#to give in to the pull of a calling again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

houseofhyde · 21 hours ago

Text

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

“You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B.

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice.

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it.

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?”

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked.

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?”

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

#bucky barnes smut #james buchanan barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #bucky x reader

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drewsephrry · 2 days ago

Text

Love Island - Episode 13: Pick me, Choose me, Love me

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

words: 4.9k

warnings: cuss words, sexual innuendos

series masterlist

The girls are gathered in the makeup room, getting ready for the recoupling. The atmosphere is thick, awkward and tense, like no one really wants to say what they’re thinking.

“So…a recoupling.” Cleo ventures, trying to break the silence. “That’s gonna be…interesting.”

No one really reacts. She clears her throat and turns to Y/N.

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” She asks and Y/N offers a small, instinctive smile.

“Honestly? I’m just excited to recouple with Rafe.” She says, a hint of giddiness slipping through. “But I do need to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Ryan first.”

“You’re going to talk to him?” Sarah asks, glancing up from her eyeshadow palette. Her eyes flick briefly to Kiara before returning to her brush. Y/N catches it and nods.

“It’s what he deserves.” Y/N says simply. “I can’t just leave things hanging like that. He needs to hear from me that I don’t see it going anywhere. Even if it’s hard. It’s not fair to let him think I might pick him when I won’t.”

The girls nod, quietly agreeing.

“You’re such a good person.” Cleo says warmly.

“I’m just trying to be honest.” Y/N replies with a shrug, meeting Kiara’s eye as she fans her eyelash glue dry.

Across the room, Abigail is rifling through her clothes in silence, round curlers perched on her head.

“Need a hand, Abi?” Y/N calls over.

Abigail turns with a soft smile and shakes her head.

“I’m good, thanks.” She responds.

Y/N gives her a knowing nod before turning her attention back to her makeup bag, the buzz of tension still lingering beneath the surface.

Later, when the girls make their way downstairs, Y/N spots Ryan sitting on the couch with Kelce and John B. She walks over, steady but warm.

“Hey.” She says with a soft smile as she stops in front of them.

The boys greet her and she turns to Ryan.

“Mind if I steal Ryan for a minute? I promise I’ll bring him back.”

“Keep him.” John B teases, earning a few light laughs as Ryan stands up. He places a casual hand on Y/N’s waist as she leads him toward one of the quieter couches, away from the others.

“You look incredible tonight.” He says as they sit down.

Y/N’s cheeks flush with color as she glances at her dress.

“Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Ryan leans back slightly, already sensing where the conversation is headed.

“I pulled you for a chat because…”

“You’re picking Rafe.” He says, cutting in gently and she freezes for a second.

“Ryan…”

“It’s okay.” He says quickly. “I see you two together. I get it.”

“I did feel something between us. I want you to know that.” Y/N swallows, her voice quiet.

“I did too.” He says with a nod. “I really like you, Y/N. But I also know what you and Rafe have is different. I’m not here to fight for someone’s attention. I’m here to enjoy this and maybe find something real.”

Her expression softens, worry flickering in her eyes.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” She mutters.

“You didn’t.” He reassures her, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “I had a crush, I took my shot and it didn’t work out. That’s life.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs again.

“Don’t be.” He smiles, sincere. “I’m glad we got to know each other. I want you to be happy. And if Rafe makes you happy, then I’m rooting for you.”

“This kind of feels like a breakup.” Y/N lets out a soft laugh. He laughs too.

“It does. ‘I’m just focusing on my career right now.’ ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’” He jokes, tossing out the clichés. She laughs louder this time, before they fall into a brief, easy silence.

“I’d still like to be friends.” She says suddenly, sitting up.

“I’d really like that too.” He agrees and she opens her arms.

“Come here.”

He leans in, wrapping her in a warm hug. She breathes in the familiar scent of his and lets herself settle into the moment before pulling back with a smile.

“So…” She says, leaning back. “Thoughts on tonight’s recoupling?”

“What do you mean?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, have you felt a spark with anyone else? Who do you think might pick you?”

Ryan hesitates for a second, then leans in slightly like he’s sharing a secret.

“Okay…don’t tease me or tell anyone yet, but…I think I’m getting a bit of a vibe from Abi.”

“Really?” Y/N’s eyes go wide, her smile lighting up.

“Yeah.” He says with a grin. “She’s sweet. Funny. And I don’t know, maybe it’s because we entered the villa together, but there’s this comfort between us.”

“I can see that.” She says thoughtfully. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“I want to.” He admits. “But I’m not sure where things stand between her and JJ.”

“Well.” Y/N says with a shrug. “You’ve got nothing to lose. I think you should go for it.”

“Thanks, Y/N. Really.” He nods, eyes warm.

She smiles again, proud of the way things turned out, even if it wasn’t the easiest conversation to have.

Confessional - Ryan “I really respect her for pulling me aside and having that conversation. She didn’t just leave me hanging or make me look stupid…I mean she’s not the type to do that. She’s way too kind for that.” He says with a small sigh. “Honestly, I’m just grateful we got some closure.”

Across the villa, Kiara and Abigail are on the lounge beds, drinks in hand. The night air is warm, but the energy between them is noticeably cooler.

“Okay, so…” Abigail starts, her voice low and hesitant. “I pulled you for a chat because…shit, I’m really bad at confrontation.”

She takes a long breath before continuing.

“Last night, some people saw you and JJ going into the villa…and then coming back like twenty minutes later. And I’m not saying something definitely happened, but I guess I just wanted to ask...did…did something happen? If so, do you feel something there? Like…is there an actual connection? Or is it just friendly?” She winces. “God, I sound toxic. Just-just forget I said anything.”

She starts to rise, embarrassed, but Kiara gently reaches out and catches her hand.

“Abi, wait.”

Abigail pauses, then sinks back down beside her. Kiara exhales slowly.

“There’s…been a vibe between JJ and me for a while. I didn’t act on it because I didn’t want to overthink it or make things messy. But last night, during the challenge… something shifted. It was this undeniable spark everyone talks about.”

She hesitates.

“Afterward, he told me to meet him upstairs. And I swear, I didn’t know what he was planning or what he was thinking.”

“So…what happened?” Abigail frowns. Kiara looks down at her drink, then back up.

“We kissed. Just once. But…it felt real. Like the first time I’ve had butterflies in this villa.”

Abigail’s face tightens. She looks away, staring into her glass.

“You could’ve told me.” She mutters.

“I would. I swear.”

“When, Kie?” Abigail presses, her voice strained. “When you would have stood up and picked him at the recoupling?”

Kiara’s heart sinks.

“No. I would never do that to you. Please…just trust me on this.”

“I want to. But the way you both hid this from me? I just…I didn’t expect this. Not from you.” Abigail shakes her head, eyes glassy but holding back.

“I’m sorry, Abi. I really am.” Kiara's shoulders slump as the weight of her guilt settles in.

“I am too.” Abigail replies quietly as she stands. “I just need some space.”

Kiara nods silently, watching as Abigail walks away.

Confessional - Kiara “I would’ve told her. I should have told her.” She insists quietly.

Maddy and Sarah are in the kitchen, casually snacking and sipping on drinks, when Y/N strolls in and hops onto one of the stools.

“Hi, girlies.” She sing-songs, flashing them a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous.” Maddy beams, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “You good?”

“Just had the talk with Ryan.” Y/N exhales.

“Oh, shit.” Sarah’s eyes widen. “How’d it go?”

“He was actually…really chill about it.” Y/N says. “I think he saw it coming. He wasn’t upset and we agreed to stay friends, so…it went as well as it could have.”

“Yeah, no.” Maddy shakes her head, already unimpressed. “Boys and girls can’t just be friends.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mads.” Y/N says with a smirk, “But I have to disagree.”

“Nope. Every guy I’ve ever said ‘let’s be friends’ to, whether that was exes, flings or even random guys I’ve ended up hooking up with at some point. It’s literally impossible. Unless they’re gay.”

“Honestly, I have to side with Maddy on this one.” Sarah raises her hand like she’s seconding a motion.

“Well, that’s not gonna happen with me and Ryan.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“Whatever you say.” Maddy says, folding her arms. “But it’s impossible when there are feelings involved.”

“There are no feelings involved.” Y/N insists, shaking her head. “Not like that.”

“You like him.” Maddy replies immediately, raising a smug brow.

“I don’t like-like him.”

“But you like him.”

“I don’t have a crush!” She argues.

“But you like him.” Maddy says again, grinning.

“I just think he’s-”

“Charming?” Maddy laughs. “Yeah, you've said it a million times, babe. You like him.”

Y/N sighs and turns her gaze to the beanbags, where Rafe is sitting, relaxed and glowing under the villa lights.

“Well…if I do like Ryan, it’s not the way I like Rafe.” Her voice softens as she watches him. “Ryan’s a great guy. He came in when I was all over the place. And he helped, you know? He pulled me out of my head when I was still dealing with the whole…cheating thing. But at the end of the day, he’s not Rafe.”

“You’re falling for Rafe.” Sarah lets out a squeal.

“D-Don’t say that.” Y/N warns, instantly flustered.

“Oh my god, did you stutter?” Maddy gasps, pointing at her. “You totally stuttered. You’re so falling for him!”

Y/N groans and hides her face in her hands as the girls burst into giggles around her.

Just then, Kiara steps into the kitchen, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor.

“Y/N?” She says, carefully.

Y/N lifts her head from her hands, eyebrows raised.

“Kie? What’s going on?”

Kiara glances at Maddy and Sarah, who go quiet, sipping their drinks. Then she turns back to Y/N, nervous but determined.

“I...I feel like a hypocrite.” She says quietly. “Calling Rafe a liar, saying I didn’t trust him and that he’d hurt you…when I messed up too.”

Y/N’s eyes widen slightly, already sensing what’s coming.

“Kie-” “I kissed JJ.” Kiara blurts out.

The room goes still. All three girls look up at her, stunned.

“And...we didn’t tell Abigail.” She continues. “She found out. And it sucked. Seeing her face like that…seeing how hurt she was.”

Y/N immediately opens her arms and Kiara walks into her embrace. Y/N rubs her back gently as she speaks.

“I think I know how Abi feels.” She murmurs. “And honestly, the best thing you can do is give her some time. Let everything breathe a little.”

She pulls back to look Kiara in the eyes.

“Was the kiss just in the moment? Or…did it mean something?” Y/N asks.

“I wanted to kiss him. And…I think he did too. He made the first move.”

Y/N sighs, but it’s not judgmental, it's more thoughtful.

“Then yeah…I think what hurt Abigail most wasn’t just the kiss, it was the fact you kept it from her.”

“So I should just… give her space?”

Y/N nods and Maddy and Sarah follow with quiet agreement.

“And the recoupling?” Kiara asks, almost in a whisper.

The girls exchange glances. No one jumps to answer.

“Just…go with your gut.” Y/N says gently. “If you talked to Abigail first, explained what happened and how you feel about JJ, then she probably will understand your choice. But if you’re unsure about JJ or if there’s no real feeling behind it...maybe it’s not worth the fallout.”

Kiara nods again, taking it all in. Then she leans in and hugs Y/N one more time.

“Thank you.” She murmurs.

“Anytime.” Y/N gives her a soft smile.

Confessional - Kiara “That talk with Y/N definitely helped me make up my mind.” Kiara says, nodding. “Honestly, someone should just hand that girl a psychology degree.”

Rafe sits by the firepit with JJ and Topper, the three of them nursing their drinks.

“Rafe?” Topper says cautiously.

“Yeah?” Rafe’s jaw tightens as he glances up at him.

“I just wanna say I’m sorry for what I said the other night.” Topper starts, shifting in his seat and Rafe gives a small nod, letting him continue.

“I shouldn’t have called Y/N fake or said she was playing you. I thought I was looking out for you, but...I was out of line. I’ve had time to think it over and I see both your sides now. I just want you to be happy, man.”

Rafe exhales slowly.

“Then don’t talk shit about her again.” He says simply. “And really, you owe her the apology, not me.”

“I figured you’d say that.” Topper nods, already expecting that. “And yeah, I will. I promise. So...we good?”

“We’re good, man.” Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle and nods.

They dab each other up and JJ leans back on the bench with a sigh, clearly growing impatient.

“Alright, can we get to the real crisis here?” JJ says.

The guys glance over at him.

“What now?” Rafe asks, lifting his glass.

“I, uh…I kissed Kiara last night. And I haven’t told Abigail.” JJ reveals.

“Shit.” Topper’s eyes widen.

“I know. It just…happened. And I don’t regret it. Kiara and I had a moment. I kinda wanna see where it goes.”

“And Abigail?” Rafe presses.

“I like her too.” JJ admits. “I’m a mess.”

“Then be straight with her. Don’t leave her in the dark.” Rafe says, the memory of his own screw-ups flickering behind his eyes.

“She’s gonna hate me.” JJ mutters.

“She might be pissed, sure. But she deserves the truth, JJ.” Rafe looks at him, voice softer now.

“And you better do it before the recoupling.” Topper adds.

JJ stands up like he’s ready to go and then a loud ping echoes.

“I got a text!” Sarah shouts from the kitchen. “Islanders, please gather at the firepit. #decisiontime #whowillitbe.”

JJ freezes, then drops back down onto the bench with a groan.

“Fuck.” He mutters.

Rafe gives his back a sympathetic smack while the boys let out a collective sigh.

Confessional - JJ “I’m fucked. This whole thing is fucked.” He runs a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

The Islanders begin gathering slowly, one by one taking their seats beside their current partners. A phone chimes, slicing through the chatter.

“Boys.” Pope reads. “Please stand at the front of the firepit.”

The guys exchange a few glances before getting to their feet and making their way to the front. The girls shift in their seats, anticipation building as they prepare for the recoupling.

Maddy’s phone buzzes first. She jumps up with a grin, practically glowing.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She begins, her voice light. “Because he’s made me laugh more than anyone before. He’s sweet, he’s fun and I always feel at ease when I’m around him. So the boy I wanna couple up with is…Kelce.”

He jogs over, plants a kiss on her lips and she giggles as they sit back down together, his arm draping naturally around her shoulder.

Next up is Sarah, who stands and delivers a short but heartfelt speech. She smiles as she chooses John B and he walks over, grabbing her and kissing her. Their kiss turns intense fast, drawing whistles and laughter from the others.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough!” Someone calls and they break apart, laughing as they return to their seats.

Alyssa stands next. Her expression is a little more serious.

“I'd like to couple up with this boy, because even though things haven’t exactly been smooth between us lately.” She says. “I still believe there’s something worth holding onto.” She glances at Topper. “So I’m choosing to couple up with…Topper.”

He walks over, hugs her a little longer than expected and they sit down quietly.

Y/N stands up slowly, smoothing out her dress and letting out a small breath as all eyes fall on her.

“I wanna couple up with this boy because…” She begins, voice a little unsteady. “Even though we haven’t known each other that long...being around him just feels easy.”

She lets out a quick breath, eyes flicking toward him.

“Okay, not always easy.” She admits with a small laugh. “It’s been a bit messy, if I’m honest. But somehow, it still feels real.”

Rafe watches her, lips twitching into a subtle smile.

“We’ve had our ups and downs already. But there’s something there. And no matter how things have gone…I keep coming back to him.”

Her voice softens at the end, eyes lingering on him now.

“So yeah. The boy I wanna couple up with…is Rafe.”

He’s already on his feet before she finishes, crossing the space between them in a few steps. He wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her just slightly, kissing her without saying a word. She smiles into it, arms winding naturally around his neck like she’s done it a hundred times.

“Hey!” Sarah calls out, teasing. “You told me and John B to keep it PG!”

Everyone laughs as they finally break apart and settle on the bench together. Rafe turns to her, eyes scanning her face.

“You’re not wearing that…lip stuff tonight?” He asks, voice lower now.

“You always kiss it off anyway. Figured I’d skip the routine.” She grins. He chuckles, hand settling on her waist again as she leans into him. He presses a kiss to her temple, then turns his attention back to the firepit, still holding her.

Abigail rises slowly.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She says. “Because he’s funny, he’s sweet and from the moment we met, he’s had this really kind and calming energy. I’ve loved getting to know him, and I’d really like to see where this could go.” She exhales. “So the boy I wanna couple up with is…Ryan.”

Ryan’s eyes widen. He turns instinctively to look at Y/N, who mirrors his expression before giving him an encouraging grin.

He walks over to Abigail, kisses her cheek and takes the seat beside her.

JJ, still standing at the front, furrows his brow in confusion. He glances at Abigail across the firepit. But she doesn’t meet his eyes.

“That was…unexpected.” Ryan whispers to Abigail.

“Not really.” She replies, calmly meeting his eyes.

Ryan relaxes a little more in his seat, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Cleo stands next and confidently chooses Pope. Their kiss is sweet and unhurried before they settle down again.

Finally, Kiara rises.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She sighs. “Because he’s really handsome, really funny and somehow always has me laughing until I can’t breathe. And...there’s a spark there. Something worth exploring. So, the boy I wanna couple up with is…JJ.”

