaned again, when he released your mouth. There lights flickered, and it wouldn't take much more for him to let go.

“You're mine” a moan was ripped from your lips “and I-I'm your's.” 

That seemed to be all he needed to be pushed over the edge–you right behind him. He thrusted one more time before twitching and releasing inside of you. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave and you saw stars.The lights flickered and burst–glass raining down in a small shower of sparks–as he collapsed on top of you to protect you. 

After a moment of collecting your breath, he pushed himself up. The gold in his eyes was dimmer–not gone but not as intense now. His eyes searched yours for a moment before slowly pulling out. 

“You okay?” He asked as he carefully maneuvered out of the bed, avoiding the glass on the floor.

“Yeah, shouldn't I be asking you that? Did you get cut?” 

“No, I-I'm fine. I'm sorry, my power just–I couldn't stop it.” he rambled, looking for something to clean up with. 

You leaned up and noticed that there didn't seem to be any glass on the bed. You wondered if his powers did that subconsciously to protect you–it must have. 

“Hey, just come to bed. We'll worry about cleaning up in the morning.” 

“Are you sure, I can at least grab a towel–”

“I'll be fine. Come to bed, my not-so-little sun god.” you spoke with a smile, patting the spot next to you. 

He only nodded, making his way to the other side of the bed and pulling the covers back, joining you. You curled into his side, resting your head on his chest as you wrapped your arm around his waist. 

Looking up, you smiled and couldn't believe you could now call this man your's. A man with so much power, it seemed unreal. 

“W-what?” Bob asked, catching your staring. 

“Just can't believe you're mine.” 

“You can't believe it–I feel like I'm gonna wake up tomorrow and this will all have been a dream.” He whispered, muscles tense. Both of you in awe of the other. 

“No dream, Bob. I'll be here when you wake.” You reassured him and he managed a weak smile before relaxing into you–arms moving to wrap around you. 

Soon you both fell asleep. Someone could worry about all the blown lightbulbs on this floor of the tower tomorrow morning.

[mocchiixxx]

Birthday Bombshell

Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Surprise Visit, Idol!AU

🐶 Kim Mingyu x Reader

Summary: When your flight to Mexico gets delayed, you break the news to Mingyu that you won’t make it for his birthday, or so he thinks. Little does he know, you’re already on a backup flight, planning the sweetest surprise with the help of his members. What he expects to be a lonely night turns into the best birthday ever.

“I’m really sorry, babe... I won’t make it to Mexico after all.”

You hit send and immediately bit your lip, trying to stifle your grin as you adjusted your hoodie and sank into the plane seat. The flight attendants were already prepping for landing, and your heart was beating like crazy, not because you were nervous about flying, but because of the surprise that was about to go down.

The group chat with the Seventeen members had been blowing up since last night, and luckily, the boys were absolute legends for keeping your secret. Mingyu had no idea you were about to show up in Mexico for his birthday after he thought you’d miss it completely.

A few hours ago, your original flight had been delayed indefinitely due to some major airport malfunction, and you were devastated, especially since this trip had been in the works for weeks. You were supposed to fly out, see him perform at Tecate Pa’l Norte, then celebrate his birthday with him in Mexico. But as soon as the delay happened, you texted Mingyu, heart heavy, telling him you couldn’t make it.

What you didn’t tell him? You found another flight just two hours later. Chaotic? Yes. Expensive? Hell yes. Worth it? Every single cent.

Your phone buzzed.

Mingyu: It’s okay, baby. I understand. There’ll be other birthdays.

Your heart squeezed. The man deserved the world and here he was comforting you on his birthday.

Mingyu: I was just excited to show you around. And to cuddle. Mostly cuddle.

You almost texted back, “You’ll get more than cuddles in a few hours,” but decided that might give you away.

Instead, you replied:

You: I’ll make it up to you when you get back. I promise.

He sent a sad face emoji. Then a photo of him pouting dramatically, with “Sad birthday boy.” in the caption.

You saved it immediately. It was going on your lock screen later.

Hours Later: Hotel in Monterrey

The hotel suite was quiet, for once. Most of the members had gone out to get takeout or were pretending to be out, part of the plan to get Mingyu alone in the room.

He was lying on the couch in sweats, hair still damp from his post-concert shower, staring at the TV blankly.

“Even the cake’s not gonna taste good without her,” he muttered.

The door suddenly clicked.

He blinked. “Hyung?”

No answer.

He sat up.

“Joshua hyung? Dino?”

Still nothing.

Then he heard it.

The soft creak of the door opening all the way, followed by a very familiar voice—

“Room service for a sad birthday boy?”

Mingyu blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then he shot up from the couch like someone had set his pants on fire. “Y/N?!”

You stepped into the suite, arms full with a bag of takeout (the members helped you get it earlier), and a cupcake with a single candle.

“Happy birthday, Gyu,” you grinned.

He didn’t move. Just stared.

Then—

“You LIED TO ME?!” he half-yelled, but his voice cracked into a laugh as he crossed the room and pulled you into the tightest hug you’d ever received.

“You’re here? You’re here?!”

“I’m here,” you laughed into his chest, feeling his arms wrap around you like a vice. “Your birthday isn’t complete without me, right?”

He pulled back, eyes sparkling. “Wait, so—so the delayed flight? The texts? That was all fake?”

“Not fake! The delay was real. But I caught a new flight two hours later. And the guys helped keep the surprise.”

He blinked again, expression somewhere between stunned and betrayed and so in love.

“I was gonna cry over my birthday cake tonight,” he said dramatically. “Do you realize what you almost made me do?”

You giggled, pulling him toward the table where you’d placed the cupcake. “Well, now you get to cry with joy. Make a wish, birthday boy.”

He leaned close to the candle, but paused.

“Already came true,” he said with that soft, dorky smile of his. “You’re here.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating.

He blew out the candle and turned to you, taking your hands. “You really flew all the way to Mexico… just to be with me?”

“Of course I did. You think I’d let you spend your birthday without me?”

He leaned down to press his forehead to yours. “I seriously don’t deserve you.”

You grinned. “You better mean that when I ask for a shoulder massage later.”

He laughed, pulling you in for a kiss. “You got it. And I’m stealing at least half that cupcake.”

“Over my dead body, Kim Mingyu.”

“I am the birthday boy!”

“Which means you share!”

The door suddenly burst open and the members tumbled in, cheering and whistling like it was a surprise party, which, technically, it still was.

“Happy birthday, bro!” Vernon yelled, tossing a party hat at Mingyu.

Joshua walked over and slapped his back. “Your girl pulled it off. She’s cooler than you.”

“No argument here,” Mingyu beamed, one arm still wrapped around your waist.

Woozi raised an eyebrow. “Now can we eat? I’ve been holding back on that fried chicken for thirty minutes.”

