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dxndjxrin · 3 days ago

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Don't Bite the Hand That Feeds | Lucius Verus Aurelius

SUMMARY: "Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind. “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?"

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x f!reader (arranged marriage for political reasons)

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

WARNINGS: canon-typical things, not much, mentions of alcohol, old-timey language, Google-accurate Roman empire things, dancing, arranged marriage, talks of lineage, angsty-ish, quotes from various people like Nina Simone and Octavia Butler sprinkled into dialogue, etc.

A/N: I quickly wrote this in a few days with the amazing help of @astrd00. This is just sort of an introduction to my fic idea so apologies if it's a little boring. Arranged marriage trope sort of colleagues to friends to lovers. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment it really helps me to keep going! More to come, enjoy!

The Latin translates to: a water drop hollows a stone, not by force but by frequent falling.

Everyone clung to the fog of death in the air with stiff fingers, unwilling to let their proof of newly promised freedom go. They celebrated in the streets, disregarding the savagery that occurred only months ago. The public enjoyed the amnesia, looking to Lucius not solely for responsibility but as a new object to place culpability.

Yet, the heaviness permeated Lucius’ marrow. He hid it well behind the mask of authority. Even a sharp eye would miss the way it restrained him, intentionally ignorant of a flaw in their new leader.

It might have even been seen as a strategic move, a way to humanize the gladiator who seemed to defy the Gods. Strategy outside the arena was new, different from the portrayed brute that dusted his hands with sand. What lay in his palms now was similar to that of a child’s heart, beating rapidly with a not-yet-known burden of life. It was heavy and warm, begging for unwavering loyalty from its possessor.

Lucius remained delicate with his hold, but the heart wanted more from him. Strength and honor would soon no longer suffice. It needed sustenance worthy of devotion and destruction. His eyes were steady on this phantom heart until those around him required his attention.

“Emperor—” A magistrate repeated, voice raising enough to tease an echo. The new title sat heavily on Lucius’ shoulders, contorting his body into a position that mimicked Atlas. “Our suggestion should not be taken lightly, it is for the prosperity of your Rome.”

Scrutiny wasn’t found in his tone or bitterness behind the remark but rather in genuine regard. However, there was an intention behind the ownership of Rome, a hint at the generational promise.

“The public can wonder, speculate, but they do not see beyond the issue.” He continued, watching the twitch on Lucius’ face. “You may not like the mere thought, but gutta cavat lapidem, non vi sed saepe cadendo.” The magistrate paused, his words lingering. “How much longer until Rome is hollow once again?”

“This order is a fallacy.” Lucius finally made contact, eyes surveying those around him. “There is a need for trust, yes. And yet, you ask for deception?”

“You misunderstand us, Emperor.” Another member of the senate spoke, hoping to alleviate tension. “There would be no deception in this union, only fortification of the reigning; an image for the people to find themselves in.”

“Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind. “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?”

—

You smiled through the wine-fueled chattering of the ceremony, appeasing those who had just witnessed your union, but your focus moved beyond the conversation and revelry. Above you was a darkened sky that mimicked night. Rain poured down, tempting you to fall prey to its numbing hold.

The Gods are favoring your union, you were told when the sky opened. Divine intervention.

But you knew the Gods were fickle, always testing your will against temptation. It was a test sent for you, one that an elaborate wedding and an emperor declaring your shared existence hid well.

So you ignored the call of the humidity, being dutiful to your new role as empress. People bowed to you and nearly cried at how beautifully you paired with your new counterpart. Even as you sat on the marble throne beside Lucius you couldn’t deny their exactness.

“Don’t worry, they’ll soon pass out from the wine.” You spoke softly, eyes ahead at your guests as you spoke to your husband. His grip on your hand fidgeted exposing his anxiety.

Lucius paused, determining if honesty was worthwhile. His self-awareness was enough to remind him how unfamiliar he was with the environment that consumed his senses.

“It is for them.” You nodded ahead to the crowd. The room was hot from the amount of bodies swirling around. “Remind yourself of this when their faith falters.”

Lucius looked at you, attention trained on your profile. Even with a soft veil over your features, you were so absolute.

“I know my purpose here. You are still learning yours.” You continued. “All I ask of you is that when they falter you place your trust in our bond.”

“I will place it where it is due.” There was your gladiator. The defiance comforted you.

“Those around you are untroubled by that; all they crave is to spit on the fallen. It doesn’t matter if you are one of them, they are quick to turn.” You sharpened. “Be careful; join the sinful and you will be remembered with spite and desperation.”

You spoke of hidden things, of politics that lingered like venom in the bloodstream of the empire. Lucius knew not to mistake your words for ulterior motives. You were direct in your vows to further his image of a new Rome, it was why you were chosen to be by his side. Your mind was clear. You read the room perfectly, unraveling every detail of what was inherited.