JJ walks over slowly, hugging her a little awkwardly in front of everyone before they both sit down with matching sighs.

When the recoupling wraps up, the islanders scatter. Some heading toward the fire pit, others toward the daybeds, settling in with their partners.

Ryan and Abigail walk over to one of the couches, drinks in hand, the warm night buzzing around them.

“I gotta say.” Ryan starts, settling in beside her. “I’m really glad you picked me.”

“You are?” Abigail asks, her smile soft but a little surprised.

“Yeah.” He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was actually telling Y/N earlier…I feel like we’ve got something. A connection, I guess. I mean…we came in together, which probably made it easier. But being around you just feels…natural. Comfortable. You’re really sweet. And stunning, obviously. And now I’m rambling.” He lets out a nervous laugh.

Abigail laughs too.

“No, it’s okay.” She pauses, then adds more seriously, “I do feel that connection, too. But I want to be honest with you. Right before the recoupling…I found out something happened between JJ and Kiara. And I won’t lie, it did influence my choice.”

“Okay.” Ryan’s smile dims just a little, but he nods, taking it in.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m using you or that it’s not real. Because I meant what I said up there. I chose you because I see something with you.”

Ryan leans forward slightly, his expression earnest.

“I didn’t know about the JJ and Kiara thing. I knew he wanted to talk to her, but that’s it. And honestly? I don’t think you’d ever use me like that. I see you. Or at least, I’m starting to. And yeah, maybe everything's moving fast and it’s all a bit chaotic right now, but I’m here and I want to see where this goes. Whenever you are ready.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot. It is a lot right now.” Abigail nods, her shoulders relaxing a little.

“Come here.” He opens his arms gently. She leans in and hugs him tight, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Confessional - Ryan “Yeah, I know she’s got a lot on her mind and things are messy right now…but I’m genuinely glad she chose me.” He grins. “I wanna keep getting to know her. See where this goes.”

The islanders start making their way into the villa to get ready for the night. Rafe walks through the flower-lined corridor, carrying Y/N in his arms like a bride. She giggles the whole way, her laughter echoing as they step inside and the boys, already lounging around, erupt in cheers.

“Here comes the bride!” JJ hollers, grinning as the others join in with whistles and claps.

Rafe gently sets her down at the foot of the stairs. She turns to smile at him, but before she can fully walk away, he catches her hand and pulls her back into him, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

“Don’t take too long.” He murmurs. She giggles, giving him another quick peck before heading upstairs.

In the dressing room, the girls are wiping off their makeup and chatting about the day. The door swings open and Y/N walks in to a chorus of playful screams.

“There she is!” Maddy teases. “How are you feeling Mrs. Cameron?”

Y/N blushes, grinning wide.

“Honestly? My cheeks hurt from smiling. I feel…giddy.” She replies as the girls laugh with her, the energy light and warm.

A few feet away, Kiara is taking off her earrings when Abigail approaches her quietly.

“Hey.” Abigail says.

“Hey.” Kiara glances over.

“I just...I wanted to say sorry. If I came off mean earlier.”

“You didn’t.” Kiara assures her gently. “But you have every right to be upset. I should’ve told you. I get it.”

“I’m not mad.” Abigail shakes her head. “I was just... frustrated, I guess. But I see the way you and JJ are with each other. And I don’t want to be in the middle of that.”

Kiara steps in for a hug and Abigail wraps her arms around her without hesitation.

“I love you.” Kiara whispers. “And I’m really sorry for how it all happened.”

“Love you too.” Abigail says softly, pulling back with a small smile before going to change into her pajamas.

Confessional - Abigail “Me and JJ…it was fun while it lasted. All two days of it.” She lets out a small laugh. “But this is Love Island. I can’t be mad at him for wanting to see where things go with Kie. And I’m definitely not mad at her either. It is what it is.”

Later, as the girls trickle downstairs, Abigail makes her way over to JJ’s bed. He looks up, running a hand through his hair as she approaches.

“Hey.” He says.

She sits down where he pats beside him.

“I know about you and Kiara.” She starts, voice calm. “And I’m not mad. Or hurt. I’ve had time to think and I can see she really wants to give whatever’s between you two a shot. And I don’t want to be in the way of that.”

JJ nods, his expression sincere.

“I should’ve pulled you aside sooner. I messed up, and I take full responsibility for that. I’m sorry, Abigail.” He apologizes and she nods, a soft smile on her lips.

“Thank you for saying that.”

He nods back and with a quiet understanding between them, she stands and heads to her bed, where Ryan is already lying down, looking up at her with a warm smile.

Meanwhile, Y/N steps into the bedroom, the soft swish of silk the only sound as she crosses the room in her yellow pajamas. The camisole clings delicately to her frame, lace tracing her bust and hem, matching the floral silk shorts that sit snugly on her hips. Rafe doesn’t even try to hide it as his eyes follow every step, the straw from his water bottle paused at his lips.

He shifts under the covers and lifts the duvet for her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That color.” He mutters, voice low and a little hoarse. “Looks too damn good on you.”

She smiles, settling on her side of the bed and placing her phone and water bottle on the bedside table. But before she can fully lie down, Rafe reaches over, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest. She melts into him, a quiet laugh leaving her lips as she tucks her face against his neck.

Then, a hesitant voice breaks the moment.

“Hey…Y/N?”

Topper approaches slowly.

“Hey, Topper. You alright?”nShe sits up slightly, turning to him with a concerned smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly as he glances between her and Rafe. “I just…I wanted to apologize. For what I said the other day. Calling you fake, saying you were playing Rafe…that was outta line.”

“It’s fine, really-” Y/N shakes her head.

“No, I need to say it. I was out of line and you didn’t deserve that.” He cuts in, firm but sincere.

She exhales softly, then moves to crawl across Rafe to reach him. She opens her arms and Topper doesn’t hesitate to hug her back.

From behind her, Rafe’s eyes drop to the way her shorts ride up, his gaze darkening slightly.

“Yo, Rafe.” Topper teases as they pull apart, catching the look. “You’re drooling, man.”

Y/N giggles, looking over her shoulder to find Rafe still staring. She smacks his chest playfully.

“My eyes are up here.”

“I know.” He murmurs, eyes finally lifting to meet hers.

She turns back to Topper with a gentle smile.

“Thanks for apologizing.” She mutters and Topper nods, offering a final glance to them both before heading to his own bed.

“Good man.” Rafe calls after him.

As soon as he’s gone, Y/N moves to her side of the bed again, but Rafe isn’t having it. He pulls her back into his lap with ease, arms around her waist and she laughs as her arms drape over his shoulders.

The villa goes dark, a chorus of sleepy goodnights floating through the air.

Rafe leans in, not wasting a second, capturing Y/N’s lips with his. She kisses him back eagerly, fumbling to pull the duvet over them as if it might shield them from the intensity brewing between them.

His hands find her waist, fingers splaying and sliding down to her hips, then lower. Her body shifts, brushing against him in a way that makes him let out a low, guttural groan.

“Sorry.” She breathes out, her voice shaky as she adjusts the blanket.

“Don’t…don’t apologize.” He murmurs, eyes fluttering open in the dark. “Fuck, I-I want you.”

“Ray…” She pulls back just enough, the air between them cooling. There’s hesitation in her voice now and it makes him blink, thrown off.

“Wh-Am I moving too fast or something?” He asks, voice suddenly laced with concern.

Her hand finds the back of his neck, her fingers trailing gently through his hair, grounding him even as she hesitates.

“I…is kissing okay? Just kissing, for now?”

Relief and restraint flash across his features as he nods quickly.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s more than okay. We don’t even have to do anything. I just wanna be with you.” He murmurs. She exhales, her shoulders relaxing.

“It’s just…it’s our first night back together. After everything that’s happened, I don’t wanna rush anything.”

“I get it. You lead the way.” He reaches up, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear with the softest touch.

She gives him a grateful, almost shy smile, then leans in again. Their lips meet gently at first, a slow burn, until she deepens the kiss with a quiet hunger that still makes his head spin.

Rafe’s hands slide back to her waist, gripping her just right, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t go further.

He’s content kissing her like this. Wanting more, but respecting the pace she sets.

And when she finally rests her head against his chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around her, he presses a kiss to her hair.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He whispers like a vow into the dark.

to be continued...

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gyuuberryy · 2 days ago

Text

don't look back!

pairing: yandere!jungwon x reader

genre: backrooms au, thriller, psycho!jungwon

synopsis: while working late at the waterpark, you slip through reality and fall into the nightmare realm known as the backrooms. you think you’re alone—until you meet jungwon, a charming boy who offers comfort, survival tips, and the promise of an escape together. but something about him doesn’t feel right. the more time you spend together, the more his affection turns eerie... and the deeper you fall into his trap.

warnings (MDNI 18+ only!!) : smut(corruption kink, oral f receiving, fingering, mild marking/biting, unprotected sex), yandere themes, obsession, slight horror themes, manipulation, slight dub con, choking, some degradation, dom!jungwon, swearing, not proofread

note: this is probably my darkest work, and also my first time writing smut!! i hope you like it >///<

word count: 10.3k

if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3

you had been working late at the waterpark again, the last employee left on closing duty.

the usual nighttime sounds surrounded you—the steady drip of water from the slides, the faint hum of the filtration system powering down, the occasional creak of the structure settling. it was peaceful in a way, being alone in the empty park after hours, though tonight the silence felt heavier than usual.

you pulled your hoodie tighter around yourself as you walked past the wave pool, the water still and dark now that the pumps were off. your sneakers squeaked against the wet tiles, the sound echoing strangely in the vast, empty space.

as you moved toward the tower of spiral slides to complete your final check, you couldn't shake the feeling that the air had grown colder, thicker somehow.

that was when you heard the first laugh—a high-pitched, playful sound that seemed to come from the top of the blue slide.

you froze, your grip tightening on the flashlight. that couldn't be right. you'd checked every area twice already, made certain no guests remained. the park was supposed to be empty.

"hello?" you called out, your voice steady despite the sudden chill running down your spine. "the park is closed."

there was no response at first, just the continued dripping of water and that odd, heavy silence.

you were about to dismiss it as your imagination when the laughter came again, closer this time, seeming to bounce off the fibreglass walls of the slides.

your pulse quickened as you approached the staircase leading up to the slide platform. the metal steps were slick with condensation under your hands as you climbed, your flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

"if someone's up here, you need to leave now," you said, forcing authority into your voice even as your palms grew damp.

when you reached the top, the mouth of the slide gaped before you, a circle of darkness that seemed deeper than it should be. you crouched to shine your light down its length, expecting to see nothing but empty plastic. instead, there was movement—something pale flickering at the edge of your vision.

before you could react, the world twisted around you. it wasn't wind that pulled at you, but something far more unnatural. the slide's opening seemed to stretch, the darkness within it suddenly alive and hungry. you tried to scramble back, but your feet slipped on the wet platform.

as you fell forward, you realised this wasn't just a slide anymore. the walls pressed in around you, warm and yielding like flesh, the air thick with the cloying scent of chlorine and something decaying. you flailed, trying to find purchase, but there was nothing to grab onto as you tumbled through that impossible space.

then there was only nothingness.

the impact knocked the air from your lungs before you even realised you'd stopped falling. your elbows stung where they'd slammed against the tile, your ribs aching like you'd been folded in half.

for several terrifying seconds you just lay there, gasping, your vision swimming as you tried to remember how to breathe. when you finally managed to push yourself up, your hands slipped on the damp floor—not the smooth fibreglass of the slide, but something older and cracked that felt wrong.

the slide was gone.

you whirled around, panic rising like floodwater in your chest, but there was only a wall behind you—water-stained wallpaper peeling away to reveal moldering drywall beneath. the cheerful cartoon dolphins printed on it were faded, their smiles stretched and warped where the paper bubbled.

your breath came in short, sharp bursts as you staggered to your feet, the room tilting dangerously around you. this wasn't possible. you'd just been at work. you'd just been checking the slides.

the space around you stretched endlessly in every direction, a nightmare parody of the waterpark you knew. the same blue-and-yellow colour scheme, but bleached and sickly under flickering fluorescents. the wave pools were empty except for stagnant puddles that reflected the ceiling back at you in distorted fragments. the air clung to your skin, thick with the scent of mildew and that same overpowering chlorine sting—but underneath it, something sweet. cloying. like fruit left to rot in standing water.

"hello?" your voice cracked on the word, barely louder than a whisper.

when no answer came, you tried again, louder: "is anyone here?" the sound died almost instantly, as if the humid air had swallowed it whole.

you moved forward without meaning to, your sneakers sticking slightly to the tacky floor with each step. the lights buzzed overhead, their flickering intensifying as you passed beneath them. down one hallway lined with lockers rusted shut, past another shallow pool that had no visible edge—just tile that stretched on until it blurred into the distance. your fingers trailed along the wall for balance, coming away damp.

a sound from above made you freeze. not the creak of old pipes, but something... wetter. like flesh dragging across metal. you didn't look up. couldn't look up. your pulse roared in your ears as you forced yourself to keep moving, your breath coming too fast.

in the reflection of a murky puddle, you saw something move behind you—a pale shape where nothing should be. when you spun around, there was only an empty hallway. but the puddle rippled, as if whatever had been there had just stepped out of view.

you broke into a run.

the corridors twisted in ways that made no sense, leading you past the same cracked mirror three times, past a snack stand with its menu board melted like wax. your lungs burned, your thighs aching, but you didn't stop until you reached a small kiddie pool tucked between two crumbling walls. its cheerful mosaic tiles were chipped and faded, the painted sea creatures now just vague smudges of colour. you collapsed beside it, pressing your back against the wall as you struggled to catch your breath.

that was when you heard the whistling.

low. off-key. a tune you almost recognised but couldn't place. your blood turned to ice in your veins.

the sound was getting closer.

you scrambled behind a rusted lifeguard chair, its paint flaking away under your desperate grip.

the whistling continued, unhurried, accompanied now by the steady tap of footsteps against tile. a shadow stretched long across the floor before its owner appeared—a boy, maybe your age, dressed in a staff polo that looked freshly laundered. his black hair was neatly styled, his sneakers pristine where yours were soaked. the name tag on his chest caught the light when he moved, but the letters swam when you tried to focus on them.

he saw you immediately. of course he did.

"there you are," he said, as if you'd been keeping him waiting. his voice was pleasant, almost friendly, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. they stayed dark and unreadable as he took a step closer.

"it's not safe to be out alone."

you pressed yourself harder against the wall, your mouth dry. he looked human. normal. but nothing here was normal.

when he extended his hand, his fingers were clean. no dirt under his nails. no dampness on his skin.

"come on," he urged, tilting his head slightly. "before they find you."

above you, the lights flickered again. somewhere in the distance, something heavy dragged itself through water.

his smile never wavered.

your fingers twitched before you even realised you were reaching for him—some primal part of your brain screaming that warmth meant safety, that another human voice in this suffocating silence was worth clinging to, no matter how wrong this all felt.

his hand closed around yours without hesitation, his skin almost feverishly hot compared to the clammy chill clinging to your own.

"i'm jungwon," he said, pulling you to your feet with unsettling ease, like your weight meant nothing.

his fingers lingered a second too long when he let go, leaving behind a tingling imprint that made you want to rub your palm against your jeans.

"you're lucky i found you first."

the words slithered under your skin. first before who? before what?

he was already moving, his steps light and certain against the warped tiles as he led you down another decaying hallway. you followed because there was no other choice, your sneakers squeaking against the damp floor while his made no sound at all.

when you opened your mouth to speak, your voice came out cracked and thin: "where—"

"this place doesn't have a name," he interrupted, glancing back with a smile that didn’t crinkle the corners of his eyes. "not one you'd understand."

his gaze flickered over your face, lingering on the way you bit your lip, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat.

"i call it the aquatic sector."

your breath hitched. the backrooms. those creepy internet stories you'd skimmed late at night, half-believing, half-mocking.

"like... the backrooms?" you whispered, the word tasting absurd even as it left your tongue.

jungwon's smile didn’t waver, "something like that." he said it so casually, like he was discussing the weather, and the sheer normality of his tone made your stomach twist.

he turned a corner without checking if you followed—of course you did, where else would you go?—and you realised with a jolt that he knew this place. the way his shoulders never tensed at the distant, wet sounds echoing through the pipes. the way he stepped over a particular cracked tile without looking down, avoiding the dark stain spreading beneath it like he’d done it a hundred times before.

when he finally pushed open a door marked staff only, the room beyond was so jarringly intact it made your eyes water. clean towels stacked neatly on a shelf. unopened cans of fruit lined up in a tiny pantry. a battery-powered lantern cast warm light over a faded couch, its cushions dented from use. it looked like a lifeguard break room plucked straight from your own world and dropped here, untouched by the decay choking everything outside.