You and Mingyu laughed, and as the members started setting up an impromptu birthday dinner on the hotel table, Mingyu turned to you one last time.

“Best birthday ever,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Told you I’d make it.”

He kissed your temple and whispered, “Remind me to never doubt you again.”

You leaned against his chest, happy, full of love, and already mentally planning how to outdo this for next year.

A/N: 20250406 Happy MINGYU's Day! 🥳🐶 My wish is for us to be together, but if that's not possible, just set me up with one of your friends or members instead. HAHAHAHA just kidding, enjoy your day our big puppy! Sending love🫶

[rafeandonlyrafe]

babys first flight

words: 1.3k

warnings: flying, dad!rafe, mom!reader, breastfeeding, dude briefly being rude about your baby crying

a/n: i guess this could be a prequel to pink unicorn but honestly i just wanted to use the same name for the baby again lol

rafe sighs, rubbing his face with his hand as he looks at the flight board. you can tell from the defeated look on his face as he walks back over to you that your flight is delayed.

“two hours.” he states, sitting down next to you. you sigh just as deeply as your husband, looking at your sleeping daughter in your arms.

“i think i should wake her up. that way she falls asleep on the plane.” you say, running your finger over rosie’s cheek, her skin soft and flushed pink as she naps.

“yeah.” rafe nods. “whatever you think is best.” rafe defaults often to you, letting you guide the way through raising your daughter. he has experience with his two younger sisters, but you grew up in an even bigger family and often helped out with the babies.

you feel bad having to wake rosie up, especially when she’s asleep during her usual naptime. “wake up, babygirl.” you coo, pressing kisses to her cheeks until her eyes open up, lips instantly turning into a pout.

“its okay!” you stretch a smile over your face. “its okay, rosie!” your soft tone stops her tears, but her pout remains. you jiggle her favorite toy in front of her. your daughter is only three months old and still working on her grip, so you manage to entertain her by placing the toy in her hand every time she drops it.

“here, let me take her.” rafe reaches out. “you stretch your legs and take a break.”

you glance at the clock. still an hour and a half until you can get on your plane. its a short flight, from north carolina to the bahamas for a much needed vacation, deciding to spend the entire summer at your second home while rafe has paternity time away from work.

“gonna use the bathroom.” you press a kiss to rafes cheek, then rosies. “be right back.”

you don’t hurry as you walk around the airport, glad that you’re booked in first class and can use the lounge as the bustling sounds of the airport would surely annoy rosie. 

you use the bathroom and get a coffee for rafe, deciding to ditch the decaf and get a mocha for yourself. while you know its generally safe to drink coffee while breastfeeding, you still try to stay away from it, but on days like today, you certainly need it.

“here ya go.” you hand the coffee to your husband after making your way back to the waiting area.

“oh god, thank you.” rafe lets out a moan as he tips the cup back, the warm liquid filling his mouth. he bounces rosie gently on his knee to keep her eyes open.

“would we be terrible parents if i turned on something on my phone for her to watch?” you pout, trying hard to keep her away from screens, but sometimes you just need something to distract her.

“we absolutely would not but if it makes you feel better, i’ll use my phone.” rafe pulls it out of his pocket, transferring rosie easily back into your arms. you cradle her in a way that still allows her to look at the phone screen, her eyes glancing between rafes face cooing at her and the dancing fruits and vegetables.

“shes loving this.” rafe laughs when rosie giggles, her plump cheeks stretching. rosie just started laughing last week, and rafe is still the only one who can get it out of her, although she smiles at you constantly since she first developed the muscles.

“now boarding first class.” the announcer calls out, the hour flying by with rosie entertained.

“she just started looking tired too.” rafe says, taking your carry ons in his hands as you place rosie into her sling, deciding to babywear her until you’re all settled in your seats and can put her in the carseat that rafe also manages to carry.

“welcome aboard.” the flight attendant smiles at you, leading you towards your seats. three all in a row. rafe works quickly to get everything set, placing rosies carseat in the middle seat.

“babys first flight!” you coo to her, hoping to keep her awake through boarding so she will hopefully sleep the entire two hour flight.

“here, i got her.” rafe places her in the carseat once its all strapped down, waiting to do up her buckle until the plane actually takes off.

you both talk partially to her and partially to each other to keep her eyes open, even occasionally giving her tummy little tickles to keep her droopy eyes from closing completely.

while the flight attendant does the safety demonstration, you do up rosie’s buckles. she’s asleep before the plane even begins to move, and you’re surprised when she doesn’t even startle during take off. you reach over to hold rafes hand until you’re steady in the air, hating the rising feeling in your stomach.

“doing good baby?” rafe asks, swiping his thumb over the back of your hand.

you take a deep breath. “yeah, yeah.” looking at rosie and your husband helps sooth the little bit of nerves you have about flying.

the flight goes smoothly until halfway to the bahamas, rosie suddenly startles away with a cry.

“ohhh, its okay baby.” you coo to her, able to recognise from her cry alone that she’s simply hungry.

“oh god, will you shut that baby up?” a man behind you groans before you can even undo her buckles to get her out of her seat.

“what did you say about my daughter?” rafe stands up, glaring as you just try to quiet rosie, pulling her into her lap while you search for a blanket to cover yourself with.

“you heard me! i didn’t pay for first class seats to listen to a crying baby!” the man grunts.

“you’re lucky we’re on a plane or-” rafe begins, until you hiss out his name. “stop it, let the flight attendants handle it.”

rafe sees the stress on your face, nodding as he grabs you a thin blanket, draping it over your shoulder while you adjust your shirt to feed rosie, her cries quieting as she latches onto your nipple.

“sir, that is not appropriate behavior for our airline-” the flight attendant begins to lecture the man behind you, clearly a mom herself. 

“it’s okay.” you tell rafe as he turns his shoulder to glare at the man. you rub your hand over his cheek just like you would to rosie until he’s calm.

“dudes an asshole.” rafe grunts out, but his tone is softer now, leaning across rosies car seat to press a kiss to your cheek. he pulls the blanket away slightly so he can look down at your daughter, happily nursing.

“she’s so perfect.” he sighs, glad he has such a well behaved baby for her first flight.

you both settle into your seats as rosie finishes, clearly just needing her tummy to be full before going right back to sleep. you decide to keep her in your arms until the plane begins to descend. 

“i got her.” rafe pushes your hands away to do up her seat belts. he knows how much of a stress pregnancy and breastfeeding is on you, so he tries to do absolutely everything he can, even naming himself the sole diaper changer.

you hold rafes hand again as the plane descends, letting out a sigh of relief when the wheels make smooth contact with the runway.