“My legacy does not motivate me,” Lucius stated. His ears attuned to you and you only, enraptured in how deeply you spoke as if it was a common thought. “I will not look to them for fame.”

“You will, conscious or not. And once you do, you will not be able to look away.” You smiled pitifully as though you knew something he didn’t. “Just as they watched you fight, you misunderstand the impact of what is before you.”

“You believe that little of me?” There was a swirl of censure in his chest despite the small smile pulling at his lips.

“There is opportunity to win, but that is a fool’s goal—

“To win?” Lucius scoffed. “Even you have been mislead, then. Thinking that there is a conquest waiting to happen.”

“I do not wish to insult you.” Your thumb adjusted against his fingers. It was in your nature to be candid, but at times you placed your frustrations unfairly. You softened. “Your promise of growth will help amend this.”

Lucius wished to pull away from you. He needed to think, to be separated from the feigned festivities adjoined to love. This was love; love created not between two people, but shared by you and him for Rome.

That was not to say you were birds of a feather.

Your strengths were found in your experience. Although young, you were no novice to how to hold your chin high while delivering truths to the senate. You learned from your uncle, an official who raised you on the true meaning of government. You were clever. The public viewed you as such. You were of noble status and fit to stand before them.

What you lacked was a specific connection that Lucius brought to the people. He was one of them, raised humbly, hands worn from the earth’s harvest and war forced upon him. Lucius spoke well to them, building comradery with every way of life.

“I would never ask you to compromise your beliefs. I know better than to think you’d behave.” You teased at his rebellion, hoping the guard that was up would calm. “Besides, a well-mannered lover is an offense.”

“We are not lovers.” It was sterile in tone but revealed emotions long since buried.

“And we are not enemies.” You were quick, reading between his words to find the insult.

“My lord!” A raspy voice begged for attention. “My lady!”

You stood, bowing politely to the affluent man before you. He took advantage of the night; jewels adorned every finger that pulled at the elaborate fabric of his outfit.

“It is time.” The rasp withered when he lowered to speak to you directly. His arms went wide as if inviting a hug, but he spun skillfully to face the audience.

“Time?” Lucius looked to you.

The man boomed over the forgotten rain. ““It is time!”

Standing, you didn’t release Lucius’ hand. There was resistance on his end, wanting to remain sedentary and silent to wait out the rest of the night.

“Our dance.” You answered to his wide eyes. Your guests cheered, clearing space. “It is customary to rise together and move as one. It will complete the ceremony.”

He rose at your words, not much of a choice otherwise than to follow.

The fabric of your dress swam behind you, kissing the floor with each step toward the middle of the marble floor. The dress looked like water cascading down your body, hiding each bend and swell of your body. Yet, it highlighted something else, something deeper. It was subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space.

“May the rain create a river to fertility.” The man held a contagious grin that spread around the room.

Prosperity and posterity. This is what they wanted. Lucius alone was not enough. The bloodline was more important than a single figure. It hadn’t needed to be discussed as it was the obvious forethought for your unification.

The officials of the republic were more concerned about your fecundity and frame than the knowledge you held. It was a typical belief, one that you expected. Your fingers itched to bring your willingness to support the new decree to play and if this was your path to it, so be it.

You remained clinical at the thought. It was a means to an end rather than something to be meditated on. The way Lucius hardened at the man’s words told a story from another perspective where the political became personal. You did not miss the ring on his pinky that rubbed against a new gold one.

“Does the great gladiator know how to dance?” Your voice flowed to Lucius only knowing the opportunity rarely presented itself.

The music shifted from something fast-paced to something more melodic that would encourage you both to move swiftly but attractively. You knew your words would hit a nerve, but it was strategic to motivate Lucius’ hesitant hands.

“It is a back and forth. A push and pull.” You guided your hand to press against his palm, meeting together as if you were to pray. “Just like the arena, no?”

Lucius’ eyebrows pinched together. Not out of curiosity or frustration. He was genuine in his response.

“Rarely is a touch this…subdued.” Soft.

“Shall I spin you in circles, then?” Your painted lips were easier to see now that Lucius was close. He saw as they rose through your veil with the quip. “Disorientate you to the point of submission?”

Your arms weaved behind your back still connected to Lucius’. The dance was simple, one practiced as children. There were very few steps and wistful gestures that even the familiar still enjoyed.

“Those are my only options? Coercion or blind fealty.”

It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise. You vetted his blank gaze for proper determination of his upset.

It was odd to see Lucius so close, your memory had failed to cast such a strong light on him. Once overgrown hair had been trimmed to only curl at the nape of his neck. Dirt was cleared from every line of his face. He was still rugged, but you saw through the exterior to find a boy.

A boy who had been stripped of child-like wonderment and care. Instead, he held his broad shoulders high and an expression that lingered from his exile. Lucius’ skin perked every time your dress acted as a barrier between the two of you, a warning that whatever you offered had to be earned.