"this zone's safe," jungwon said, watching your face as you took it in. he grabbed a water bottle from the cabinet and held it out to you, the plastic crinkling in his grip. "but only for now."

your fingers trembled as you took it, the condensation cool against your palm. you wanted to drink so badly your throat ached with it, but the way he watched you—head slightly tilted, dark eyes tracking the bob of your throat as you swallowed nervously—made your grip tighten without opening it.

something about the way his smile didn't reach his eyes, about how his uniform was still perfectly dry when your clothes clung damp and clammy to your skin, about how he'd known exactly where to find you in this endless maze.

"you should drink," he said, softer now.

he took a step closer and you could smell the faint citrus of his shampoo, so out of place here it made your pulse skip.

"you'll get dehydrated fast in this sector."

his fingers brushed yours as he reached to twist the cap off for you, and for a dizzying second you considered letting him. his touch was the only warm thing in this entire place. but then the pipes above you groaned, a wet, meaty sound that had you jerking back, the water bottle slipping from your grip to roll across the floor.

jungwon's expression darkened for just a second—a flicker of something sharp behind his pleasant mask—before he sighed and crouched to retrieve it.

"you'll learn," he said, more to himself than to you as he placed the bottle carefully on the table.

outside, something heavy splashed into one of the pools, the sound echoing through the thin walls. when you tensed, jungwon's hand settled between your shoulder blades, warm even through your damp hoodie.

"don't worry," he murmured, his breath stirring your hair. "i won't let anything hurt you."

the promise should have been comforting. so why did it feel like a threat?

time bent around you like wet paper, the hours stretching and warping until you couldn’t tell if minutes or days had passed.

jungwon became your only constant, your lifeline in this rotting, endless maze. he told you where to sleep (the staff break room, always with the door locked), when to hide (when the lights flickered in a pattern that wasn’t random), which corridors to avoid (the ones with the faint smell of overripe bananas). but he never explained why.

"don’t follow the laughter," he said one evening, or what you thought was evening, as you both sat cross-legged on the floor of the break room, sharing a can of peaches.

the syrup was too sweet, clinging to your teeth, but you ate it anyway because hunger gnawed at your stomach like a living thing.

you frowned. "what laughter?"

jungwon’s fingers paused where they’d been tracing patterns on the tile floor. he didn’t look up.

"you’ll know it when you hear it. it sounds almost human. almost." his voice dropped on the last word, and something in his tone made you set the can down, your appetite gone.

"that’s not an answer," you muttered.

he finally lifted his gaze, his dark eyes unreadable. "it’s the only one i can give you."

you wanted to push, to demand more, but then the walls breathed—a slow, wet expansion of the water-damaged drywall that made you recoil. jungwon didn’t even flinch.

"also," he continued, as if nothing had happened, "don’t trust water that moves on its own. and never, never go into a glowing slide."

"why not?"

he leaned forward suddenly, close enough that you could see the faint scar on his lower lip, the way his pupils swallowed the dim light.

"because some doors only open one way," he whispered. then he pulled back, his smile returning like a curtain falling.

"eat your peaches."

you noticed things, over time. the way the walls never dripped when jungwon was near, how the flickering fluorescents steadied when he walked beneath them, as if they were afraid to sputter out in his presence. you noticed how he watched you—constantly—his gaze lingering on the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how your fingers trembled when you were tired.

and then you found the notebook.

it was tucked under his pillow, the leather cover worn soft. you hadn’t meant to snoop, but he’d been gone longer than usual (to "check the perimeter," whatever that meant), and the silence had pressed in on you until you needed something to focus on besides the sound of your own heartbeat.

the first page was a sketch of your face, rendered in startling detail. your lips slightly parted in sleep, your eyelashes casting shadows on your cheeks. you turned the page.

another. another. dozens of drawings, all of you—your hands clutching a blanket, your back arched in alarm when something had banged on the door the night before, your tear-streaked cheeks from when you’d broken down sobbing your third day here.

your breath caught.

"you’re beautiful when you’re afraid."

you hadn’t heard him come in. jungwon stood in the doorway, his head tilted, his expression unreadable. your fingers clenched around the notebook, the paper crinkling under your grip.

he stepped closer, his movements smooth and predatory.

"just kidding," he murmured, but his eyes—dark and endless—never left yours.

he pried the notebook from your hands with terrifying gentleness, his thumb brushing over a sketch of your crying face. "you’re beautiful all the time."

the air between you thickened, the silence broken only by the distant sound of something heavy dragging itself through water. jungwon didn’t seem to hear it. his gaze burned into you, possessive and hungry, and for the first time, you realised the most dangerous thing in this place wasn’t the shifting halls or the things that lurked in the water.

it was the boy standing in front of you, smiling like he already knew every way you’d break.

the air in the filtration room had been particularly thick that day, clinging to your skin like a second layer of sweat as you followed jungwon through yet another routine patrol.

you'd memorised the path by now—past the cracked wave pool tiles, left at the concession stand with its permanently stuck "hot dogs $3.99" sign, right at the third set of rusted lockers.

his flashlight beam cut through the perpetual twilight, illuminating dust motes that swirled like tiny galaxies in the stale air.

"wait here," jungwon said suddenly, his hand squeezing your wrist just a bit too tight before releasing.

the filtration tunnel gaped before you both, its mouth dark and damp.

"i need to check something. don't move." his smile didn't reach his eyes as he said it, the way it never did anymore.

you nodded, forcing your breathing to stay even as you watched him disappear into the tunnel. the moment his light vanished around the first bend, your body thrummed with nervous energy. this was it. you'd been watching for weeks, noting which corridors made him tense, which doors he always locked extra carefully. the copper-scented hallway to your right had been his most consistent avoidance.

the first step away from the tunnel entrance sent a jolt of electricity up your spine. your sneakers made barely a sound against the slick tiles, your movements practised after so many days of following his lead through these endless halls. the chlorine-copper smell grew stronger with each step, so potent it made your eyes water and your tongue feel coated in pennies.

halfway down the corridor, your foot caught on something soft. you barely stifled a scream as you looked down to see what appeared to be a waterlogged park uniform, the fabric bloated and discoloured. something about the way it lay—too flat, too empty—made your stomach turn. you stepped over it carefully, your pulse pounding in your ears.

the maintenance ladder appeared like a mirage, its rusted rungs nearly blending into the water-stained wall. you tested the first step with your weight, wincing as the metal groaned in protest. every creak seemed deafening in the silent hallway. as you climbed, the air grew noticeably colder, each breath forming visible clouds that dissipated into the gloom above you.

at the top, the platform was smaller than you expected, barely three feet across. the glowing slide pulsed before you, its eerie green light casting strange shadows across your trembling hands. up close, the hum you'd noticed from below vibrated through your teeth, setting your nerves on edge.

you hesitated, one hand hovering over the slide's entrance. jungwon's warning echoed in your mind, but so did the memory of his sketches, the way his fingers lingered just a beat too long when he touched you. the way he'd started saying "we" instead of "you" when talking about the future.

the decision crystallised in an instant. you launched yourself forward, the slide's surface shockingly cold even through your clothes. for one glorious moment, you felt weightless, the current carrying you forward with exhilarating speed.

then the world twisted.

the temperature plummeted so fast your muscles locked in protest. the smooth tunnel contorted violently, the walls rippling like disturbed water before going rigid at impossible angles. your scream caught in your throat as you were flung sideways, then upside down, the laws of physics abandoning you completely.

when you finally crashed into a brackish pool, the impact drove what little air remained from your lungs. the water tasted foul—salt and something organic, something living. you thrashed toward the surface, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and terror.

breaking through into the air brought no relief. the cavernous room stretched endlessly in every direction, the ceiling lost in shadow. the pool's edges weren't tile but something porous and veined, pulsing faintly in time with your racing heartbeat.

then you saw him.

jungwon stood perfectly still at the water's edge, his clothes soaked through as if he'd swum through miles of tunnels to reach you. water dripped from his hair into his eyes, but he didn't blink. the quiet rage radiating from him was more terrifying than any monster this place could have conjured.

"didn't i say," he began, his voice deceptively soft as he stepped into the pool, "not to trust glowing slides?" each word carried the weight of betrayal, his hands flexing at his sides.

the water resisted as you tried to back away, its viscosity suddenly wrong - too thick, too clinging. jungwon closed the distance effortlessly, his fingers wrapping around your biceps with bruising force as he hauled you onto the slick ground.

your body hit the floor with a wet slap, the impact reverberating through your bones. jungwon loomed over you, his knees caging your hips, his breath coming in sharp bursts that fogged in the frigid air. up close, you could see the way his pupils had swallowed nearly all the brown in his eyes, leaving only thin rings of colour around bottomless black.

"you could have died," he hissed, his voice cracking on the last word.

one hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing roughly over your cheekbone.

"do you have any idea what's out there? what would have happened if i hadn't found you?"

tears spilled hot down your cheeks, the salt taste mixing with the brackish water still dripping from your hair.

"i just wanted to go home," you choked out, your voice barely audible over the distant, watery echoes of the cavern.

jungwon's expression fractured. he pressed his forehead to yours, his nose brushing against your tear-streaked skin.

"this is your home," he whispered, the words vibrating through your skull. "i'm your home."

his grip gentled as he pulled you upright, his arms wrapping around your shivering form in a mockery of comfort. one hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"don't ever do that again," he murmured, his lips grazing your temple. the kiss felt like a brand.

"next time..." his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in your hair. "next time i might not be able to save you."

the unspoken threat hung between you, heavier than the humid air, darker than the endless corridors stretching in every direction. as he helped you to your feet, his arm slung possessively around your waist, you realised with dawning horror that you'd just proven his worst fear.

and in doing so, you'd given him the perfect excuse to never let you out of his sight again.

that night, something inside you finally cracked open—not with the sharp snap of defiance, but with the slow, inevitable splintering of resistance worn down by exhaustion and something dangerously close to surrender.

you sat shivering on the edge of his mattress, the damp fabric of your clothes clinging to your goosebumped skin like a second layer of shame. the scent of chlorine still clung to your hair, undercut by something darker—something organic and vaguely sweet, like fruit left to rot in standing water, which seemed like a recirring scent in this place.

jungwon knelt before you, a threadbare towel in his hands, his movements methodical as he dragged the rough fabric up your calf. the friction should have warmed you, but you only felt colder with each pass, your skin pebbling under his touch.

"you never listen," he whispered, his voice almost affectionate, the way one might scold a beloved but wayward pet.

his fingers tightened slightly around your ankle—not enough to hurt, just enough to make the bones shift under his grip.

"do you know how many rules you broke today?" his thumb pressed into the hollow beneath your ankle bone, a silent demand for your attention.

you swallowed hard, your throat clicking with the motion. "i just—"

"shh," he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips. his skin tasted like salt and metal. "i know what you were trying to do. but we don't lie to each other, do we?"

his hand slid higher up your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, just shy of bruising. "say it."

your breath hitched. "no. we don't lie."

"good girl." the praise curled warm in your stomach despite everything.

his thumb hooked into the waistband of your soaked shorts, tugging them down your legs with agonising slowness.

"i should punish you," he mused, his breath hot against your inner thigh as he pressed a kiss there, "but you look so pathetic like this."

his teeth grazed your skin—not biting, just testing. "all shivering and wide-eyed. like a drowned kitten."

you should have stopped him. should have pushed him away. but your hands stayed limp at your sides, fingers twitching against the mattress as he pulled you closer to the edge, his grip firm on your hips.

"jungwon—"

"tell me you're sorry," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the crease of your thigh.

your pulse pounded in your ears. "i'm sorry."

"for what, exactly?" his tongue darted out to taste you, just once, making your stomach clench.

"for—for trying to leave." the admission tasted bitter on your tongue.

he hummed, the vibration travelling straight to your core. "and?"

"for not listening." your voice broke on the last word.

his mouth found you then, soft at first—just the barest flick of his tongue that made your toes curl. then deeper, firmer, until you couldn't stifle the gasp that tore from your throat. your thighs trembled around his head, your fingers twisting into the sheets as he worked you open with his tongue, each lick sending sparks up your spine.

"that's better," he murmured against you, the vibrations making your hips jerk.

"this is what you need, isn't it? to be reminded?" his fingers dug into your hips, holding you still as his tongue circled your clit with devastating precision. "to be taken care of?"

you couldn't answer. your thoughts had dissolved into static, your body no longer your own. when you whimpered his name, he hummed in approval, the sound curling low in your belly.

"use your words, sweetheart." his breath was hot against your soaked skin. "tell me what you want."

"please—"

"please what?" he nipped at your inner thigh, just hard enough to sting. "you have to say it."

your vision blurred at the edges. "please don't stop."

he rewarded you immediately, his tongue laving over you in broad strokes before he pressed two fingers inside, curling them expertly until your walls fluttered around him.

"like that?" he asked, his voice rough. "you want me to make you cum? to remind you who you belong to?"

you nodded frantically, your hips rocking against his hand.

"say it." his fingers stilled inside you, denying you the friction you craved. "say you're mine."

the words stuck in your throat for only a second before you choked them out: "i'm yours."

he crooked his fingers just right, the heel of his palm grinding against you in time with each thrust, and you shattered—your back arching off the mattress, your walls fluttering around him as pleasure ripped through you like a riptide.

he kissed you after, his lips tasting of you, his grip bruising on your jaw as he held you in place.

"you're mine," he said again, his voice rough, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the brown of his eyes.

"no one else gets to have you. not even reality."

his words settled into your bones like a curse. you wanted to protest. wanted to tell him you belonged to yourself, that this place wasn't your home, that you would find a way out. but when he pulled you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you didn't resist. and when his fingers traced idle patterns over your hip—claiming and possessive—you let him.

because the worst part wasn't the way he touched you.

it was the way your body arched into his hand when he reached for you again.

the way your breath caught when he whispered, "again."

the way you obeyed.

after that night, the invisible leash around your throat pulled taut like a noose gradually tightening. jungwon became your shadow, your keeper, your only tether to anything resembling safety in this rotting labyrinth.

when he did leave—always with that same murmured excuse about "checking the perimeter"—the backrooms seemed to come alive with malicious intent. the first time it happened, you sat perfectly still for exactly three minutes after he left, counting each second by the erratic drip of water from a ceiling pipe.

then the lights began stuttering like a dying man's pulse.

"jungwon?" you called out, immediately hating how small your voice sounded.

the hallway ahead warped suddenly, the tiles rippling like water disturbed by some unseen force. when you turned to run back to the break room, the door you'd just come through was gone—replaced by a staircase that definitely hadn't been there before, its steps slick with something dark and viscous.

"no, no, no," you chanted under your breath, pressing your back against the wall as the staircase shifted again, the top step now leading to a ceiling vent far too small for any human to crawl through.

that was when you heard it—a wet, clicking sound from the darkness beneath the stairs, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of overripe bananas and something metallic. your stomach turned as the clicking grew louder, more rhythmic, like dozens of tiny bones knocking together.

jungwon found you exactly seven minutes later curled behind a stack of mouldy pool noodles, your nails digging bloody crescents into your palms.

"i told you not to wander," he sighed, crouching before you.

his fingers were warm when they pried yours open, his thumbs rubbing circles into your clenched fists.

"what did you see?"

"the stairs—they moved," you gasped, still trembling. "and there was something under—"

"shhh," he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips.

his eyes darted to the hallway behind you, suddenly sharp. "don't say it out loud. this place listens."

he helped you stand, his arm slipping around your waist in a way that might have been comforting if not for how easily his fingers spanned nearly the entire width of your torso. "let's get you cleaned up."

you tried to assert yourself exactly once, three days later.

it started as a simple request—"i need space"—but the words came out cracked and brittle, like you were begging rather than demanding.

jungwon paused in the middle of rewrapping your blistered foot (when had you gotten blisters?), his head tilting in that unnervingly precise way of his.

"space?" he repeated, the word curling oddly in his mouth.

his smile bloomed slow and sweet, like blood spreading through water. "oh, sweetheart. there's nothing but space here."

his fingers brushed your ankle, trailing upward with deliberate slowness.

"endless, hungry space." when his hand reached your knee, he squeezed just enough to make your breath hitch. "i'm just protecting you."

you swallowed hard. "from what?"

jungwon leaned in so close his lips brushed your ear, his next words a warm puff of air that made you shiver.

"from what happens to pretty things that get lost in the dark."

he pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching yours.

"this place listens to me. you don't want to hear what it says about you when i'm gone." his thumb traced your lower lip. "the way it licks its chops every time you stumble. the way the walls whisper about how sweet you'd taste."

that night, you woke abruptly to the feeling of something cool and padded encircling your wrists. your eyes flew open to find yourself in jungwon's lap, your arms secured to the bench with what looked like salvaged lifeguard rescue tubes—the orange foam frayed but still sturdy.

"w-what—" you stammered, panic surging as you tugged against the restraints.

"shhh, just for your safety," jungwon soothed, his fingers already carding through your hair. the casual ease with which he held you down sent ice through your veins.

"you were thrashing in your sleep again. nearly rolled right off the bench." he held up a can of peaches, the syrup glistening in the low light. "let's get some food in you, yeah?"

when you turned your head away, his grip tightened fractionally in your hair.