--

“this was absolutely worth the pain of the flight.” you smile to rafe, resting your head on his shoulder as rosie lays on the towel in front of you, body completely shaded by a pink umbrella.

you look out onto the ocean, waves lightly lapping against the pale yellow sand.

“couldn’t agree more.” rafe hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

taglist: @winterrrnight @bejeweledreverie @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @cokepewpsii @mysticallystilinski @luvdella @aerangi @folklorsweet @yourenogoodforme @auryyz @mayhem-72 @thestarlithideout @marvelfanfics1recs @rafesgiirl

[runninriot]

better late than never

for @pennyplainknits (a little late but i guess it fits the theme xD Happy YOU Day 🖤)

inspired by the @steddiemicrofic may prompt 'delay'

wc: 408 | rated: G | tags: Steddie & The Party, background Robin Buckley, est. relationship, friendship, confessions

"It's just a delay. They'll be here soon, nothing to worry about," Eddie tells him not for the first time since they arrived at the airport to pick up the boys. "So, would you please stop the pacing? You're making me nervous!"

Good, Steve thinks. Good, because it's not fair Eddie gets to be so calm about it.

Not the delayed flight; he's not worried about that. Hell, they've got Dustin on board. He'd probably figure out how to land the plane himself if he had to. That's not what this is about.

Eddie's facing him now, creating a physical barrier to finally stop Steve's jittery back and forth movements.

"Baby," he whispers and it works like a spell on him, always does. "Listen to me. They are fine. Okay?"

Eddie's hands on his shoulder are grounding but it doesn't make the nausea go away. Steve is sick with nerves.

"I-I know. It's just... what if they're not fine with-"

Us, he doesn't say but Eddie understands.

It's the first time Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Will come to visit them in New York after moving there almost six months ago.

"You know we don't have to tell them, right?"

Only they do. Because how else are they going to explain the two-bedroom situation in their three-party shared apartment?

"Robin said she'd be happy to play the fake girlfriend for either of us," Eddie reminds him and yes, she did, but Steve doesn't want to lie. Not to his friends. Not anymore.

"No, I want to tell them."

An hour later they're finally home, four overexcited boys in tow.

"You're gonna crash in Robin's bedroom while she's gone. Remember, she's smart and strong and she will kill you if you touch anything you're not supposed to," Steve warns them.

All four teenagers roll their eyes at him and it feels like nothing has changed.

Except so much has.

"Can we see your room?" Dustin asks, looking expectantly between him and Eddie.

"There's, uh, there's something we need to tell you first. Eddie and I are-"

"Boyfriends. We're boyfriends," Eddie finishes, linking their hands.

The teenagers share a look of confusion but none of them seem even slightly shocked.

"See, I told you they thought we didn't know!" Mike groans exasperatedly.

"I can't believe they let you guys take care of us," Dustin shakes his head and grins, "But- I'm glad you finally figured it out. Better late than never."

[puck-luck]

airline affection | cole caufield

warnings: drinking (tequila), sex with a stranger, protected p in v (me breaking my pattern fr), fingering, handjob, semi-public sex, hair pulling, mentions of a round 2 but not explored in this fic (will probably not be explored in a part 2 either because i like how this fic ends), use of Y/N (my least fav)

pairing: cole caufield x fem!reader

summary: cole caufield and fem!reader basically join the mile high club, despite their feet being on the earth.

wc: 3,772

There are a lot of things that you hate about winter storms. The number one thing, though, is when it delays your plane. You’re usually impatient in airports. The energy in these buildings seems to spark something in you that just makes you restless. You’re almost always checking the time and your eTicket to make sure nothing changed since the last time you checked it a minute prior. You’re running through your checklist of to-dos and making sure you have everything you need in case your flight gets so delayed that you need to book a hotel. 

You’re already pretty sure that you won’t make your connection, although the three-hour layover between landing and departure was a nice cushion. It’s not like your flight has been delayed by much, anyway. It’s just an hour. You’ll still have time. Maybe if you’re lucky, you can sprint across the airport and still make it with plenty of time to spare. 

If not, getting a hotel in Montréal for the night wouldn’t be too bad. The city seems interesting enough, though… knowing yourself, you probably won’t venture out of the airport and hotel if you are stuck there for the night. You’ll want to get on the first flight out since you’re already anxious to get home, so you’ll just bite the bullet and go to bed early.

The minutes continue to drag on and you watch your layover grow slimmer and slimmer, until you know it’s futile to make it from one terminal to the next. Especially once the gate agent behind the desk turns on the microphone and you hear his voice, automatically more grating because of the news he presents, announce that the plane has been delayed another forty minutes. He can’t help it, but you still wish you could go over and tear into him and vent out all of your frustrations.

You instead stand up and drag your carry on behind you towards the airport bar about a hundred feet from your gate. You snag a seat at the dark, polished wooden bartop, tucking your carry on between your stool and the bar itself. Even though you don’t believe anyone would actually steal your carry on while it’s right by your side, you take the precaution anyway… even if it makes you uncomfortable. You order a drink from their specialty cocktails– something with tequila and lime and pineapple– and seethe to yourself.

When you lift your eyes to the mirror behind the bar, nestled behind rows of liquor bottles, you catch a glimpse of a strong jaw and a pointed nose. You double take at the tousled mop of hair on this man’s head and linger on the dimples bracketing his glowing smile. 

You can’t feel bad or angry when you’re looking at a smile like that. 

He’s with a group of guys, drinks in hand, and they’re laughing. You can’t tell if this guy was the person who made the joke that sparked the chortles around his table or if he’s laughing along with something one of his friends said. 

Lifting his glass of beer to his mouth, the man happens to catch your eye in the mirror.

You blush and duck your head, startled that you were caught staring at this guy. You stare at the rim of your glass and trace the condensation on the side, letting a dewdrop gather on your fingertip and seep into the miniscule ridges that define your touch. 

After enough time has passed, you dare to peek at this guy again.

His gaze was waiting for you. His grin changes imperceptively, neither growing softer nor wider but changing somehow, and he lifts his glass in a tiny toat. It’s an acknowledgement of your stare and a casual ‘hi,’ should you choose to take it.

You feel yourself blushing again and lift your hand in a miniature wave before you pinch your bottom lip between your thumb and index finger to tame the change in your expression. You’ve never been good at controlling your face, especially not when a cute boy is going out of his way to notice you. It’s not like this never happens, but you still get a flutter in your stomach whenever it does.

You sip from your straw, gulping down a couple of moutfuls of your drink. To entertain yourself, and to avoid looking in the mirror again lest you make eye contact with this guy, you pull out your phone. You’re fully intending to text the group chat with your closest friends, saying that there’s a hot guy behind you in the airport bar, when you notice the aforementioned hot guy taking the seat to your right.