"now, now," he chided, popping the lid with a metallic snick. "none of that."

the first syrupy slice pressed against your lips was cold and cloying. "open."

the fight drained out of you with terrifying speed. by the third bite, you were chewing mechanically, the sweetness coating your tongue like medicine. jungwon's approving hum vibrated through you as he wiped a stray drop of syrup from your chin with his thumb—then sucked it clean with a soft, satisfied sound.

"good girl," he murmured, kissing each of your knuckles in turn. the shackles stayed on all night.

as the days bled together, resistance became a distant memory, as foreign as sunlight or fresh air.

his touches became your only constants—the steadying hand at your elbow when the floor suddenly slanted, the broad palm spanning your back when a corridor narrowed unexpectedly, the strong arms that lifted you effortlessly over patches of suspicious-looking water. in the hot pool (the one oasis in this rotting place, its waters always perfectly clear and heated), he would wrap around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as the steam curled around you both.

"feel good?" he'd murmur, his hands drifting along your arms beneath the water.

you'd nod silently, too tired to lie or protest. his heartbeat against your back was the only rhythm left in this place, the only thing that still made sense.

the backrooms themselves seemed to worship him. puddles stilled when he approached, their surfaces going eerily smooth. hallways straightened obediently at his approach.

once, when you caught your reflection in the pool's surface, it grinned at you—wide and knowing—even as your own face remained carefully blank. when you jerked back with a gasp, jungwon just tightened his arms around you.

"just a trick of the light," he murmured, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

the question burned in your chest for days before you finally found the courage to whisper it one night: "what are you?"

jungwon went very still, his fingers pausing where they'd been tracing nonsense patterns on your bare shoulder. for a long moment, the only sound was the distant drip of water and your own too-quick breathing.

"i used to be like you," he said at last, his voice soft with something almost like regret. "scared. lost. convinced there was a way out."

his hand returned to your shoulder, his thumb brushing the knob of your collarbone. "then i stopped pretending to be afraid. stopped fighting what this place wanted from me."

his lips grazed your temple, lingering just a second too long. "you'll understand soon."

the promise should have terrified you. should have sent you scrambling for escape. instead, a warm heaviness settled in your chest, spreading through your limbs like syrup. when he pulled you closer, you went without resistance, your head finding its familiar place against his shoulder.

outside your fragile bubble of warmth, the backrooms groaned and shifted—but here, cradled in jungwon's arms, the world held its breath. you closed your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull you into something like peace.

somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten how to fight.

somewhere deeper still, you'd stopped wanting to.

it had been weeks—or maybe months, you had no idea how the warped time her worked—since jungwon had let you out of his sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

you'd practised the request of wanting to sleep alone in your head for days, carefully framing it as concern for his own rest rather than your desperate need for space.

"you look tired," you ventured one evening as he rubbed your sore feet (when had you started letting him do that?).

your fingers played with the frayed edge of his sleeve, the fabric soft from countless washes in the pool's filtration runoff.

"maybe... maybe you should take a night for yourself. i'll be fine here."

jungwon's hands stilled on your instep. the silence stretched so long you could hear the drip-drip-drip of water from the ceiling vent counting out your racing heartbeat.

when he finally looked up, his smile didn't reach his eyes—those dark, fathomless eyes that always seemed to see straight through you.

"one night," he conceded, his thumb brushing the delicate bones of your ankle. the casual possession in that simple touch made your stomach clench.

"but scream if you need me." his fingers trailed up your calf, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "the walls carry sound beautifully here."

he left you in a small bunkroom near the filtration systems, the space eerily pristine compared to the decay everywhere else. thick blankets covered the narrow bed, their faded nautical patterns almost cheerful under the glow of luminous pool tiles embedded beneath the frame.

you waited until his footsteps faded completely before letting out the breath you'd been holding.

the second the door clicked shut, the air grew heavier, pressing against your skin like wet hands. you told yourself you wouldn't sleep—just rest your eyes until morning came, whatever that meant in this endless place. curling up on the bed, you pulled your knees to your chest and stared at the door, straining to hear anything beyond the ever-present hum of machinery.

every sound became magnified in his absence. the walls creaked like old ship hulls, the pipes groaned with more than just water pressure, and every distant droplet echoed like approaching footsteps. at one point, you swore you heard whispering—not words exactly, but something like the hiss of water through cracks, forming almost-syllables that prickled the hairs on your neck.

"it's just the pipes," you muttered to yourself, your voice thin and unconvincing in the heavy air.

pulling the blankets over your head, you tried to focus on your breathing, but the fabric stuck to your lips with each panicked exhale.

when the bed suddenly shifted beneath you—just a slight dip, like someone had sat at the foot—you nearly screamed. your muscles locked, every nerve ending alight with primal terror as you waited for the inevitable touch, the breath against your neck.

but nothing came. the silence that followed was worse than any sound, thick with anticipation and something else—something watching.

by the time jungwon returned, you were curled into a tight ball, your face pressed against your knees to muffle the quiet sobs wracking your body. the door opened without a sound, but you knew it was him from the way the room immediately stilled, the oppressive weight in the air lifting as if by command.

"oh, sweet thing," he murmured, his voice dripping with false sympathy as the mattress dipped behind you.

his hands were warm where they slid under your shaking form, gathering you against his chest like a child. you hated how easily you folded into him, your body betraying your mind with its immediate relaxation.

"see?" he whispered into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. "you're safest when i'm touching you."

you wanted to protest, to push him away, but your limbs felt leaden, your resistance worn to nothing by the terror of the empty hours. when your fingers twitched weakly against his chest, jungwon made a soft, approving sound and kissed your forehead.

"shhh, i know," he murmured, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck.

his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear in slow circles. "you just needed to learn, didn't you? needed to see what happens when i'm not here to keep you safe."

his kiss started soft, just the barest brush of lips. but when you didn't resist, it deepened, his mouth hot and insistent as his tongue slid against yours. the taste of him flooded your senses, metallic and sweet like the canned fruit he always fed you, and some broken part of you responded without thought, your hands fisting in his shirt.

when you didn’t pull away, he pressed deeper, tongue slipping past your lips with practised ease. he kissed you like he had the right to. maybe that’s what terrified you most.

“see?” he whispered against your mouth, tasting you in slow drags. “you’re already calmer.”

you weren’t. not really. but your breathing had steadied, your muscles unknotted just enough to stop trembling, and your arms were curled weakly around his shoulders. it felt… safer. wrong, but safer.

he coaxed your top over your head with ease, discarding it like it meant nothing. his hands were warm and slow as they skimmed over your skin, trailing reverent touches across your ribs and stomach.

“let me take care of you,” he murmured, more command than offer, but spoken like a promise. “you were scared without me. i know. i felt it.”

his mouth moved to your chest, kissing your collarbone, then lower. when he sucked your nipple into his mouth, you flinched, but didn’t stop him. the heat of his tongue, the way he hummed low in his throat when you arched into him—it made your stomach twist, shame and need tangled too tight to separate.

“you don’t have to think,” he murmured, his palm sliding down your side. “just let yourself feel.”

you should’ve said no. you didn't want his presence right? but you didn’t push him away, instead clung closer to him whispering a breathy okay. because your limbs still felt heavy, your brain still foggy with the memory of isolation and the cold silence of the bunk.

and his hands were so warm.

he kissed his way down your stomach, pausing to bite gently at your hip before nudging your thighs apart with his palms. his eyes flicked up, reading your expression in the low light. your breath hitched.

“tell me to stop,” he said. his voice was calm, but something coiled underneath it. “i’ll stop if you ask.”

you didn’t. you couldn’t.

and that was enough.

his mouth met your folds with agonising slowness, tongue sliding through you like he already knew exactly where to touch. he teased you with slow flicks, warm and wet, circling your clit until your hips twitched, then pulling away just to hear you whine. you hated how quickly your body betrayed you.

“you’re already dripping,” he murmured into your skin. “sweet thing… you missed this too, didn’t you?”

his fingers slipped into you without resistance, two of them stretching you gently. the stretch made you gasp, your walls clenching around him instinctively. he crooked them slightly—finding a spot that made you buck, unbidden—and smiled against your thigh.

“so sensitive,” he cooed, kissing the inside of your knee. “so good for me, even now.”

he kept going until your legs were trembling, slick pooling where his wrist met your body. you were panting, eyes hazy, brain empty of anything but the rhythm of his fingers and the hot drag of his mouth against your clit.

when he finally pulled back, you almost whimpered at the loss.

he stripped without a word, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound between you. when he hovered over you again, cock in hand, he paused at your entrance.

“i’ll go slow,” he said. “i want you to feel everything.”

he pushed in with a groan, hips moving with infuriating control, stretching you inch by inch. the burn was real. but so was the way you clenched around him, the way your legs wrapped around his waist out of instinct.

“fuck,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours. “you feel like you were made for me.”

his rhythm started slow—careful, deep thrusts that filled you completely, his fingers locked with yours on the sheets. his other hand hovered at your throat again, resting lightly as if to say remember who’s in control.

and still, you didn’t push him away.

you didn’t want to.

you’d tried to sleep alone, and it had nearly broken you. here, at least, you could pretend his touch was warmth and not some strange obsession.

he moaned when you clenched around him, and his thrusts picked up pace, harder now, deeper. the bed creaked beneath you, his hips slapping into yours with a rhythm that turned everything else to static.

“you’re mine,” he growled, breath hot against your ear. “you know you’re mine.”

your orgasm hit with sudden force, tearing through you like a cracked dam. you cried out, shaking, your nails digging into his back.

jungwon swore, driving into you once—twice—before he spilled inside you with a shudder, pressing in so deep it felt like he was trying to disappear inside your body.

neither of you moved for a long time. he stayed buried in you, breath shallow, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“you won’t ask to be alone again,” he whispered against your hair. “will you?”

you didn’t answer. your eyes were already drifting closed.

he pulled the blanket up and curled around you, possessive and still, his fingers tracing lazy shapes across your stomach, like he didn't want to stop touching you.

“good girl,” he said softly. “sleep now.”

and you did, not because you felt safe.

but because you were too tired to be afraid.

the next night, jungwon’s fingers interlaced with yours in the dark, his grip just shy of painful.

"i want to show you something," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. you hadn’t even heard him approach—he moved through these rotting halls like a shadow given form.

"it’s late," you whispered back, your voice hoarse from disuse. the words tasted like a lie because you both knew time didn’t exist here.

jungwon’s thumb stroked your knuckles, a mockery of comfort. "it’s always late here," he said, pulling you to your feet with effortless strength. "come on."

he led you to the broken diving board—the one with cracks spiderwebbing through its surface like veins. you’d passed it a hundred times, maybe more. but tonight, under the flickering glow of the emergency lights, something was different.

"watch," jungwon breathed, pressing your palm flat against what looked like solid wall.

beneath your fingers, the surface pulsed like a heartbeat before peeling away with a wet, tearing sound. your stomach lurched as a hidden alcove revealed itself, the air inside stale and thick with the scent of mildew and something sweet.

"what is this?" you choked out, trying to recoil, but jungwon’s arm banded around your waist, holding you in place.

"ours," he said simply, stepping inside and dragging you with him.

the shelves were lined with artifacts—your waterpark nametag, the plastic slightly warped as if melted. your favourite silver bracelet, the clasp broken, the chain tangled in on itself like a strangled snake. the hoodie you’d been wearing that first night, the fabric stiff with dried pool water and something darker.

"the place gave me these," jungwon murmured, running his fingers over each item with reverence.

his nails scraped against the nametag, the sound making your teeth ache. "it knew you belonged here." he turned to face you then, his eyes glowing an unnatural blue in the dim light. "just like i do."

your breath came in short, sharp bursts. "that’s not—that’s not possible."

jungwon stepped closer, the wall sealing shut behind him with a wet, sucking sound.

"you feel it, don’t you?" his hand rose to cup your cheek, his skin fever-hot against yours. "the way the water stills when you touch it? the way the lights flicker when you’re scared?"

his thumb brushed your lower lip, his grip tightening when you tried to turn away.

"you were always meant to be mine."

you wanted to scream. wanted to claw at his face until that smug certainty bled out of him. but your throat closed up, your voice abandoning you just as it had so many times before.

jungwon’s lips crashed into yours, wet and cold like the slide that had brought you here. his teeth caught your bottom lip, sharp enough to draw blood. the taste of him flooded your mouth—chlorine and copper and something alive, something wrong. behind you, the pool water began to ripple without any disturbance, parting in perfect symmetry as if making way for something unseen.

"see?" he panted against your mouth, his fingers tangling in your hair to keep you close. "even it knows."

the days bled together after that. you watched, numb, as the backrooms bent to jungwon’s will.

you sat cross-legged by the pool’s edge, trailing your fingers through water that had gone suspiciously still. jungwon watched you from a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest.

"make it move," he said suddenly, nodding toward the water.

you blinked. "what?"

"the water." he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing yours whole. "try."

you shook your head. "i can’t—"

"try," he repeated, his voice hardening.

you swirled your hand through the water, creating weak ripples that died almost immediately.

jungwon sighed, crouching beside you. "you’re thinking too small."

he placed his palm flat against the surface, and the water recoiled as if burned, forming a perfect circle around his skin.

"it’s not about force. it’s about knowing." his eyes locked onto yours. "knowing this place is yours."

you swallowed hard. "i don’t want it."

jungwon’s smile was all teeth. "liar."

the punishments grew subtler but no less cruel. when you tested him—when you asked one too many questions or pulled away from his touch—the backrooms themselves turned against you.

"why won’t you let me leave?" you demanded one night, your voice cracking.

jungwon, who had been humming under his breath while braiding a strand of your hair around his finger, went very still.

"leave?" he repeated, the word dripping with amusement. "oh, sweet thing. there’s nowhere to go."

the lights chose that moment to flicker violently before plunging you into darkness. something wet dripped onto your shoulder from above. jungwon’s fingers found yours in the dark, his grip vise-like.

"shh," he murmured, though you hadn’t made a sound. "it’s just angry you’d even ask."

when the lights returned, his knuckles were smeared with something dark and glistening. you didn’t ask.

sleep became your only respite, though even that was tainted. jungwon insisted you rest curled against him, his arms banded around your waist like living restraints.

"sing to me," he’d whisper into the nape of your neck on the bad nights, when the walls groaned a little too loudly.

his voice would curl around words you didn’t recognise, the language guttural and wrong.

"it’s an old lullaby," he explained once when you stiffened. "the first thing this place taught me."

sometimes he’d disappear for what felt like hours, returning with his hands stained rust-red under the nails and a smile that made your stomach drop.

"someone else got lost," he’d say, wiping his fingers clean on a towel that was somehow always pristine afterwards.

his eyes would roam your face hungrily, as if comparing.

"but they weren’t you."

the unspoken always hung heavy between you—they weren’t special. they weren’t his.

eventually, he began allowing you to explore—always with him, always with his hand clamped firmly around yours. the invisible leash between you grew shorter each day, tightening whenever you strayed too far.

"why do you hold my hand so tight?" you asked once, your voice barely above a whisper.

jungwon stopped walking, turning to face you. the hallway seemed to hold its breath around you. "because i can’t trust you yet," he said simply, his free hand brushing your cheek. "but you’re learning."

you held his hand not just out of fear, but because his skin was the only warmth left in this rotting place. because the hollow in your chest ached when he wasn’t near. because you couldn’t remember what your reflection had looked like before it started smiling at you with too many teeth.

the pool became your twisted mirror. no matter how still you stood, how blank you kept your face, your reflection always grinned back—wider each time, its eyes darker, its features sharpening into something that wasn’t quite yours anymore.

"she likes you," jungwon said one day as you stared at your warped reflection, his chin hooked over your shoulder. his lips brushed the shell of your ear. "she knows you’re staying."

and now it felt like you did too.

the tallest slide loomed before you—the same one that had first swallowed you whole months (or was it years?) ago. only now, it twisted upward into the flickering fluorescent void, its plastic edges blackened and glistening like the inside of a living throat. you could feel it breathing, each pulse of the structure sending warm, damp air washing over your face. jungwon stood behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist in a mockery of tenderness, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both stared into the abyss.

"it's beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured, his lips brushing your ear.

his fingers traced idle patterns on your stomach through your thin shirt.

"i've been waiting so long to show you this."

your throat tightened as the slide emitted a low, wet hum that vibrated through your shoes and up your spine.

"what... what is it?"

jungwon chuckled, the sound dripping with amusement.

"it's our way forward, sweet thing."

one hand rose to cup your chin, tilting your face toward the spiralling darkness.

"this one leads deeper. to where the water is warm and the lights never flicker," his thumb brushed your lower lip, "where nothing can ever separate us."

you swallowed hard, your pulse rabbiting in your throat. "i don't understand."

"you will."

his arms tightened around you, pulling you back flush against his chest. you could feel his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.