“Hi,” the man says. His voice has a distinct quality to it– not in a bad way. It just sounds like all of his words come from the back of his throat. His pitch is lower than you expected. Just from one word, you can tell that he talks with the confidence of a much taller man.

“Hi,” you reply. You take a sip of your drink after speaking. 

“Are you a nervous flier?” he asks.

You eye him, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He gestures to the drink in your hand. “You’ve been downing that thing. Trying to get a buzz before your flight takes off?”

“Oh,” you say lamely. You shake your drink, the ice cubes clinking in the glass. “Not really. I’m just annoyed. Delays, you know. I’m drinking in memoriam of my connecting flight.”

The man laughs, to your surprise. That wasn’t even a good joke, but here he is. He raises his glass, holding it out to yours and clinking the rims together. “In honor of your connection,” he says, then raises his glass to his lips. He raises an eyebrow and you do the same after stalling for a brief moment.

You’re not even in a good outfit. You’re in airport clothes, just leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, plus a baseball cap so no one sees how greasy your hair is underneath the cap, and this guy with– holy shit– massive fucking biceps is flirting with you. He’s leaning close to you, too, and he smells nice. Old Spice, maybe. 

“So, how long until your flight?”

You look at the time on your phone. “Thirty minutes.”

“Cool.” He nods. “Can I get you another drink?”

You consider the offer. 

“Or,” he lowers his voice to a whisper and brings his mouth close to your ear. “If you’re interested, I could provide you with another kind of stress relief.”

Your mouth gapes as he pulls away and fixes you with a confident, yet kind smile in the face of such a flagrant offer. 

“Think about it,” he murmurs. He catches the eye of the bartender. “Two chilled Casamigos blanco shots, please, under Suzuki.” When the bartender turns to pour the shots for him, the guy turns back to you. “A confidence boost. I’ll be over there, with the guys. Come find me if you want to make good on that second offer.” He takes one of the small glasses from the bar and clinks it with yours before heading back to his table. 

You stare at him, swiveling in your stool as he goes. Your jaw is still hanging open. It’s only once this guy– whose first name you still don’t know, by the way, except that it might be Suzuki?– returns to his table that you right yourself in your seat and touch the shot before you. 

You whip out your phone and take a picture of the shot. Hot guy in airport just bought me this shot and offered to have sex with me???? You type with frantic fingers, sending the message to the group chat you’d been planning to text before the man came over and made a move on you.

Your friends are well aware that your flight was delayed. They have been waiting for an update and this one is more than welcome, simply because of how dramatic and unexpected it is. 

send pic!! One of your friends replies, which the other friend emphasizes.

You’re able to snipe the man through the mirror of the bar, pretending like you’re taking a picture of the liquor selection. If they zoom in, your friends will be able to see his side profile and judge it accordingly.

Good enough for an airport crush, the second friend says.

you’ll basically be a member of the mile high club if you do it, says the first. 

You pocket your phone and fix your eyes again on the shot before you. It’s acclimating to the room temperature of the bar, but you can still see sharp shards of ice floating in the clear liquid. 

Fuck it. 

You take the shot and close your tab. Why shouldn’t you fuck this dude? How many people can say they’ve hooked up with an airport crush rather than losing them to distance and time? It’s not like you’ll ever see this guy again. You take a brisk, short breath and set your jaw. 

Once again dragging your carry on behind you, you approach his table and tap his shoulder.

Immediately his face splits with a smile. “I hope this is a good sign.”

“Let’s go,” you say without room to argue. You sound a lot more confident than you feel, but you’re also riding on the absurdity of the situation. You’re about to have sex in an airport. With a stranger. That goes against every rule of stranger danger that you’ve ever learned.

“You can leave your carry on with the guys,” he says. “They’ll watch it.”

You grip the handle. Leaving your luggage with a bunch of randos is where you draw the line. “No, I think I’ll bring it with me.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. C’mon.” He takes your other hand and leads you out of the bar, looking both ways before darting to the right. 

A hundred feet later, he’s locking the door to the single-stall family bathroom and pushing you up against it.

“What if someone knocks?” you ask.

“We’ll be quick,” he says, not answering your question. He kisses you before you can speak again.

Like everything that this man has done so far, the kiss is sudden and surprising. He overwhelms you and, while in the first second your eyes had grown wide in shock, your eyelids flutter shut and you melt into the kiss. 

His tongue prods at the seam of your lips and you welcome him in, tasting the beer that lingers in his mouth. He is quick, like he promises– his hand is making its way past your waistband and when he touches the band of your panties, you jerk back.

“Wait,” you say. 

The man pauses, his hand drawing back up to your stomach and resting there.

“What’s your name?”

He cracks a smile. “You scared me for a sec there. I’m Cole.” He lifts his hand from your stomach and finds your right hand, fitting them together in a handshake even though it’s a weird angle. “What’s yours?”

“Y/N,” you reply. 

Cole drops your hand and lets out a little chuckle. “Cute. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.” You put a hand on the hair at the nape of Cole’s neck. “As you were, soldier.”

There’s no time to cringe at the statement before Cole is kissing you again and inching his fingers into your panties. He’s laughing at the little nickname you uttered, his kisses growing shorter and sweeter as his mouth moves with his chuckles. 

You don’t speak much after that, but Cole does make a litany of quiet moans and sighs tumble from your mouth. 

His fingers are blunt and certain with each movement. Cole’s cock presses into your hip as he touches you. With the constraints of your panties, because he hasn’t taken your leggings or underwear off, the pads of his digits flick over your clit and draw wetness and slick from your pussy. 

Within minutes, the digits are making their way to your entrance. It is not slow and reverent like you have experienced in the past, but you like that. You like that Cole is kissing you as his fingers work inside of you with a singular purpose– to open you up and prepare you to take his cock. 

Your legs are shaky and weak when Cole adds a second finger to your heat, then a third. They’re pushing inside of you, pushing in and out and thrusting until your hole has stretched to fit him. His tongue has moved to your jawline, tracing down the column of your neck and leaving wet kisses in the wake of the trail.

Unable to handle all of the pleasure he’s giving you without doing much at all, and unable to bear the uselessness that you feel while his hands are busy and yours are not, you push your hand down the front of his pants and grasp his length. 

Cole smiles into your skin and sucks a hickey just above the collar of your sweatshirt. 

You grip the member, feeling the hot flesh rub against your palm when you fist it. You try to picture Cole’s cock from touch alone, feeling the ridges and veins press into your grasp. Your thumb and index finger circle the crown of his cock, following the curve on the underside of the cockhead that reflects his cupid’s bow though not nearly as prominent.You come up to his very tip then all the way back down, feeling the soft thatch of hair at the base. He fits comfortably in your hand and there’s still room for you to move up and down, and you relish in the choked groan that he paints into the crook of your neck.