"it's where we belong. where you've always belonged."

when you turned in his arms to face him, your hands came up instinctively to brace against his chest. jungwon was already smiling, his dark eyes gleaming with something ancient and hungry. up close, you could see the way his pupils dilated—not round anymore, but slit like a cat's. when had that happened?

"we'll be happy there," he promised, his voice dropping to a whisper.

his fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. "no more running. no more fear. just you and me. forever."

the word hung between you, heavy and final.

you searched his face—the boy who had fed you when you were starving, who had shackled you when you tried to leave, who had kissed you with teeth that were just a little too sharp. the only constant in this endless, rotting nightmare.

"what happens to me if i say no?" you whispered.

jungwon's smile didn't waver, but something dark flickered in his eyes. behind him, the walls groaned, the sound wet and pained. a single drop of black liquid oozed from the ceiling, landing with a splat between your feet.

"oh, my love," he sighed, brushing your hair back from your face with terrifying gentleness. "that's not an option."

the slide pulsed again, the hum rising to a fever pitch that made your teeth ache. your reflection in the pool behind you grinned, wider than any human mouth should allow.

jungwon's hands slid down to grip your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh there.

"trust me," he murmured, his lips grazing yours. "you want this."

and the terrible thing was—

you did.

you took a shuddering breath, your fingers curling into his shirt. jungwon's smile widened, triumphant and tender all at once. his forehead pressed against yours as the slide's opening stretched wider, the darkness inside beckoning.

"together?" you whispered, the word tasting like surrender.

jungwon's laugh was warm against your lips. "always."

you closed your eyes—

and let yourself fall.

ALTERNATE ENDING

you found it again.

the tallest water slide in the entire park—the one that had pulled you into the nightmare when this all began. even after everything, it was still here, standing exactly where you remembered it, though now it shimmered faintly with a green glow that pulsed gently from within the tunnel’s mouth.

jungwon stood beside you, just slightly behind your shoulder. he didn’t say a word. his silence was heavier than any threat he’d ever spoken aloud.

when you turned to glance at him, the absence of expression on his face was more unsettling than any of his smiles. he wasn’t smiling now. there was no softness, no cold affection, not even the hint of disappointment.

“it leads out, doesn’t it?” you asked, your voice quiet and unsteady, though you already knew the answer.

it had to lead out. you felt it. everything in your chest ached with the possibility.

jungwon didn’t answer. instead, he reached for your wrist. his fingers curled around it tightly—not enough to hurt, but firm in a way that told you he was prepared to hold on if you ran.

“it doesn’t matter,” he said eventually.

his voice was calm, too calm, as though your desperation was something he didn’t need to take seriously.

“you don’t want to leave.”

but he was wrong.

you did.

you wanted to leave more than you had ever wanted anything in your life. your body was already bracing to run, every instinct firing all at once. your heart pounded in your chest, loud and fast, and your mouth had gone dry with the weight of the decision forming behind your teeth.

the tunnel wouldn’t stay open forever. the backrooms would shift again. the slide could vanish. and jungwon—he wouldn’t give you another chance. if you hesitated now, if you gave him even one second longer to read your fear, he would never let you get close to this kind of freedom again.

you looked at him—really looked. at the boy who had trapped you with soft hands and quieter lies. who fed you, touched you, claimed to protect you from the things out there when he had become the worst thing in here. the fear in your chest rose like bile.

“jungwon,” you breathed, but the rest never came out.

instead, you ripped your arm free.

his fingers slipped from your skin, and before he could react, you turned and sprinted toward the tunnel, your bare feet slapping loudly against the damp tile. you didn’t look back. you couldn’t.

he called your name, but it came out ragged—loud and broken in a way that didn’t sound human. his voice echoed across the walls of the abandoned park like something that belonged underground.

but you kept running.

you threw yourself into the slideheadfirst, and it swallowed you without hesitation.

the slide gripped you instantly, and the light blurred as you careened downward. the curves of the tunnel twisted your body in every direction, and each sharp turn sent jolts of pain up your spine. the green glow surrounded you, too bright and too close, pressing in like it wanted to consume you. your lungs burned with the pressure, and your arms flailed for anything to hold onto, but the walls were smooth and slick.

you were falling, spiralling, unmoored in a tunnel that didn’t feel like it was ever meant to end.

and then, just as suddenly, it did.

you hit the ground hard, the concrete beneath you unforgiving and wet. the impact knocked the wind out of your lungs, and you lay there for a moment, stunned and breathless. the world spun behind your eyelids as you coughed, your body shaking violently.

but then you realised something was different.

the air you were breathing—it was real. it wasn’t thick with that damp, humming rot of the backrooms. it was cool and dry, laced with the familiar scent of chlorine, dust, and cheap coffee. the silence around you had edges again. and above you, warm sunlight filtered through cracked skylights, casting real shadows onto the floor.

this was the waterpark.

the real one. the one that didn't stretch endlessly into pools of nightmare

you were back.

you pushed yourself upright, palms scraping against rough tile, and looked around with wide, disbelieving eyes.

everything was where it should be. the vending machines stood in their proper place. the lazy river looped around peacefully in the distance. the walls were solid. your own breathing echoed back to you. you had made it.

you had escaped.

your chest clenched as a sob rose up from your throat, and before you could stop it, you were crying. laughing and crying at the same time.

you curled your arms around yourself and let it all out, letting your body shake with the unbearable mix of relief and exhaustion.

you were safe.

you had finally done it!

but then, just as you began to steady your breathing, a sound broke through the quiet.

it came from above, from deep within the vents lining the ceiling—soft at first, almost unnoticeable. but as it grew louder, the shape of it became clear. it was a whistle.

your breath caught in your throat. the sound was too familiar, it was the same off-key melody jungwon always hummed when he thought you were sleeping.

the first footprint appeared in the puddle you'd left behind—larger than yours, the edges too perfectly defined against the concrete. then another, materialising closer as if someone invisible was walking toward you. the water in the lazy river began to ripple against its current, forming patterns that looked disturbingly like grasping fingers.

your hands shook as the lights above you flickered once, twice, before plunging the park into darkness.

the temperature dropped so fast your breath fogged in the air, the hairs on your arms standing on end as the silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

then suddenly, cold fingers brushed against your ankle, their grip tightening like a vice.

"did you really think," jungwon's voice whispered from right behind you, his breath chilling the nape of your neck, "that i'd let you go that easily?”

“i will make you mine no matter what”

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

#ady 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀...👩🏻‍💻.ᐟ #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen fics #enhypen x reader #jungwon #yang jungwon #jungwon x reader #jungwon imagines #jungwon fics #jungwon oneshots #kpop fics #enhypen horror #jungwon horror #yandere enhypen #yandere jungwon #enhypen smut #jungwon smut

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kingkaisen · 2 days ago

Text

♡ — So . . . you decided to end things with Satoru. He doesn’t exactly handle the end of things well.

♡ — toxic gojo || slight nanami x reader || mentions of sex

SATORU GOJO had been your ex-boyfriend for fifteen- no, sixteen hours and twelve minutes.

He never saw it coming. The only time Satoru ever considered the idea of no longer being your boyfriend was when he imagined himself as your husband. But now he was nothing, nothing more than a curled up ball lying on top of his messy bed, his pillow catching the tears that fell from his blue eyes as he silently cried.

His phone rang. Was it you?

His large hand searched around for the device that had gotten lost in the tangle of sheets. When he found it, letting that bright screen illuminate his tear-soaked face, he then tossed it onto the floor.

It wasn't you. His mind didn't register who exactly was calling him, but when he didn't see the mesmerizing photo of you smiling lovingly that he set as your contact, nor the name "my baby" followed by a heart emoji, he didn't give a damn who was trying to reach him.

"I fucked up," he mumbled to himself, gripping messy strands of his white hair. "Damn it. I fucked up, I fucked up."

The horrific memory that replayed in his mind with every blink once again resurfaced, consuming his thoughts to the point where he struggled to tell the difference between the past and the present; it felt as if he was still standing in his bedroom watching the tears fall from your pretty eyes as you told him it was over.

—

"You don't even see me as your girlfriend, do you?" That's what you said, searching his startled gaze for answers. "I'm just someone you hook up with a few times a week, and if I'm lucky, maybe you'll take me to a cheap restaurant every now and then. But that's only to make sure I keep fucking you, right? Right?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course you're my girlfriend," Satoru watched as you grabbed a suitcase, stuffing it full with the bundle of clothes in your arms.

"Really? Because I haven't met your family, your friends . . . like you're ashamed of me or something. You never make an effort to spend time with me beyond hooking up, and that fucking hurts. Why can't we ever just go on a real date or-or watch a movie on the couch together?" You paused, as if waiting for a response. "Because that's the kinda stuff you do with someone you're in love with. So it's clear to me that you don't love me."

"I didn't think you wanted-"

"Let me stop you right there," you turned around, grabbing your jewelry off of his dresser and shoving it into your suitcase, not caring about any sort of organization — you just wanted to leave as quickly as possible. "There's nothing you can do or say that'll make this any better, so . . ."

Your words trailed off, but only because you caught a glimpse of the face of the man standing near the edge of the bed, and noticed tears were brimming in his reddened waterline, threatening to fall. Your own eyes widened a bit in shock.

"Why are you about to cry?" You laughed sadly, shaking your head. "I see how women just fucking . . . gravitate towards you, and I see how much you like the attention. Replacing me will be easy. You'll be fine."

"Look at me," Satoru started, but you didn't halt your movements as you started to zip up your suitcase. The teary-eyed man regained movement in the limbs that were previously numb from heartbreak. He approached you. His large hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you away from the suitcase. The sheer force behind his grip was strong enough to yank you closer to him — close enough for your bodies to be pressed together, his breath to pat against your face, and for his wide, glassy eyes to stare intensely into yours, though you tried to avoid the gaze of the man towering over you. Darting your eyes to the dresser, the bed, the floor; it was pointless. He used his other hand to grip your chin, leaving you with no choice. No choice but to look him in the eye.

"I told you to look at me," he mumbled lowly. "You're wrong about everything. My family doesn't deserve to meet you, and you haven't met my friends because I don't trust them. What if they start crushing on you? Don't you know how gorgeous you are? I'd have to kill them just for looking at you a second too long, baby."

With the hand that gripped your chin, Satoru raised his thumb, gently running it across your soft bottom lip.

"How can you blame me for wanting to fuck you all the time? You're just so . . ." He leaned down, pressing a kiss against your neck, and there, he let his lips linger as he whispered, "I'm not letting you leave me. I can't let it happen. I promise you, I didn't know you wanted those things from me. I thought you'd think I was taking things too fast. But I'll fix it, okay? I'll give you all of my time. We can do whatever you want, go wherever you want-"

"Let go of me."

You spoke in a tone Satoru wasn't familiar with. Though he would rather have died than pull away from you, he did so, and was met with a look he also wasn't familiar with.

Your brows were pinched, the corners of your lips pointed downward, your eyes staring off to the side — guilt. Pure guilt.

Oh.

He understood now.

A deep, heavy sigh escaped Satoru's lips. He looked up at the ceiling, attempting to calm himself with slow, relaxing breaths, but his hands were clenched into fists. His knuckled turned pale. His bottom lip started to tremble.

"Who is it?" He whispered.

"Satoru-"

"Who the hell is it?" It was the first time he ever raised his voice.

"It's none of your business," you reached for your suitcase, pulling it off of the bed. "I found someone who actually cares about something other than sex, and I won't let you ruin this for me."

You expected him to stop you once more. You expected him to grab your wrist, block the door, beg you to stay, do something. Anything.

But he simply stood there, frozen in the bedroom. Fists trembling. Breathing unsteadily.

He listened to the heartbreaking sound of your suitcase rolling throughout his home, followed by the click of the locks and the shutting of his front door.

And that was how it ended. That was the moment he lost you.

—

Sixteen hours and forty-five minutes after your breakup, Satoru sat up in his bed, his eyes going wide. The man leaned off of the edge, grabbing the phone he tossed to the ground earlier.

The missed call — the call he begged and prayed and hoped was you but it ended up not being — was sitting on his notification screen.

He didn't dial the person back. Instead, Satoru found himself opening Instagram. You had blocked his main account, but his secret one? Well, it was able to access your public profile with ease. There weren't any photos of you with your new lover just yet. Apparently, you were smarter than that, but not smart enough to private your account, or smart enough to tell your new lover not to like and comment on your recent photos.

"You look beautiful. That dress really compliments your skin tone."

"What a gorgeous smile."

"Glad to see you're excited for summer. I am too, but only because of the plans we've made."

Comment, after comment, after fucking comment. As Satoru scrolled and scrolled, he bit the inside of his cheek. He closed out of Instagram and opened his recent call log.

That missed call came from Kento Nanami, the same bastard of a friend who was commenting on your photos. Except, Kento wasn't a bastard. That was the entire point, right? He'd treat you well. He'd cherish you. He'd buy you gifts, go for strolls in the park, or take you to that new couple's baking class in town that you had been hinting at for weeks, but Satoru never caught on until now. Until it was too late.

Sex would come later, serving as a bonus in your relationship rather than the point of it. It would be passionate, every thrust romantic. The thought alone made Satoru’s stomach twist into knots. The thought of another man getting the chance to enjoy the warmth of your pussy, to swirl their tongue around yours, to suck at your clit until you came and they could taste your sweet juices, your fingers pulling at blonde strands instead of white . . .

Oh, Satoru was pissed.

He had gathered that Kento called him because, unlike him, Kento wasn't a bastard. A man like Kento would want to talk things through with his friend, your ex, and work things out so there would be no bad blood. He was mature in that way. Kind in that way.

But Satoru wanted bad blood. He wanted there to be all sorts of blood.

His phone suddenly dinged; an incoming text message. One from Kento.

Satoru, please respond when you get a chance. It's important. We should meet up somewhere and talk.

Satoru smiled. He texted back: Yeah sure.

Kento messaged back quickly, asking the other man if he was free tomorrow around noon, detailing a potential meeting at a nearby park.

Satoru's smile brightened. He texted back: I'll be there.

He turned his phone off by clicking the side button, then tossed it on his nightstand. Satoru tucked himself underneath the covers of his bed, darting his eyes over to his closet, where — on the top shelf, a little ways to the right — he kept a small pistol, one he planned on using tomorrow.

Seventeen hours after your breakup, Satoru was no longer crying into his pillow.

@sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @thequeenofcurses @he11okitty-mari @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @levisfavoriteteashop @insomniacbehaivour @preciousamethyst @kxmorrx @iwanttohitmyself @ellaumbrella1 @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @deadrevenge @koikohib @http-bell @meretrixla

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sourkiki · 2 days ago

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niki during sexxx!! like fav positions, how he would sound, what he would call his gf like pet names or dirty and what phrases would he use the most during it!! can’t stop thinking definitely hard thoughts 💥💥💥🤯

ALBUM'S CONTENT: explicit mature content, headcanon+drabble format, established relationship, dom! 西村力 x fem! reader, unprotected sex (wrap it up) ❀ 843... ᧔♡᧓ catalogue.

FROM PRODUCER: this is more of a headcanon rather than a drabble because uh, i'm too lazy whoops

Favorite position: missionary.

As much as Riki likes having sex with you, he prefers to have you in positions where he can see your face. Why? Simple. It’s so he can see how good he’s making you feel. It’s a common thing for him to have you in a missionary position. This allows him to have a clear, undisturbed view of seeing your face filled with nothing but pleasure. This also gives him an ego boost as he knows he’s the first and last to have you like this. If you try to cover your face, Riki will move your hands away, pinning them above your head, leaving you helpless as he fucks into you.

“Ngh, R-Riki, fuck,” you whined, back arching off the bed at heavenly it feels with his cock hitting the same spot, again and again. Your boyfriend grits his teeth, tightening his grip around your wrists while the other holds onto your hips for support. Your legs were loosely wrapped around his waist, allowing him to slide in deeper. You swore you could feel his cock kissing the entrance to your cervix, making your mouth form a silent ‘O’ shape.

Favorite position: cowgirl.

Sometimes, Riki likes letting you take charge. He doesn’t mind putting in the work but the mere thought of you leading turns him on. He likes it the most when you’re seated on his lap, like he’s your throne and you’re the queen. He won’t do anything, other than having his hands on your waist, letting you ride him, use him to your hearts’ content.

“Shit, baby, you feel so good,” he groaned, unable to look away from the stunning, arousing sight of you bouncing on his lap. To add fuel to the fire, you were even wearing one of his shirts that completely engulfed you with your collarbones covered in hickeys exposed as it hangs off your left shoulder. Riki had pushed the shirt up, giving him a crystal clear view of your pussy lips stretched as wide as possible as you sucked him in.

Sounds.

Maybe this is just me but Riki isn’t the type to be shy of making sounds. He’s not very loud but he isn’t quiet, either. So he’s somewhere in between. The most common sounds he’ll make is probably either a moan or a groan. He does this whenever he has you seated on his face or when he’s fucking you, mind spinning with how tight and warm you feel around his cock or mouth.