His efforts double when you touch him, which makes you work harder, and then it just becomes a competition. You try to beat each other out to see who can relent first, but it just dissolves into a fit of laughter when you realize what the other person is doing.

Cole guides you toward the sink with his other hand pressing into your side, finally working his hand around to pull your leggings down. He struggles since his fingers are still buried in your cunt and your hand is rather distracting as it pulls on his cock, but he eventually manages to get the tight fabric down to your mid-thigh. 

“How’s this going to work?” you ask, your bare behind coming into contact with the cold sink. You jump a bit and reach for the paper towel dispenser with your free hand, tugging a few sheets loose so that you can lay them on the edge of the sink and put a barrier between your body and the germs.

“Gonna bend you over a bit, if that’s okay,” Cole says. His words are certain, although he’s sure to check with you and make sure it’ll be comfortable.

“Okay,” you agree, allowing him to turn you around. You lay the paper towels down and lean against the sink, bending at the hinge of your hips. You look at Cole in the mirror and grin. 

He matches you. You watch him shove a hand into his pocket, coming back with a condom. He tears the wrapper and rolls the silicon onto himself. He slides his cock between your ass cheeks and thrusts slowly, just to feel the way that you grip him. After a couple of smooth movements, he brings his tip to your entrance and breaches the tight ring, which had drawn back into itself when Cole removed his fingers.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, keeping you in place. You’re grateful for the touch because you do lurch forward when he buries his cock into your pussy, thrusting forward until his abdomen is flush with your behind. Without his hand holding your neck, you probably would have knocked your forehead into the mirror hanging on this airport bathroom wall.

“Careful,” Cole murmurs with a tilted smirk. “Can’t have you getting a concussion on me, Y/N.”

“Maybe be gentler,” you bite back without any heat brewing behind your words. 

“You want me to be gentle?” Cole asks. He draws out of you as slowly as he can, then fucks back into you at the same pace. It’s so slow that all the pleasure is lost on you– it just feels like something mechanical is filling you and leaving you. You know he’s just being difficult and even though you’re stubborn, it still makes you go back on your request.

“No, I want you to fuck me,” you tell him, pushing your hips back. “Really fuck me.”

“Good,” Cole says. “Hold on.”

You fit your hands around the curves of the sink, gripping the slippery fake-marble as best you can. You watch Cole in the mirror. 

There’s something poetic about that– you spotted him in the mirror of the bar less than twenty minutes ago and now you’re watching him draw out of your pussy until just his tip remains. 

He bites down on his lower lip as he thrusts forward, finding a brutal rhythm. His hand goes from your neck to your shoulder, his fingertips curling over to the front of your body and digging into the flesh above your collarbone. He keeps you more securely in this place in this position, even pulling you back to meet his thrusts. 

A strand of hair, wavy and delicate, falls over his forehead. His cheeks dimple as his face contorts through the movements. He’ll grimace and grit his teeth, but you know it’s not because of pain or anything negative. He’s doing his best to stay quiet, you think, just like you are. The door of this bathroom separates you from the gates and the hoards of people traveling to a new destination and none of them want to hear two people having sex– except, you know, a perv. There are bound to be a few in the crowds. Still– you don’t want them to hear you.

There’s a vein in Cole’s neck that is popping out from the hyper-focus he has on your body. He’s looking down, eyes fixed on the space where your body welcomes his driving hips and his unrelenting cock. 

Punishing thrust after punishing thrust has you hurtling towards orgasm. In this position, and with Cole pulling you back onto his cock, he’s hitting all the spots inside of you that have your stomach turning and clenching and twisting. It doesn’t help that the edge of the sink is digging into your abdomen and applying pressure.

“Can feel you getting tighter,” Cole grits out. “Come on, Y/N. Come.”

His voice is tight when he speaks, like he’s trying to hold himself together until you unravel. The timbre is hot as hell and you let out an involuntary whimper, dipping your head.

Cole brings his other hand to your hair and yanks your head back up. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, narrowed like he didn’t want you to look away from him even though he wasn’t looking at you, and the jerk of pain on your scalp sends you over the edge.

You come, entrance spasming around Cole’s shaft as the climax takes over you. Your jaw drops and your eyelids flutter. 

Cole loosens his grip on your hair and your head falls forward– he allows it this time. His hand comes to your hip and keeps you steady, along with the hand on your shoulder, as he chases his own orgasm. You ride out the aftershocks and Cole prolongs them, if only a little bit. He bucks forward a few times before you can feel his cock twitching and spurting cum into the rubber wrapped around him.

After coming, Cole fills you with hard thrusts four or five times. Then, he draws out of your heat and removes the condom, tying it off and tossing it into the trashcan. He covers it with a layer of paper towels before returning to you and wiping you clean. 

You’re the one to draw your panties and leggings up, feeling satiated. It’s clear that you’ve been fucked, knowing your own body, but you don’t feel like you’re gaping. There’s a dull energy around your core, but it’s indescribable. 

Cole tucks his cock away and reaches behind you to put a bit of soap on his hands, then hip-bumps you out of the way to have full use of the sink. He grins at you through the mirror.

You hover awkwardly for a chance to wash your own hands. As you do, Cole comes behind you and kisses your cheek.

“That was fun,” he says.

You hum, agreeing with a nod.

“Have a safe flight,” Cole bids you before he slips from the bathroom. 

It’s probably better that you’re leaving at different times; you wait a few minutes before nonchalantly leaving the room yourself. There’s no one nearby that is giving you a second look and you’re astonished that no one knocked on the door while you were fucked thoroughly by a stranger– yeah, you’re still on that– but you also feel a bit proud. You did something wild and no one is the wiser.

You head back to your gate with your carry on wheeling along behind you, finding a seat and waiting less than five minutes before you board. You’re in one of the first few groups because you’re insane about checking in and being on time. It also helps that you’ve been flying on this airline forever and you have a boatload of rewards points. 

As you’re fastening your seatbelt in your window seat near the wings, the same one you always choose, a familiar voice greets you.

“Would you look at that,” Cole says. He lifts his carry on into the overhead compartment and double-checks the row number. “What are the chances that we’re sitting together too, Y/N?”

Your face floods with heat and you immediately know that there’s a red blush coating your horrified expression. You were operating under the impression that you’d never see Cole again… and now you have to spend a whole flight beside him.

“What do you think about round 2?” Cole asks in a low voice, sly and conniving. He leans back after the proposal, dimples as deep as you’ve ever seen them. He fastens his own seatbelt and knocks his knee against yours.

The universe might be out to get you.

But you might take him up on that offer too.

[crowsofdarkness]

Valentine's Day with Bill.

18+ CW's underneath the cut(unprotected pinv, oral with female receiving, spanking, choking.)

Letting out a long yawn, I trekked farther into the airport, dragging my suitcase behind me. It had been a long week of visiting my family but now that the reunions were finished, I was beyond ready to head back home. 

Back to Bill. 

In the three years we’d been dating, we were used to being away from each other for weeks even months at a time due to his filming schedules. 

Pulling out my phone before I headed through security at the airport, I read the new text from Bill. 

Bill 🩶: I’m sorry, angel. I won’t be able to pick you up from the airport. But I can meet you at home.

My heart sunk to the depths of my stomach. All day I’d been looking forward to seeing Bill’s face as I stepped through the doors of the airport. 

Me: It’s okay, love. I can order an uber. I should be back home by 8. Maybe we can have a late dinner together? 

Bill 🩶: Already taken care of, angel. 

With a yawn, I adjusted my glasses as I stepped through the gate doors of the airport, dragging my bags behind me. There was a delay in taking off at the last airport, meaning I was now arriving in New York at 9 p.m. rather than 7 p.m. I had to buy Wi-Fi on the plane so I could message Bill to let him know about the delay. 

With my phone in one hand, I was about to order an Uber when my feet skidded to a halt at the sight in front of me. 

What a cheeky little…

Bill smirked as he held a bouquet of daisies. 

“Hi, angel,” he mused. 

I reached for the flowers and brought them to my nose, inhaling their scent, and then peered up at Bill. 

“I thought you couldn’t pick me up.” 

Bill brushed away a loose strand of hair from my face. “I sort of lied. I had plans to pick you up then take you out to dinner for Valentine's day but when your flight got delayed, I had to switch things up.” 

“So you’ve been waiting here for two hours?” I asked. 

“Worth it.” 

He shrugged before wrapping his fingers behind my neck to bring our lips together in a long overdue kiss. His tongue immediately molded against mine and I moaned into it, my hand sprawling over his chest. The material of his sweater felt warm underneath my palm and I let myself fall into him when his hands grasped my hips. 

“I missed you, Y/N,” Bill’s teeth grazed over my bottom lip. 

“I missed you too, love.” 

With his arm wrapped around my shoulder and other hand holding my bags, Bill led me out of the airport and towards his car parked in the parking lot. Once we were settled, he began the drive back home. I nestled into the passenger seat and let out a content sigh. 

“Tired?” Bill questioned with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh. 

“No, surprisingly. I thought I would be but I’m just happy to be back home.” 

He brought my hand to his lips to kiss along my knuckles. “I’m glad you’re back too.” 

For the rest of the drive home, I told him how the family reunion went while he told me what he did the last few weeks. Since he was busy filming a new movie, he couldn’t come to the reunion. 

As we walked down the long hallway to our apartment, another yawn slipped through my lips and I nearly stumbled. Bill chuckled as he wrapped an arm around me to pull me into his chest. 

“You should get some sleep, angel.” 

I frowned while burying myself into his sweater. “But it's Valentine's Day and I missed you.” 

His lips brushed along my forehead as we stopped in front of our door and he unlocked it. The darkness of our home escaped into the hallway as I stepped through the threshold and when I clicked on the lights, a gasp fell from my lips. 

Matching the daisies bouquet I had clutched in my arms, our entire apartment was littered. Music played softly as I noticed the steaming dinner plated on our kitchen island, candles lit and spread throughout. 

Turning on my heels, I gaped at Bill who leaned against the door with a smug smile. 

“What is this?” I asked, doing my best not to cry. 

“Happy Valentine's Day, angel. I had our neighbor set this up for me while we were on our way home. She had to warm up the dinner I cooked earlier but I promise it’s still good,” he said. 

Our neighbor, an older lady named Patty, was always willing to help us out when needed. 

My eyes widened. “Oh, I’ve been so busy with traveling that I didn’t have a chance to buy you anything.”

Bill pushed himself off the door and immediately cupped my face so I could look up at him. The hood of his sweater was still pulled over his eyes, dark tendrils falling into his face. 

“You know I don’t need anything. Just you, angel. But I wanted to do something special for you because you deserve it.” 

I left a firm but quick kiss on his lips, muttering against them. “Thank you, Bill.” 

He smiled while motioning behind me. “Come on, let's eat.” 

“Fuck, Bill,” I moaned when his tongue licked up the patch of skin his teeth grazed. 

My nails dragged down his bare chest, leaving red marks along his skiin as he continued to slam his cock into me, the couch beneath us scraping along the wood floors. 

“So tight. I missed you,” he groaned into the crook of my neck as his hips stilled. 

I knew he was close but also knew that he didn’t want it to end yet. What started as a nice romantic dinner turned into a heavy make out session on the couch. Neither of us could wait any longer and needed to be connected once again. 

His fingers brushed along the folds of my pussy and I shook with the feeling as he slowly dragged his cock all the way out, only leaving the tip inside. 

“Bill,” I whined while raising my hips. “Please.” 

His teeth dragged along my nipples. “Please what?” 

I raked my nails through his hair and yanked back causing Bill to let out a loud hiss. “Fuck, angel.” 

“Stop teasing me and fuck me, Bill. Please.” 

My screams echoed throughout the apartment when he buried his cock deep within me again, his pace becoming ruthless. But our position on the couch wasn’t the greatest, I needed to be able to feel him even deeper. We couldn’t make it to the bedroom when we first started and there was no way I was going to stop this now. 

Bill could tell I needed something different because with one strong arm, he lifted me from the couch to carry me over to the kitchen table. I squealed in delight as I writhed in his embrace. 

“What are you doing?” I asked as he made me lean back. 

He brushed back the sweat slicked hair from his forehead and licked his lips. “I need a taste of you.” 

With a tight grip on my thighs, he spread my legs wide apart before he knelt between them. The warmth of his tongue sent shockwaves to my entire system as he lapped up the remnants of my previous orgasm he gave me on the couch and I arched off the table when he began sucking on my clit. 

“Shit, Bill. I’m going to-.” 

With two fingers spearing me wide open before pumping in fast succession and his mouth sucking on my sensitive clit, I let the shock of my orgasm tear through me with such a force that it nearly took my breath away. 

“Such a good girl,” Bill mused while laying a kiss on the inside of my thigh. “I missed the way you taste.” 

I only had a few minutes to breath before he was yanking me off the table to now stand on my feet. He patted my ass. 

“Lean your hands against the window,” he nodded towards the patio door. 

“What-?” I shuffled on my feet. 

Bill’s lips attacked mine in a ravenous kiss and when he pulled away, he brushed my arousal off of his lips with his thumb. 

“Be a good girl, Y/N, and do what I say,” his voice was as dark as his eyes. 

Not wanting to disappoint, I quickly made my way over to the patio door that led out to our balcony and rested my palms against the glass. Thankfully we shut off all but one of the lights so no one would be able to peer up into our apartment and see what we were doing.