No drabble because I’m too lazy for this shit.

Speeches.

As discussed with my fellow freaki, we believe Riki will switch between degrading and praising. But it heavily depends on his mood. Sometimes he’s in the mood to take things slow, be a tease and edge you into oblivion until you’re a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him.

“Riki, please..” You pleaded, a tear droplet trickling down your face when your boyfriend pulled his fingers out.

Your pussy was practically pulusing, begging for its much-needed release but Riki wasn’t satisfied yet. He smirked, eyes darkening at how desperate and needy you’ve become. And it’s all because of him. He didn’t give any warning, pushing his fingers back in, eliciting a startled gasp from you. You whined, hips jerking forward to take more of him inside, wanting to feel more—

But he pulled out again.

Riki coos, faux sweetness in his voice. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. You can be good for me, can’t you? Only good girls get a reward, so don’t cum, or you’re not cumming at all. Not until I say so.”

But whenever he’s going through rough times in his life, Riki’s demeanor does a switch. Screw the slow, soft sex. Now, he just wants to get rid of his pent-up stress and what other way to do it other than by releasing his stress onto you?

“W-Wait, too much,” you weakly protested, still feeling the aftereffects of your unknown climax but your boyfriend didn’t listen. In fact, he wasn’t already listening the moment he laid his hands on you. His bangs fell forward, hovering over his dark, lust-filled eyes as he continued thrusting into you with newfound determination. At this point, you could only lay there helplessly, letting him fucked into your dripping, loose pussy. Some of your body fluids trickled down your inner thighs and seeing this, Riki scoops them up and pushes them back into your cunt, making your legs twitch. You weren’t even aware that your hips had jerked forward, meeting him in the middle.

“Fuck, look at you, dripping wet for me. You kept saying no but your pussy still lets me in,” he sneers, reaching down to give a light smack on where you’re connected with one another, drawing a high-pitched whimper. You tightened around him and that didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Maybe I should make you sit on my cock everyday, split you open to keep this needy little thing full. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He continues, drawing breathless whimpers and mewls from your bruised lips.

taglist: @minjunis, @byshens, @emisluvr. @riqomi, @rikisoup

#ㅤ⠀⠀ ㅤ⸺ 情书 .ೃ࿐#enhypen x reader #enha x reader #enhypen imagines #enha imagines #enha smut #enhypen smut #riki imagines #ni ki imagines #ni ki x reader #riki x reader #riki smut #riki x you #riki x y/n #ni ki smut #nishimura riki x reader #nishimura riki imagines #nishimura riki x you #nishimura riki x y/n

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ari-ana-bel-la · 1 day ago

Note

Hi, I love your writing, anyway I have a request: could you maybe write something like reader (teen daughter) is the passenger princess and like even though she has a drivers license and want to practise, maybe she drove once carefully but the turns at the max. speed of the speed limit were like race worthy (or not) he won’t let her drive or give up her seat as passenger princess, or just being overly overprotective, of course only if your comfortable and want to write this. I would like Max Verstappen/Charles Leclere/Oscar Piastri (but it’s your choice Ofc, write with whom your comfortable or want). No pressure to write it it’s just a thought.

Thanks xoxo

-🦋

Passenger Princess

It started with one drive. Just one.

The moment Yn got her driver's license, she thought it was her ticket to a new kind of freedom. She’d imagined herself behind the wheel, windows down, hair whipping in the wind like she was in a movie, her dad in the passenger seat for once. She hadn’t counted on the fact that her dad, Max, wasn’t just any dad. He was a Formula 1 driver. And that came with... complications.

"Dad, I'm sixteen. I have my license. Let me drive. Please?" Yn pouted from the doorway as Max jingled his car keys.

He didn’t even look up. "You also once took a roundabout at full throttle and made that poor French bulldog on the sidewalk almost faint."

Yn gasped, half offended, half laughing. "That was one time! And the dog was dramatic. He was wearing a sweater."

Max finally looked up, smile tugging at his lips. He walked over and gently took her backpack off her shoulder, swinging it over his own.

"You’ve driven once. Once. And you went full Monza into a residential left turn."

"It was slightly over the speed limit. I slowed down after."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Slightly? You took it like it was a qualifying lap."

She crossed her arms, defiant. "I was being careful. You didn’t even say anything during the drive."

"Because I was trying not to traumatize you with my fear," he said simply. "Now come on, princess. I have the blanket waiting for you."

And just like that, her resolve began to crack.

Max always had a blanket waiting in the passenger seat. A soft, ridiculously fluffy one she’d once jokingly said made her feel like royalty. Ever since, Max never let it leave the car. Passenger Princess treatment was serious business.

“I also got your Starbucks order,” he added, shaking the iced drink gently in front of her like a shiny toy. “With extra caramel. The way you like it. And a cheese danish.”

Yn blinked. “You’re bribing me.”

“I’m protecting you,” he replied smoothly. “Big difference.”

She gave him a look.

“Okay, and I’m bribing you. But lovingly.”

With a grumble, she let herself be ushered toward the car.

---

Once they were on the road, Max glanced over at her. She was curled into the seat, wrapped in the blanket, sipping her Starbucks, tapping away at her phone as she DJ’d the ride.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked.

“About how you gaslighted me out of driving with a danish?”

“I prefer to call it strategic redirection,” he replied innocently.

She snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

---

A week later, she tried again.

“Dad, please. It’s a Sunday. No one’s on the road. I need practice or I’ll forget how to parallel park."

He looked at her, then at the keys in his hand.

“Did you even parallel park during the test?”

She hesitated. “Well… no. The instructor didn’t make me. But I YouTubed it after!”

Max chuckled. “That’s not reassuring.”

“Come on,” she pleaded. “Just from here to the café.”

He walked toward the car slowly, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. You know what?”

Her face lit up. “Really?”

He swung open the passenger side door, pulled out the blanket and fluffed it dramatically.

“Not a chance.”

Yn groaned loudly, stomping toward the car. “You can’t do this forever!”

“I can try,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat and passing her the aux cable. “Wanna play the playlist you made yesterday? The sad girl autumn one?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re manipulating me again.”

“I call it… excellent parenting.”

---

The more she protested, the more elaborate Max became. The blanket evolved. One day it was heated. Another time, she got in and found a whole mini pillow setup, her favorite candy in the cupholder, and a note that said "Passenger Princess Boarding Pass: One-way trip to VVIP Comfort."

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” she said, holding up the card.

Max winked. “Only the best for my favorite girl.”

“I should be driving. You know that.”

He nodded. “I do. And when you stop taking corners like you're chasing pole, we’ll revisit it.”

“But—”

“Danish?” he offered.

She grabbed it, muttering. “This is emotional sabotage.”

“Yep.”

---

Eventually, she stopped arguing every time. Not because she gave up, but because she started to love it too.

Late-night drives when she was tired and didn’t want to think. Music blasting. Her feet on the dash (only when they weren’t near cops). Max telling stories from old race weekends, things he’d never told the media. Stories about how scared he’d been when she was born. How nothing—not even a starting grid at Spa—ever made his heart race like seeing her fall off her bike for the first time.

“I get nervous because I love you too much,” he’d said quietly once, after she’d fallen asleep mid-drive. She’d pretended to stay asleep, but her heart had never forgotten those words.

---

Then came the day she really did need to drive.

They were at a beach house in Spain, rented for a few days of privacy and family time. Max had pulled a muscle being dramatic on a jet ski (he swore it was the waves), and couldn’t sit up properly.

“Okay,” she said, standing over him with her arms crossed. “This is my chance.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he mumbled, wincing as he adjusted the ice pack on his side.

“Immensely.”

He sighed. “Fine. But slow. Safe. Cautious. I want you to brake like there’s a baby deer at every stop sign.”

Yn nodded seriously. “Deer braking. Got it.”

She drove slowly, carefully, every move cautious. Max still white-knuckled the door, but he didn’t say a word.

When they got home, she parked perfectly, turned off the car, and turned to him with a proud smile.

“Well?”

He smiled back, full of pride and relief.

“You’re getting there.”

---

But the next day, when he could sit up again, she found the blanket laid out in the passenger seat. A fresh Starbucks waiting.

“Really?” she asked, amused.

He shrugged. “Princess treatment. It’s forever. Driving was a fun little experiment. Let’s go back to our roots.”

She laughed and climbed in. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “You’re my whole heart. Of course I’m impossible.”

And with that, they drove off—music up, windows down, father and daughter in perfect sync.

Passenger Princess: forever status confirmed.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

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ryosbaby · 2 days ago

Text

threatening plug!toji that you'll replace him since he wants to start charging you now.

toji let out a deep sigh as he stepped outta the car, door clicking shut behind him.

“you know you still owe me from last time, yeah?” he muttered, brows drawn. “ain’t givin’ you shit for free no more.”

his voice was low, rough around the edges. looked tired too—but more annoyed than anything else.

you shrugged innocently, “thought you let that slide already.”

he huffed a dry laugh, leaning back against the car, arms crossing over his chest. his shirt rode up just a bit, flashin’ a strip of muscle at his waist.

“angel, i been doin’ you favors left and right,” he said, head tilted. “‘m runnin’ a damn business here.”

“this ain’t no charity, alright?”

his eyes dragged over you, slow and a little amused, one brow quirking as he gave you that look—the one that always made your stomach twist a bit.

“can’t just be handin’ shit out ‘cause you bat your lashes.”

he reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it without breakin’ eye contact. took a long drag, then blew the smoke out to the side completely disregarding the 'no smoking sign' plastered on the wall of the parking lot.

“so,” he said, smoke curling past his lips, “what d’you need this time, sweetheart?”

“change my mind…” you muttered, already reaching for your phone. “’m just gonna call sukuna 'm sure he's gon—”

before you could even finish, toji rolls his eyes as he grabbed your arm, fingers wrapping tight as he yanked you back.

“fuckin’ ungrateful,” his voice dropped, rough and low in your ear. “i give you whatever the hell you want most times—you don't pay for shit—don’t even charge you full price when you do bother payin’.”

“toji—"

the smoke from his cigarette hit your face a second later cutting you off, sharp and deliberate, as he leaned in close. too close.

“yet you run to him?” his grip tightened just a little more, not enough to hurt—but damn near close. “that what we doin’ now?”

then you felt it—his body pushing you back ‘til your spine hit the side of the car with a soft thud, heat radiating off him. he was solid, sweat clinging to his skin, his scent mixing with the smoke and whatever cologne he threw on in.

“was just playin’,” you said quickly, lips twitching into a pout. “you get mad at me so quickly."

his fingers hooked under your chin, tilting your face toward his with zero patience.

“do i look like i’m in a playful fuckin’ mood, baby?”

you rolled your eyes just a little. “no… but you never are.”

he let out a low chuckle, but there was no real humor behind it.

“i said i was sorry,” you muttered, softer this time.

he watched you for a second too long, like he was deciding whether to let it go. then his hand slid down to your waist, gripping it firm.

“don’t say sorry. just don’t go actin’ like i’m not the one who fuckin’ takes care of you, yeah?”

“i know that,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “i wasn’t actually gonna call him. was just tryna piss you off.”

“oh, i know,” he said, dragging his gaze over you slow. “my angel’s a good girl.”

he leaned in again, smoke curling past your face, his lips ghosting close.

“c’mere.”

he leans in and presses his lips against yours, his hand on your hip gripping it harder, his body completely trapping you against his car and himself. his tongue runs over your bottom lip, demanding entry into your mouth. he's always too fast.

he moves his other hand to your thigh, grabbing it before lifting you and pinning you against the car. his massive body pressed tightly against you, you can feel his muscles flex under his shirt against you. His lips moved against yours more hungrily, his tongue exploring your mouth now.

he let out a small groan against your lips, his tongue exploring your mouth with more need. his grip on your hip and thigh tightened as he pushed his body against yours, pinning you tightly against the car. he broke the kiss for a moment to let you breathe before diving back in, his lips attacking your neck now. his head moved down slightly to your nape, his hot breath and lips on your skin.

he began to trail kisses down your neck, his lips and tongue sucking on a few spots. He started to bite and nibble on the skin of your neck, leaving a few marks. his hand that held your hip started to travel under your top, his large hand grabbing onto your waist.

"whaddya need again?” toji muttered, eyes dragging over you. “don't gotta pay cash no more. i got a cheaper option.”

you gave him a look. “cheaper?” toji never offers fair deals .

“mhm, way cheaper," he hummed against your neck, his tongue licking one of the marks he left on your skin. one of his legs slipped between your thighs, pushing against you softly.

"you'll like it baby don't worry, so...ya up for it?"

you looked at him, not really thinking about it just appreciating how your plug look, “whatever you want, toji."

he completely got you.

he bit slightly on your neck at those words.

"such a good girl.." he mumbled against your skin, his hand on your waist moving up your top, his palm touching your bare skin

"c'mon get inside the car and fucking delete sukuna's number."

extra. messages with plug!toji

#jjk #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji smut #toji x you #toji fushiguro smut #jjk smut #toji x y/n #toji fic #toji fushigro x reader #toji #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fluff #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #sukuna smut

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ccupcakqs · 1 day ago

Text

— more than the win ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: public kiss, championship win, heart-melting softness pairing: max verstappen x reader a/n: inspired by "where's the trophy? he just comes running over to me"

he doesn’t hear the cheers at first.

doesn’t feel the sparks or the smoke or the flood of noise erupting from the grandstands. he hears his name over the radio, hears his engineer say the words he’s worked his whole life for — “you’re world champion, max. that’s it. you did it.” — and still, it doesn’t sink in.

not until he sees you.

because that’s the thing. not the crowd, not the flash of the fireworks, not the stats blinking across his dash. it’s your face in the crowd, right where he knew you’d be, eyes wide, hands pressed to your mouth like you forgot how to breathe.

he breathes again only when your eyes meet.

you are still there when he pulls into parc fermé. still there when the world runs to him. still the only thing that cuts through the chaos. he doesn’t stop to look at the cameras. doesn’t shout. doesn’t throw his helmet in the air like he’s done a hundred times before.

he steps out of the car and walks straight to you.

you barely have time to speak before he’s got both arms around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing at all.

“i was looking for you,” he says into your shoulder.

you laugh through tears. “i was right here.”

he doesn’t kiss you yet. he just holds you for a moment longer, like the weight of the whole year is finally gone and he can exhale into you. his fingers are still in his gloves, still curled with adrenaline, but they grip you like a promise.

when he finally sets you down, you don’t let go of each other.

the cameras don’t stop clicking.

“you really did it,” you whisper, brushing sweaty hair off his forehead.

he grins. a real one. boyish and golden and free. “i had to. promised you, didn’t i?”

you smile, breath catching.

his lips find yours then. slow, sweet, a little dizzying. the crowd explodes again, louder than the fireworks. someone throws a hat into the air. the confetti sticks to your cheeks and to his jawline. he kisses you again anyway.

they give him the trophy on the podium, and the whole world is watching.

his hands don’t shake when they place it in his grip. he’s never looked steadier. like this was always coming. like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

but when the anthem ends and the fireworks crack like thunder overhead, his gaze drops to the barrier.

you’re there again. hands on the railing. waiting for him.

max steps down without a second thought.

he doesn’t head straight to the media or the cameras. he walks to you. through the puddles of champagne and over the slick floor, ignoring the dozens of microphones reaching for a soundbite. ignoring the glitter, the clapping, the chaos.

his smile is softer now. not adrenaline-fueled or wild. just full.

he taps the trophy with one finger. “it’s heavier than it looks.”

you smirk. “that’s what happens when you carry a whole team on your back.”

he leans over the barrier and kisses you again. this time slow, unhurried, like the night isn’t moving.

you think that’s the moment.

but then he hands someone the trophy. and without a single word, he lifts you over the barrier and onto his shoulders.

you gasp, laughing, hands bracing on his head.

“max—”

“hold on.”

he turns toward the crowd, toward the flashing cameras, toward the thousands of people screaming his name. and he doesn’t care about any of them. he cares about you. up there, steady on his shoulders. your laughter in his ears. your arms holding tight.

he raises both fists in the air.

and that photo goes everywhere.

they caption it in every language. they call it victory, devotion, love. some say it’s a fairytale moment. others say it’s too much.

max just calls it right.

and when someone posts a side-by-side — a screenshot from months ago, mid-interview, where he said with a grin, “if i win, i’m putting her on my shoulders, no question” — it’s the most shared image of the night.

all those years. all those races. and this is what it comes down to — your hands in his hair, his name in the sky, a promise kept.

—

later, much later, after the podium and the press and the endless photos, you’re both tucked away in a quiet part of the paddock. max is sitting on a crate, champagne-splashed and starry-eyed, hair still wet from the bottle lando dumped on him earlier.

you’re in his lap. your hands are curled into his suit. your cheek is against his collarbone.

he’s holding the trophy again. but only because you insisted he keep it nearby. he was more than ready to leave it in the car.

“can i say something stupid?” you ask, voice muffled into his neck.

“you always can.”