"Keep your hands on the window," he demanded and then yanked my hips back to him so I was bent over. 

Nodding furiously, I spread my hands against the window of the patio door when his cocked slipped inside of me again, his name falling off my lips in a prayer. 

“That’s right, pray to me,” Bill rasped as he bit down on my shoulder. 

One arm wrapped around my stomach while the other tightened around my throat to bring my chest against his back, this new angle making my vision blurry. It felt so good, the burn, and Bill knew how bad I needed it to hurt. 

He squeezed until I felt the air being ripped away from me, his cock slamming into me with no sign of stopping. He never held back and I never wanted him too.  I needed it to hurt, needed it to burn, that I wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow.

When I felt the darkness creeping to the corners of my eyelids due to how tight he was gripping my throat, I let out a choked moan. 

“Safe word?” he muttered into my ear before kissing the skin behind there. 

Although his voice was soft and concerning, the way he fucked me was completely different. 

I did my best to shake my head with his tight grip around my throat. “Keep. Going. So. Close.” 

Bill eased his grip a bit so I could take a deep breath before he tightened it again. My orgasm was so close, I just needed a little something to have it wash over me. As my hand moved to my clit, Bill smacked my ass, the sound echoing through our apartment. Instead, his thumb pressed circles against my clit and that was exactly what I needed to let my orgasm finally release from the tightness of my body. I came with such vigor on Bill’s cock he groaned into my hairline. 

“Such a good girl,” he praised while letting go of the vice grip around my throat. 

Gulping for hair, I nodded. “Yes.” 

Nails dug into the skin of my hips as Bill’s pace became even more frantic, him chasing his own release, and I was so far gone in my post orgasmic haze that I nearly didn’t hear the two words he said. 

“Wh-what?” I stuttered. 

Bill’s hips stilled for a beat before he let out a deep, guttural groan when he spilled his warm release into me. 

“Marry me.” 

Before my body could fall into a heap to the ground, Bill lifted me to sit me on the edge of our kitchen island. His large hand cupped my cheek so I had no choice but to gaze upon him. His pupils were blown wide due to our actions and his chest rose and fell as he did his best to catch his breath. His warm cum dripped down my legs onto the cold marble beneath me but I didn’t dare think about the mess. I only thought about those two words. 

“What did you say?” I asked, still breathless. 

“Marry me,” Bill said again without an ounce of hesitation. 

Everything around us seemed to fall away, the eerie quiet of the apartment now ringing loudly in my ears. My heart beat loudly in my chest that I could feel it in my throat when I realized how sincere Bill was. This wasn’t a joke, he meant those words. 

As if he thought I was doubting him, he ripped open our junk drawer in the kitchen to pull out a small velvet box and my breath caught in my throat. 

“Fuck, you’re serious?” I choked out. 

Bill smiled wickedly as he opened the box, the light above the kitchen sink catching the diamond almost instantly. The gold band was thin but the oval shape of the diamond almost sat perfectly against it. 

“With you, Y/N. I’ve never been more serious about anything,” he said. 

My throat burned in the best way. Never in this lifetime did I ever expect to have such a romantic Valentine's Day. Guys in my past never gave a shit so to have Bill go all out was something I wasn't used to but knowing he loved me so much made my heart swell. 

I began to nod wildly. “Fuck yes!” 

With a laugh, Bill collided our lips together in a fever kiss before reluctantly pulling away to slide the ring onto my finger.  wrapped my legs around his naked form to bring him closer to me and I hung my arms around his neck. We were still naked and the cool air from the open window chilled my heated skin.

“Now that we’re engaged, I think we need to celebrate,” I waved the hand with the ring in front of his face playfully. 

He grasped it to leave a kiss upon the ring. “Say no more, angel.” 

My squeals bounced off the walls of our home as Bill carried me into our bedroom to start our engagement celebrations. 

[humiliatemeplesse]

Due to bad weather all flights had been delayed. Across from you a hot guy who was obviously going to or from a business trip took off his shoes. You couldn't stop staring at his sweaty nicely ribbed blue dress socked feet. You were totally obvious about it, you didn't think he'd notice, he was busy doing some sort of work. After about half an hour he looked up and directly at you, right in your eyes. What the fuck are you staring at, he said in a pissed off tone with a pissed off expression. You'd been called out by guys for staring at their socks before so this wasn't that much of a shock. So you went for it. You said, Sir, I'd be honored if you'd go into the men's room with me and allow me to worship your sweaty socked feet. I'll pay you. He kept staring at you but his expression turned from pissed off to really angry. He said, get the fuck over here, and pointed to the floor in front of him. You walked over to him. On your knees, he said. You got on your knees in front of him. He bitched slapped you hard with the back of his hand, so much so that you fell over. Your ears were ringing. Get up faggot, he said. You got back up on your knees in front of him and he spit in your face. You fucking disgust me, he said. Then he told you to lay on the floor, lay at his feet and put your face right where his feet were. You did so and he put his sweaty stinking blue dress socks on your face, like it was his footstool. He said, you wanna be a fucking freak then you're gonna be one in front of everyone. You should see everyone looking at you right now. They're laughing at you. Some are disgusted by you. Not me, you. Flights continued to be delayed all night. Your face served as his footstool into the morning, even after he fell asleep for a while. Finally his flight was called and he got up to board his plane. He made you put on his shoes for him. He didn't say anything, he just looked down at you with disgust and spit in your face again. Then he walked down the ramp onto his flight. And there you were, alone, everyone looking at you, some now saying things to you out loud. It was like a mob turning on you. You got up with your face stinking like his socks and marks from the ribbing on his socks on your face and went into the men's room. Three guys came in behind you and beat the shit out of you and stuck your head in an unflushed toilet full of piss and shit.

[c1qfxugcgy0]

I will never complain about a toolbox being too far from the jobsite again.

(previous post in this series)

Large Aircraft Manufacturer (LAM) has announced, to the surprise of nobody with a brain, that certification of our latest aircraft, Advanced Widebody Carbon Wing (AWCW), has been delayed to March 2026.

This firmly sets management on the horns of a dilemma. They have something like five thousand expensively trained employees on the AWCW production line who will not have much to do for the next year. You can continue production and clutter up the hardstand with precertification aircraft. But the process of certifying the aircraft against severe weather, bird strikes, lightning strikes, etc etc, will inevitably require serious changes to the beta aircraft. LAM must then modify every one of their backlog aircraft, ripping out the interior, replacing bond wires and ground straps, then reinstalling all those parts. Doing structural work inside a complete aircraft naturally takes much more time than doing it from scratch in the production jigs designed to accommodate such work.

(And if you don't believe me, just watch This Old House.)

Naturally, LAM tracks every minute of worker time on each aircraft. Enough rework can wipe out LAM's entire profit margin on a bird, especially given the large discounts it offers to early buyers of new model aircraft.

This is not idle supposition. LAM was hauled through an identical hall of thorns when Advanced Midbody Carbon Aircraft (AMCA) was delayed in certification a decade ago. Fifty aircraft required expensive rework, putting the entire program in the red for years afterward. The scars are fresh, and LAM is not eager to repeat the experience. Thus, AWCW production rate has been cut to zero point zero.

But what to do with the workers?

Airplane factories are always attached to an airport. [citation needed]

Everything outside the factory is the flightline. Flightline is where all the problems with an aircraft catch up with it, and occasion screaming matches between facility managers (who are desperate to clear their patch of concrete and get the plane in the sky) and production managers (who will have the rare pleasure of seeing their face on the nightly news when that plane kills three hundred people).

Airplanes require a really incredible amount of maintenance. If production delays mean the plane doesn't get delivered to the customer on time, scheduled maintenance can happen while the airplane is being made. These are not problems that happen when you build cars, I can tell you. This is the shop I, along with 20 of my coworkers, have been loaned out to.

There are lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of moving parts on an airliner. Every LAM aircraft has a design life of 30 years. They cost hundreds of millions of dollars each. Because they are so damn expensive, our customers want to fly them as close to 24 hours a day as possible, in rain, snow, sleet, from Kabul to Kathmandu, from sea level to eight miles above ground. Sealed bearings, so beloved by the automotive industry, are simply not an option across aerospace's range of temperature, pressure, salt spray, and total joint lifespan requirements.

As a result, every single metal on metal joint on the airplane has a grease fitting, and a prescribed grease type for each fitting. In just the photo above there are seven fittings visible. The document that lists every fitting on the plane is eight hundred pages long.

But greasing the points is, honestly, not that hard. You've got eight hours to finish any given IP, and in a storage IP the greasing will take, at most, 30 minutes. Greasing is not the problem. The problem is the fucking skin panels.

The exterior surface of a wing is, uh, important. It carries the weight of the aircraft, it has to be aerodynamically smooth to a frankly annoying degree, each carbon fiber wing skin panel has to be as light as absolutely possible, the insulative carbon fiber composite must be coated with an outer antistatic conductive layer to bleed off static charge, but at the same time the inner layer needs a more conductive aluminum foil layer to conduct the powerfully destructive lightning strike energies each plane will experience, oh, about thirty times over its rated lifespan.

On that list of priorities, "making it easy for ground personnel to take a panel off" is low on the list of the priorities. Very low. Real damn low. Put on your SCUBA gear and investigate the pelagic depths kinda low.

You take off the panels. Maybe ten percent of the screws will strip when you apply force, which means you get to carefully, slowly drill out the titanium fasteners while standing at the top of a scissor lift in the rain.

(There is an art to drilling out a Phillips head titanium screw. Ordinarily, you want to use carbide tooling, which is sharp, but brittle. But even after stripping the hell out of a screw there will still be some remnants of the head, which the cutting edge of the carbide drill will catch on and break. So when your crew is assigned to a new plane, the first thing you do right away is rush to the tool room to get drill bits before your oafish coworkers clean them out, and get both HSS and carbide bits-- tough and ductile steel to knock down the remnants of the screw head and then carbide to do the bulk of the drilling. And once you're into the bulk of the screw, you do peck drilling-- three or four seconds of drilling, then pull the bit out and apply lube. This isn't for the benefit of the drill-- it can handle high temps just fine. What you absolutely, must not do, is let the screw get too hot. Because when titanium gets hot and then cools down, it hardens, and you just turned a ten minute job into a four hour one. Because after you finish drilling the hole you follow it with a steel screw extractor, and there's no extractor on Earth that's going to bite into hardened titanium.)

You apply Aeroshell 33 to the bushings on the slats torque tube and carefully brush on Cor-Ban 27L to the specified exposed metal surfaces. You call QA out, who bitches and moans the entire time for being rousted out of their crew shelter to get rained on to witness that you greased the things that needed to be greased.

Now it's time to put the panel back on. First, you throw away all the used fasteners and order new ones from Logistics. Any screw that touches a flight component is used once, and only once. Try not to think about the dollar value of the two pounds or so of aerospace titanium screws you just shitcanned. Be careful when reordering, though-- across the five or six panels you're pulling off you'll have two different types of screws of differing surface finishes, (structural screws vs. antistatic electrical bonding screws) different diameters and different screw lengths. Why? Because fuck you, you stupid mechanic. You deserve to suffer. Your life should be only pain.

(If you screw up on this step and can't button up a panel before end of shift you need to "short stamp" the IP saying what you did and did not do, check the panel into the WIP cage (remember to label it with the part number, IP number, and your employee number!) and then "maintain closure" by covering the empty spot with a sheet of plastic taped down along its entire perimeter with 3M 8979 duct tape. It is, of course, still raining while you're doing all this, because some fucking idiot decided to build an aircraft factory in the Pacific Northwet. Does duct tape stick particularly well to sodden wing panels? No, it does not.)

The one advantage of going to work at 5 am is that you never miss a sunrise

Assume you have all the screws you need and you haven't dropped any of the panels and damaged them while bumbling around. Apply Braycote 248 to the threads and start banging them home with a torque-limited screwgun.

Once installed, there are those two important electrical bonds mentioned above. LAM does not take your word that you've correctly installed the panel, of course, they want you to measure it. Getting the antistatic value is easy enough-- one probe on the head of the fastener, the other to the surface of the panel, value in the hundreds of kiloohms. Impossible to screw up.

What's harder is the lightning conduction path bond. That's measured in single digit milliohms, and it's from the foil lining of the panel to the structure of the wing. The foil is hard to access, since it's on the other side of the goddamn panel you just expensively installed.

Well, in some cases, you can just reach from an adjacent open panel. (The IP notes which panel does not require a lightning bond reading, and you are supposed to infer that this is the last panel to install.) But LAM defines "adjacent" somewhat loosely. By the time you are on the final panel, you are measuring bonds by duct taping one probe of the M1 meter to the end of a broomstick, crawling up the asshole of the plane, and jamming it against the back of a panel six feet away. This is as stupid as it sounds, and it takes several tries and quite a lot of fumbling around to get a good reading. If you don't get a good reading, then you will have the experience of taking the panel off, cleaning it real good, and then trying again, while your team lead breathes down your neck.

But if the readings are good, you unthread yourself from the guts of the wing, pound in the last panel, plug in your scissor lift, dump your cleaning materials contaminated with various exotic aerospace greases and weirdo solvents into the hazmat bin, return your tools to the tool room, and clock the fuck out. You've got a different airplane to grease tomorrow!