“this feels like the first time we met.”

he huffs a tired laugh. “we were arguing in a motorhome.”

“and now you’re world champion.”

he doesn’t answer right away. his fingers trace slow patterns across your back.

then, quietly: “i don’t care about that.”

you lift your head. “you do.”

“i care that you’re here.”

he kisses you before you can speak again. softer than the podium. deeper than parc fermé. one hand on your cheek, the other still cradling the trophy like it’s just another part of the story.

you break the kiss first, forehead resting against his.

“what happens now?”

he smiles. “now?”

“yeah.”

“now we go home. you steal half my hoodies. i make you pancakes. and we forget how loud today was.”

you close your eyes.

“i’ll remember all of it.”

he tilts your chin up, kisses you one more time.

“good,” he whispers. “so will i.”

#ccupcakqs #fleur's fics ⋆˚࿔#max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fluff #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 nerd ‧₊˚#mv1 #mv33 #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1

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cameronsbabydoll · 1 day ago

Note

Could you please write about rafe giving puppy!reader a bath and when it comes time to clean her down there area she gets all squirmy cause he’s taking his time and when she starts complaining he goes "oh no, pup you shouldn't be getting all worked up over these type of things.. maybe there's something wrong.. I'll have to check it out some more" ? Take your time !! <33

rafe giving puppy!reader a bath ♡

rafe cameron x puppy!reader

warnings: sexual content, puppy play dynamics, intimate bathing, teasing, manipulation

you’re sitting in the warm, sudsy water of the bathtub, knees pulled up to your chest, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap. rafe’s kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, his hands moving a washcloth over your arms with slow, careful strokes. you’re trying so hard to be his good girl, all sweet and eager like always, but baths with him make you antsy. he’s so thorough, and you know where this is headed, which has your cheeks already burning.

“quit squirming, pup,” he says, his voice low, that sharp edge making your stomach twist. the cloth glides over your shoulders, down your back, and you try to focus on the warmth of the water, the soft bubbles, anything to distract from the nervous flutter in your chest. you love when he pays attention to you, live for it, but this part always feels so vulnerable, like you’re laid bare under his gaze.

when his hand moves lower, the cloth brushing between your legs, you can’t help it—you squirm, water splashing over the tub’s edge. “rafe,” you whine, voice shaky and small, your thighs pressing together on instinct. he’s lingering too long, the cloth teasing over you in slow, deliberate circles, and it’s overwhelming. heat sparks through you, mixing with embarrassment, and a soft whimper slips out.

“what’s this now?” he says, smirking, one eyebrow raised. he doesn’t stop, his fingers pressing the cloth just enough to make you wiggle more. “oh no, pup, you shouldn’t be getting all worked up over something like this.” his tone’s all fake concern, laced with that mean streak you know too well. “maybe something’s wrong… guess i gotta check it out some more.”

you shake your head, sniffling, your face hot with shame and that other feeling you can’t quite name. “no, rafe, i’m okay,” you mumble, voice cracking as you try to shift away, but his free hand grabs your thigh, holding you still. “i’m trying to be good, i promise—”

“shh,” he cuts you off, tossing the cloth aside and using his fingers now, slow and purposeful, making you gasp. “bad puppies don’t call the shots. gotta make sure you’re clean, right?” his eyes lock onto yours, watching every little twitch, every needy sound, and you’re trapped under his stare. your hands grip the tub’s edge, tears stinging as you squirm under his touch, torn between pleasing him and wanting to hide.

finally, he eases up, his hand pulling back as he cups your face, thumb brushing away a tear. “there’s my good girl,” he murmurs, softer now. he helps you out of the tub, wrapping you in a fluffy towel, letting you burrow into his chest, your damp hair soaking his shirt. “you did alright, pup,” he says, kissing the top of your head, and you cling to him, feeling safe again.

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batskulldrag · 3 days ago

Text

“You’re what!?” You and the spell castor both exclaim.

“Insane. On a technicality.” Jax slides himself up and brushes off his pants.

You look between the two. Jax, as always, has a stupid smile plastered across his face. And Marcus, the idiot who just shot him with what is only ever referred to as the Lovecraft Spell, is cemented in place with his mouth agape.

“What technicality could possibly make you insane?” Marcus shrieks.

“You.” Jax points at him. “I’m ignoring. Where do you get off flinging insanity spells at every boy who makes pathetic cow eyes at your ex? Grow up.”

“You’re not insane.” You argue.

“You may just be the first person who ever said that to me.” Jax laughs.

“I demand to know how the spell had no affect on you!” Marcus steps forward.

“I told you, I’m already insane.” Jax scoffed.

“No, you’re not!”

“Do you mind calling up my dad and telling him that?” Jax rolled his eyes. “What exactly do you think insane means?”

“A raving lunatic! You should be trying to eat your own hands and mauling sheep! You should be screaming in horror at the sight of a butterfly! Or trying to convince people what the fourth dimension looks like.” Marcus did a bit of raving himself.

“Good god. And you were gonna hit me with that?” Jax cringed.

“I wasn’t aiming at you, you got in the way!”

“Cool, be a better shot. I’m going home.” Jax started walking away.

“What do you mean you’re insane?” You ask, baffled by Jax’s nonchalance.

“Look.” Jax sighed. “It all comes down to semantics. Einstein defined insanity as ‘doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result’. So, by that logic, lots of people are insane. Like anyone who thinks the two-party system is working.”

Today was not the day you would question what Jax meant by that.

“You mean to tell us that the spell didn’t work because of Einstein?” You feel a migraine developing.

“Well, yeah. Since insanity has been defined in tangible terms, plenty of people fall into that category. People are legally insane if they’re so mentally out of it that they don’t realize that they committed a crime. Clinically insane…”

“You were institutionalized.” You cut him off. “Clinically insane.”

“Finally, something good comes from my slippy sock vacation.” He grins.

“I refuse to believe it’s that simple.” Marcus stomps his foot.

“Wording and semantics do influence magic all the time.” You consider. “That’s why whishing spells, genies and prophesies are so much trouble.”

“This spell was written long before insanity was defined!” Marcus argues.

“And most of my friends can kill MacBeth, on account of not being a man of woman born.” Jax yawned.

“We’ve lived in fear of this spell for years, and now you tell me that it only has three outcomes!”

“It’s named after a writer from the nineteen hundreds; how old could it possibly be?” You argue.

“Nostalgia used to be considered a mental illness.” Jax added. “Frankly, I don’t think that an insanity spell would have any use.”

“I’m leaving.” You announce as you walk away.

“I’ll come with you.” Jax follows. “Yo Marcus, I’ll call you if I start feeling more depressed than normal!”

Once Marcus is well out of earshot you glance at Jax.

“What does cow eyes mean?” You ask.

“That stupid, sappy look you give someone you have a crush on.” Jax looks at the ground.

“Why is this how I’m finding out?” You grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

“In my defense, I was going to tell you, but then your petty ex started mind fucking people.” Jax held up his hands.

“Lord you’re stupid!” You release him.

“I can back off if you want me to.” Jax offered.

“Jax, I have one thing to say to you!” You poke him in the chest for emphasis.

“Yeah?” He looks hopeful, terrified and confused.

“That spell probably won’t work on me either.” You say quickly.

And then you pull him in for a kiss.

And you kiss him for a long time, because you know he’s going to say something silly after. Just like he always does when he’s flustered. And you feel your body tingling with excitement at the thought of whatever stupid thing he’s going to say.

You wonder what it means when you keep doing the same thing over and over again, hoping to get the same result.

"No... impossible! That spell should have driven you insane!" "Buddy, lookie here. I AM insane."

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woso-dreamzzz · 18 hours ago

Text

Proud X

Hardersson x Teen!Reader

Summary: Your reward for Golden Girl

The actual ceremony is a bit of a blur.

You don't remember any of it at all.

It's like you were in your hotel room and then you blinked and opened your eyes on stage.

You're saying something in Swedish but the words are coming out too fast for your brain to catch up with. Swedish melts into English as you thank your old club for giving you the platform to show the skills that gave you the opportunity to win the Golden Girl award.

After that, it's another blink and you're in the car.

The award is on your lap and your mothers are sitting either side of you and, for the life of you, you still can't understand what you said.

But if what Pernille says is accurate, it was a very good speech.

It's only when you're laying in your bed days later that you decide that you can't be bothered to rewatch it all.

You've seen clips of the ceremony on social media and Pernille, like she usually is, is right.

Your name was called for the award even though everyone already knew you would win. You stood and turned.

You gave Magda a hug. Pernille kissed your head.

You walked onto stage to receive your award. You stood by the microphone.

You thanked a lot of people in Swedish, your mothers, your coaches on the national team, your friends. You thanked everyone at Arsenal for pushing you as far as you could go and supporting you in the games. You even thanked the Bayern staff for their continued support.

All in all, it was a good speech. A humble speech which you think must have driven Magda crazy. She's always telling you to be more proud of yourself and your achievements.

You bring the award with you to training and smile in your Bayern kit as the media team make you pose and take pictures from as many angles as they possibly can.

"Look at you, golden girl," Georgia teases as you slump down into your seat next to her," Coming to mingle with the rest of us normal people?"

You roll your eyes as you poke at the pasta on your plate. "The only normal you are, G, is normally annoying. That's not a good thing."

Georgia clutches at her chest dramatically. "You wound me! I'm wounded! How will I ever survive?!"

"I'm sure you'll find a way," You reply dryly as you stare at your food.

"What is up with you today? You're all...depressed!"

"Y/n doesn't like too much attention," Pernille says as she takes the seat next to you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your seat as she does so," This award thing has thrown her a little bit."

You sputter out some unintelligible noises of indignation that Pernille smiles fondly at.

"It's the truth," She tells you," You'll have to get used to it, you know. You're a very exciting young player."

You groan and Georgia giggles. "Which journalist have you stolen that from?"

Pernille just laughs, pulling your plate towards her to pile more food onto it from her own. "You'll get over it soon. Just remember that this Golden Girl award is a good thing."

"Is it?"

Pernille nods with finality. "Yes. It is."

"How come?"

"You'll see."

Georgia whistles lowly. "Well that's cryptic."

Secretly, you agree with her.

In the coming days, you find her words playing on your mind again and again. It's amazing how the more time passes, the more Georgia's words seem like the best way to explain the situation.

Magda and Pernille are whispering every hour of the day. They're whispering to each other in the morning when you come downstairs for breakfast. They're whispering to each other when you all come home. You know they're whispering when you go to bed early and they stay up with their glasses of wine.

They're planning something and when the pair of them plan something, you stay on edge.

You can't quite work out what it could possibly be but you hope that it's not a party.

A party to celebrate your award sounds terrible right now.

You think they know you're suspicious too.

Magda does at the very least because she's started to dramatically creep around like she's in a cartoon when she sees you watching her.

You roll your eyes every time.

It looks like you'll have to be the mature one out of the two of you.

That's usually the case anyway.

Especially now when Magda's hands cover your eyes and guide you to sit on the sofa.

"Keep them closed!" She warns you.

"Well I can't exactly keep them open with you blocking everything out, can I?"

You hear her laugh and it makes the corners of your mouth poke up too.

"Okay," She says," Are you ready?"

"I don't know what I'm meant to be ready for."

Magda ignores you. "Okay, Pernille! She's ready!"

You strain your ears to hear Pernille's footsteps. They're slow and you frown.

"If this is a party-"

You don't get to finish though because something gets put into your lap.

It's kind of big and warm and...

Breathing?

Magda's hands leave your eyes and you look down at your lap.

"Baaa!"

A lamb looks up at you. White wool on its body but a perfectly round, black-wooled face.

"Baaaa!"

You look over in shock to your mums and Pernille hands you a bottle.

The lamb on your lap latches on perfectly, his little tail wagging as he feeds.

"Is...Is he?"

"Yours?" Magda hasn't stopped smiling. "Yeah. He's yours. Poor boy got rejected by his mum so he's going to need to be fed every few hours. You up for it?"

"What about training?"

"He's allowed to come with," Pernille says," We've already checked. You can bring him everywhere."

Your throat closes up like it always does when you're a bout to cry, completely overwhelmed by your mothers and this new little lamb that happily suckles on his bottle.

"I..." You fight to stop the tears from dropping down your cheeks. "Thank you. He's beautiful."

"Of course, sötnos. You deserve him," Pernille says with a warm smile.

Magda's got the same one on her face. "Just, er, make sure he doesn't sleep in your bed, okay? He's got his own."

You agree but you know the handsome boy in your lap is going to be sleeping in bed with you until he's too big to fit.

Magda doesn't need to know that though.

#woso x reader #hardersson x reader #pernille harder x reader #pernille harder #magdalena eriksson x reader #magdalena eriksson #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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mooniewritess · 1 day ago

Text

"Mom?"

You hear your little daughter call out for you, and you set the book aside so she can climb on the bed and into your arms.

"Hey, sweetie, what's up?" You ask, wrapping your arms around her so her head rests on your shoulder.

"Why do Luke and Kieran wear masks?"

You tense ever so slightly at that question.

You figured that sooner or later she'd ask. You just hoped it would be later, but deep down, you knew she was too curious for her own good.

"Well, baby..." You start, resting your head on top of her. "You know how twins sometimes look alike?" She nods, listening intently.

"Luke and Kieran did, too. But Kieran got really, really hurt. And his face is different now." You explain, running a gentle hand through her white hair. "So Luke had the idea of wearing masks. So they could look alike again. It's sweet, don't you think?"

She nods again, quietly thinking, before raising her head. "Can I see Kieran without his mask?"

You sigh, and simply shrug. "I don't know." You admit sincerely. "That's something you need to ask him. I can't make this decision for him."

She thinks for a while again, and then nods with determination. "Okay. I will ask him." You chuckle softly, squeezing her in a hug. "Good, baby. Now go to sleep, mh? I'll tell dad to tuck you in."

You kiss the top of her head, and after bidding goodnight, she patters off to her room.

You sigh and rub your eyes, still thinking about your little girl.

When Sylus joins you in bed, he raises an eyebrow, seeing you so pensive. "What's on your mind?"

You cuddle up against him, your head on his chest. "Our baby girl. Sometimes I think she's more mature than I give her credit for."

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich in his chest. "She's your daughter, miss Hunter. She probably is."

You playfully hit his side, rolling your eyes. "Be serious for once!"

He simply chuckles again, holding you tighter. "I am serious. She is smart, and mature. And I don't know what you're so worried about."

You silently shrug, looking up at him. "I'll blink and she won't be our little girl anymore. I'm not ready for that."

He lets out a scoff, his signature smirk plastered on his face. "She's seven. You're thinking a little ahead of yourself."

"Mhmh. Sure. You won't be so smug when she brings home her first partner."

You feel him tense at your words, and he quiets down. "We should sleep now." Is all he replies with, making you chuckle victoriously.

"Kieran! Luke!" Your daughter greets them, running towards them. Specifically, towards Kieran, who happily bends down to pick her up.

"Hey, little boss-lady!" He chirps, holding her. "What's up?"

She looks at both of them, before focusing on Kieran and putting a small hand on the beak of his mask.

"Can I see you without this?"

They both freeze, and Luke turns towards Kieran, visibly nervous. "... Why?"

"I want to see what my brothers look like." She explains with a shrug.

"I don't want to scare you." Kieran adds, in a much lower voice.

She shakes her head, determined. "You will not. I'm a big girl. And I know you."

As hesitant as he still is, he finally caves in. He sets her back down on the ground and crouches next to her. He takes a deep breath, lowers his hood, and then finally takes off his mask.

For a moment, she simply looks at him, but her eyes don't show any fear, or disgust.

Instead, she looks at his scars with curiosity and wonder. "Do they hurt?"

He shakes his head, his voice choked. "No. Not anymore."

She gently pokes at his marks, her head tilted as she observed. "Are you sad?" She asks then, pulling her fingers away when she notices the tears in Kieran's eyes, who quickly tries to blink them away.

"No, no, I... I am actually very happy." He answers, clearing his throat in a useless attempt at steadying his voice.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, hugging him in the same way you do when you try to comfort her. "It's okay! Don't cry, Kieran. It's okay."

He nods, hugging her back, trying to suppress the sobs as he nods into her shoulder. "Yeah. It's okay."

Luke smiles to himself, before hugging both of them and holding them close.

Because they're not EVER's abominations anymore. They aren't only henchmen.

Sometimes, they're just brothers. And it's worth more than anything else.

#my FAMILY #they're all my children #idc

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edwardslvrr · 1 day ago

Note

kook princess’ birthday smau!!!! does rafe make a post orrr does he ward off people commenting on your post or both?? maybeee he lets u make a tiktok with some cute trend and post it to both ur acc’s?

PRINCESS'S BIRTHDAY ☆ rafe cameron

✦　　　.　　princess's birthday and rafe cameron is not ashamed of spoiling his girl and showing her off to the world.

AUTHOR TALKING -> yess, rafe for SURE posts her on her birthday (well his account is basically a fanaccount for her) and he’s ALWAYSSS in her comments telling people off, mr possessive or wtv tate mcrae said😌

WARNING -> mention of making out and slight description (not too detailed)

𓂃⋆.˚ rafecameron’s new post

liked by yourname, topperthornton and 2918 others

rafecameron happy birthday to my girl, thank you for wanting to spend your years with me. you look beautiful always, like the most perfect woman ever and I’m so lucky to be able to call you mine which I hope lasts in every lifetime.

happy 23rd babe ❤️

view all comments

yourname rafey you’re making me cry, thank you for another year of spending my birthday with you I hope I can do this again with you every year and every lifetime. I love you💕

⤿ rafecameron my gorgeous girl

yourname the flowers are too beautiful, thank you

randomguy wowza

⤿ rafecameron leave before i pull your eyes out

yourname never getting over this and you

sarahcameron rafe never ever fumble her istg

⤿ rafecameron it would be the biggest mistake in my life

⤿ yourname 🥹

jjmaybank damn yn😍

⤿ rafecameron get the fuck out before i cut your balls off

randomguy69 i’d smash

⤿ rafecameron i’d smash your head into a walk if you dont leave

𓂃⋆.˚ yourname’s new post

liked by rafecameron, yourmom and 2183 others

yourname turning 23 with you has been the most beautiful experience, thank you rafe for making me feel this loved.

view all comments

yourmom such a beautiful dinner, well done rafe🥹💕

⤿ yourmom thank you for making my girl so happy

⤿ rafecameron always ma’am. she makes me the happiest

⤿ yourname thank you for being there momma 💛

rafecameron such a beautiful woman, can’t believe youre mine

rafecameron will love you in every lifetime

⤿ yourname 🥹🥹

kiaracarrera everything looks so perfect!!

sarahcameron rafe put a ring on it

yourexbf beautiful

⤿ rafecameron hope the door hits you on the way out

yourbestfriend gorgeous girl, had the best time!! make 23 the best one yet💕

⤿ yourname happy you were there, & i will (with you!!)

“Rafey!” she shouts through their apartment, as she’s sat on the couch scrolling through TikTok. A cute tiktok idea popped up on her for you page that she desperately wanted to do with Rafe and since it’s her birthday how could he say no.

The door of the living room opens and Rafe appears, wearing a tight Gymshark shirt, which made Yn stare for a second before Rafe clears his throat looking at her with a smirk. “What’s up baby? Or did you call me here to stare at me? Not that I mind.” He winks at her, as she blushes.

“No, shut up.” Yn shyly says, but quickly brings her attention back to her original plan. “I found this cute TikTok idea, can we please do it?!” she kindly asks her boyfriend, giving him a slight pout to try and convince him.

“Babe.” He sighs. “do we have to?”

“You get to make out with me.” Yn smirks, as she notices his expression change immediately.

“Should’ve led with that.” He straightens up, getting ready for whatever she was about to do.

“Okay, so, lemme put my phone here real quick.” Yn excitedly gets up from the couch, placing her phone against a stack of books that were placed on the table. “So, you have to start off-camera, and then once it starts you walk into frame and bump into me.”

“Then I, like, push you away and then you grab me and make out with me.” The girl explains quickly, while looking at Rafe lovingly.

Rafe nods. “Sounds perfect, baby. Turn it on.” He smiles, pressing a kiss on her temple while she gets the TikTok set up.

Once the 3-second timer starts, Rafe gets out of the frame and waits until his cue. The music starts and Rafe walks into frame bumping into Yn, she stares at him confused and pushes him.

He takes a step forward and puts one hand on her cheek and the other on her ass, and he presses his lips on hers— Softly squeezing her ass as he makes out with her, making her let out a soft moan.

After hearing the moan, he pulls away and smirks. “Think the TikTok is done, baby.” He chuckles at her blushing face, completely in a state of shock from what just happened.

“Yeah, TikTok’s done.” She breathes out, turning around to her phone as she feels Rafe smack her ass once more making her bite her lip.

“Post it, princess. On both accounts, let everyone see you’re my girl.” Rafe whispers in her ear.

𓂃⋆.˚ tiktok comments

146 comments

username the hand position 😏

username i love it when hot people date hot people

rafecameron love my gorgeous girl

⤿ yourname my man💕

username this was hot icl

username wrong website guys

username outer banks’s it couple

username booktok wya

username gonna go take a walk now

TAGLIST -> @inthelibrarybtw @bradshawed @laniirackssss

TAGLIST -> comment on this post to be added to my rafe cameron taglist

MAIN MASTERLIST -> click here to see more

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dandydilfdiddler · 8 hours ago

Text

Strapped. Sat. Hair tied back. Word open because you broke my fucking notes app with the last fic. It is currently 12:01 am MST and I am preparing to embark on finally finding the smutty fic. You have made me fucking fall in love with Bob all over again and my original small tiny baby stalk of your blog turned into full blown madness and hysteria. Calling you fucking tuberculosis because you are consumption. Good lord. The back, the forth, the tension, the buildup, the breakdown, you are a god of literature and I applaud you.

I am not going to surive this, there is angst again. You say a bit and all that shit and I do not trust you. You took my heart and put it in the blender and gave me a lil kiss after with the sweet resolution and ENDED IT ON ME FASTER THAN A 2 PUMP CHUMP (I say with affection)

If that fucking end sneaks up on me again when I am just getting comfy for love and fluff I am gonna riot

Mmmmmmm angry bob. Jealousy. Yum.

Smut!!!!!!!! Yes. Yes. Yes. I need this man biblically and in ways that are concerning to feminism.

Starting off strong and sweet, I love him and drunken confessions okay.

Oh god we have military shit here, remind me to consult you because what are some of these words. I swear it’s English but I’m running to google to translate

God do I love a well researched fic

Dad Mav is my favorite font of Maverick

I see your Danny in here, I vote they kiss for the plot

YEAH IT’S SWEET – YOU GO NATASHA

You are also correct Nat, is it is fucking adorable

… I had to admit it but Jake is also correct, flight suits do something to my ovaries that I swear is black magic chemical reactions that make me come undone. And someone shouting orders in it? My ass is a sub, I’m gonna fall apart at that

Okay we are going in warm for this one too. He is teasing.

I love sassy reader because, I too, fucking despise cocky men and it makes it so much more me

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.” – I love you but you are so dumb Bob. It isn’t even a leap at this point Sir, please the hints are written on the walls.

NO DATES BECAUSE OF YOU LIKE HOW IS THAT HARD

ROOSTER? MAN WHY… YOU… Crawling through the screen to strangle him

Oooo I feel insulted. Peep back the fucking cocky comment

NOT THE CALL OUT FROM MAV MY FUCKING GOD

HONDO NO YOU BACKSTABBER TOO

I’m being jumped in this fic and not in the fun way

I love you Mickey, you silly sassy bitch

Diner? Oh my god are you going to put me out of my misery early in this fic and give me some meat to gnaw on of them happy together? I know the answer is no but I can pray

Annnnd we’re back. I do understand the annoyance but like, girl, good because he likes you and he isn’t cocky and can’t pull that off please

“Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that.” Emily Gilmore shaking her head going “He’s just a man Lorelai”. I have to remind myself of that every 3 seconds with this fucking character

HELLO

HOW ARE YOU

IMMA NEED A VISUAL

MA’AM

YOU DID PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY THIS IS A LIL WARMER

He is flirting. He has to be. Shirtless like that? He knows what he’s doing.

Now we got a screen fog. I respect the game

LMFAO THE READ RECIPTS

OH HE GONNA KNOW HOW LONG THAT TOOK TO RESPOND

“You need an hour alone with your vibrator,” So fucking real for that

Look, I have watched skincare just for the bulge shot and I don’t even give a fuck if it’s fake. I watched Lesson’s in Chemistry for an ass shot. I am unashamed that I have those saved as gif’s on my phone. Save the fucking photo. Heart it. He deserves hearts.

If he has an android and you like a message too it shows up as a whole new message no matter how old it is with a [X liked/loved/ext. “quote whole message here”] – someone who has a lot of friends with iPhones and I got an android

I love that he talks every day. I could live with just daily pretend walk throughs of mundane things reading the life of bob x reader together

Mickey you get a baby sim because you are baby

He says please because he has manners

Phoenix I would ride this man’s lap any time of the week. Any place. Just give me a chance and I will put on a show.

I LOVE THIS TROPE FALLLLLL LITERALLY FOR ME

“you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours.” SO FUCKING REAL FOR THAT

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.” Look. I knew you’d do it to me but did you at least kiss the knife before you gutted me?

Oh. Oh you made it worse. Oh you made it so much worse. Oh wow. Oh my god. Oh. Oh this is personal. My feelings are hurt. I would never recover. I could not handle this. “She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She’s not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.” You crawled into my brain and rather than taking the fun, horny bits about me riding his joystick you picked the ouchie buttons and added them in like a casual sprinkle of salt on a pasta dish

Yeah… as much as it pains me… fuck that guy

Of course… you know how to hurt me personally with that “his favorite movie” shit because like… hello I would be dumb and, in my annoyance, say that as well

Something is wrong and you are a fool for missing the hints. Bro you said the most devastating and crushing shit that hurts and you can’t even tell

SEE AND WHY YOU GOTTA MAKE IT SOFT WHEN I AM RAGING ON A MONDAY “He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone. He’s been carrying it too. Willingly.” Beautiful. This is the love I want and crave. Saving it because real boys don’t exist for this

Ouch, there is the pain, you always crash it back down <3

“The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips.” BOOM SHAKALAKA ON GOD

He knew. I knew he knew.

“He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses. “ GIRL WHAT IS THIS. Why are you so fucking effortlessly funny? Hello?

Oh god do I love a desperate man and the cushion grind has me ferallllll

He came thinking of keeping and I gotta say this is chef’s kiss. Respectful and dirty and love and good god I am gonna need you to pay for a new vibrator when I am done with this fic because I am about to break it thinking about this man

“His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants.” I’m doing the fucking poetry slam snap clap here

Don’t. Don’t play with me like this. Don’t. I have a fat crush on Phoenix and her WSO. Don’t play with me. I am too gay for this shit. I love her. I need her. Don’t toy with my emotions because I will break. I love her. I would go home with her.

DID HE MATCH ON PURPOSE MY HEART

I see you. I see you with the fucking cowboy boots. You have seen Lewis in regular clothes.

“His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob.” Baby don’t play with me. Do not. I am a kinky fucking bitch and I am going to lose my mind because I want to take this man’s ticket to heaven and send him to hell with the down dirty nasty ass fucking shit I wanna do. Don’t give me hope and crush. Please. I need this.

“Something heavy. Tense. Possessive.” Lord please, I see what you have done for others, please let this be filth after. I will repent and pray the rosary just gimme that man’s dick so aggressively my cervix can claim worker’s comp

“Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting.” I YELLED SO LOUD I WOKE THE DOGS AT THIS

CONFRONT HIS ASS – TEAR HIM TO PIECES

“his eyes dropping to your chest,” hehehehehehehehe

Oh we fucking in a bathroom

Hello

Yes

Yo I am about to wake the block up from screaming

Oh damn, hot fuck, yeah buddy on the counter!!!!!!

From a fanfic perspective, hot as fuck. Me in a club? Throwing up.

Oh my god are we gonna get dirty talk? Are you going to bless me?

Oh lord. Oh my god. Oh fuck. This. Oh. Maam. You. Hellow. I have been deprived of this for 2 fics? The fucking. Cocky sassy bob. Oh my god. Yes. Hellow.

Bob Floyd FUCKS

My god I love grinding. I love how needy it is. I love fucking dry humping. You are my hero.

I got you.

I’m pregnant.

YES YOU MARK UP YOU FUCKING GET ME

Yeah hurry up and fuck me good god. I have been edged to hell and back with this. I need it.

Wreck him

This man knows how to play a body like a banjo and I appreciate the game

Oh we adding love to the sex, this is gonna make me emotional

I’ve got you.

Please tell me you gotta walk with cum running down your leg from Bob. I have a breeding kink the size of Alaska and that shit is yummy

But also Bob is sweet and it is a bathroom where you can clean… but also marking and claiming…

Help. Send help. Cardiac arrest. I didn’t die from the smut but I died from the fluff after. Marriage? Yes. This is better than end sneaking up and stealing my joy.

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.” RIP me, this would do me in. I would faint so dramatically because how can you write something so fucking adorable? This lifetime? Ma’am. I am swooning. You wrote the fucking romantic plot of a lifetime in this fic.

IT ISN’T CRAZY YOU JUST ARE SLOW TO THE UPTAKE TO LOVE. You shoulda gotten married for BAH. I love marriage of convenience into falling in love and you coulda gotten that bag for being married. Time to hurry the fuck up now. Love you fools.

Thank god it was a yes, I was scared for a minute you’d wind me up to draw me out again

Lmfao telling his Momma that he purposed after breaking your fucking back in a nightclub bathroom stall

YES HE DOES TWIRL. BECAUSE HE’S ROMANTIC. Fucks your heart and your pussy up

Lmfaooo yeah the bathroom

Jake you fucking moment crasher. I get it’s your birthday but let us have a moment. Not like we didn’t just raw dog it in a bathroom but still. Read a room.

Oh it was a performance for the whole group. I said I would, I love that I got it. To show off how hard Bob can break me open like a can of Pilsbury biscuits – he can butter those too

Yes, live in there, you were the one that wanted to go. Show off the fact you just railed Bob. Be proud. Twenty minutes is a long wait to cuddle post coitus

“At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.” HELL YEAH BROTHER

Bob has a big dick Jake. This is established that he is packing a monster and knows how to use it. He is gonna make a woman moan.

MICKEY

Fuck Grinder Jake. It will change you.

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captain,” you reply, nodding.

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

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

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She quick?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.”

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

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans.

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes.

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

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

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

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.”

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

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles.

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

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

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

“The usual?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred.

“Does it matter?”

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

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

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

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

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at him. “Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “Yeah, right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind if I play next?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.”

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

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

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

Your mouth drops open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.”

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All from a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks.

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

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

“Pizza?”

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?”

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

You stop walking. “With who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

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

Good.

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

Good?

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

Good.

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

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

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

BOB FLOYD

📎 [Image attachment]

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

And there he fucking is.

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

Holy fuck.

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

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

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

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

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with?

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

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

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

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

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

A little notification pops up beneath your message.

Read. Immediately.

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

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

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

But first…

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

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

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

But you can’t stop thinking about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.”

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly.

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

“Did I beat Hangman?”

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

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

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

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So… a baby sim?”

“Basically. You’ll be fine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming in,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he says, grinning now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sim bucks suddenly.

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

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

But it’s too late.

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

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…”

“You eject,” you say dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless.

“Now keep her steady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know, not what Fanboy did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grin. “Nice shot.”

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

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

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back.

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.

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

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

He does so without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing.

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

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

“You sure?”

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

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

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

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

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE.

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

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

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

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

He falls forward.

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

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

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

“Are you okay? Your head—”

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

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

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

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

Your laughter fades, breath catching.

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

And then—

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shame. Still hot though, right?”

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

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

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

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

“What, you’re not into her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. That.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because it was Bob.

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

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

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

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd.

Fuck that guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you don’t look at him at all.

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

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

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

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

“That thing work?” he asks.

“What thing?”

“Your phone.”

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.”

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

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

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

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer.

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

“What’d you watch?”

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something?”

He frowns. “What do you—”

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

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod once. “Yep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Mickey replies.

“Copy,” Bob mutters.

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

“Hangman, you ready?”

“When you are, boss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy that. Repositioning.”

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

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

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.”

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

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

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

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn.

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

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

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

“Pilot ready?” you ask.

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.”

You nod. “Run it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knows something’s wrong.

- Bob -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob glances up. “Hm?”

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

“I don’t know, I just—”

“Is this about Lucky?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters.

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

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

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob frowns. “Where?”

“Hangman’s birthday.”

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

“I don’t know, it—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cute? You called him cute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’

‘She only uses Morse code.’

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then... there’s you.

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

So you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh.

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

- You -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All for you, baby.”

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

“Show me the way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea.

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

Bob.

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

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

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

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

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline.

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

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

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

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

Bob.

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

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

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving.

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

And you feel it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he’s there. Beside you.

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

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls.

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

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

You blink. “Excuse me?”

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

“What’s your problem?” you bite back.

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

“Doing what?” you demand.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s the most confusing part.

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why would you say it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he’s on you. Everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he grinds against you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else.

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.”

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.”

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again.

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then—

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried.

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches.

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask.

“Bob…”

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.”

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis.

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be.

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too.

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.”

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?”

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his.

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need.

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant.

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking.

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.”

You’re just about to kiss him again when—

Bang, bang, bang.

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?”

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.”

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock.

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist.

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?”

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?”

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.”

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all.

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.”

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor.

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing.

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?”

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.”

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist.

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.”

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?”

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass.

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?”

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?”

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.”

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red.

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted.

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away.

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!”

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