“I do not ask much of you, Emperor...” You put it simply, knowing your worth and wisdom. You needed to be promised his word that against anything you would be beside each other. “...so I will not ask again.”

“You are not satisfied with the trust of the marriage alone,” Lucius stated his question like an observation. “You wish I promise myself to you in ways which I may not be able to provide.”

“Able or willing?”

Your faces were close, noses mirroring each other as you turned on beat. You could feel the warmth of your frustration start in your chest, only to spread across your skin as goosebumps.

“The past and the future press so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.” You spoke again before he could answer. “You must decide where you belong.”

The music returned to Lucius’ ears. Its melody weighed down your words, letting them settle deeply in his mind. His head spun with thoughts busy on reasoning. Perhaps he was too guarded for his own good, but he’d gotten himself this far relying only on himself. He had held in a great deal. Often he felt he couldn't speak until the waters overflowed their banks and broke through the dam.

Those around him garnered support, but this was different. You understood what freedom was; it meant no fear. Fear rolled right off of you. Fear was like a pet to you: something you picked up to get a better look at but that you soon grew tired of.

The music slowed coming to an end. Lucius removed his hands from your body but didn’t venture far. His calloused fingertips followed the seam of your soft veil to meet the laced end. Once there, he gently revealed your true manner.

Your features were accentuated by an internal glow. There was no modesty in your gaze, it shattered any notion of strength. There was no insight into your emotions. What Lucius found was someone gifted. It was a marvel he hadn’t heard of you until you presented yourself as the wise option for him to marry.

Although you ran in many circles, your name wasn’t whispered among the council. They didn’t believe beauty and wit could fit within the reach of a woman. Yet, here you stood. A new challenge to be accepted. Lucius resisted the urge to swallow quick breaths as if he were going to endure a blow from Viggo. His body agitated in preparation, but looking at you so wholly all he could muster was concession.

“You have my word.”

#op…ur writing style is genuinely captivating?? like holy shit this is incredible #I need more right NOW my god.#like this is so crazy good I’m #jaw on the floor #lucius verus #gladiator 2

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dxndjxrin · 4 days ago

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Post tenebras lux

Summary: You are gifted to Lucius as a reward for his prowess in the arena. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 5.9 K Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Heavy angst with a HEA, dubious consent (reader and Lucius are coerced into having sex), public sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death, and brief descriptions of blood/injuries from combat in the arena. A/N: I futzed with the timeline in this fic. Instead of coming home after conquering Numidia General Acacius is sent out on another campaign for the emperors. Also, fun fact — the Romans considered oral sex taboo. A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar, my beloved B, @clairewritesandrambles, @ryebecca, and @faebirdie for their help with the fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

The warm steam of the bath clings to the air, thick and heavy, as you move past the large pools where gladiators soak and laugh. Their rough voices fill the humid air and the afternoon sun filters through the open atrium, casting a muted, golden glow across the water. None of the men bother you as you make your way to the quiet alcove at the far end of the room. If Lucius's reputation in the arena hadn’t been enough to keep them away, the man whose hand he took for daring to touch you certainly was.

You’d learned quickly that in this place violence was power, and your gladiator wielded it well. It was a far cry from your life as a fisherman‘s wife, and then as a slave in Macrinus’s household. When you were gifted to Lucius, you braced yourself for the brutal ways of his world, where strength ruled above all else, and men like him took what they wanted without hesitation. But he never did. Instead, Lucius treated you with something you hadn’t expected: respect and kindness. His touch only ever lingered long enough to offer reassurance, never to claim.

In time you both learned to play your parts to survive. By day, Lucius was the victorious gladiator, and you, his spoil of war. They were roles neither of you had chosen, but ones you took on to survive. The night became your refuge, a time where the weight of your reality could be put aside, if only for a while. Curled around one another on the thin cot the ghosts of your past weren’t silenced but shared through whispered admissions. You could speak of the people you had once been – before Rome twisted you both into something unrecognizable.

Trust came with time. And now, as you approach the alcove where he waits, you can feel some of the tension leave your body. You are safe with Lucius, a thought that would have been absurd to you just months ago.

You shift the small wooden tray — laden with fresh bread, olives, figs, and a jug of strong wine — to your other hip. The soft scrape of your sandals against the stone floor alerts Lucius to your presence. His dark gaze lifts from the water, meeting yours with the quiet intensity that you’ve come to expect. Even in the haze of sweat and steam, his presence is impossible to ignore.

Where others would let their gaze wander lower, drifting toward the rest of his bare form submerged beneath the water, you always look at his face. It‘s there that you find what you seek: the sharp edges of your own pain and anger mirrored in his dark eyes. It’s a reflection of the hurt you carry, of all that Rome took from you both.

“You fought well today,” you say, settling beside the pool, the water lapping at the stone.

The words come easily, practiced—part of the familiar routine you’ve both come to rely on. Though the bath is quiet and you seem to be alone, you know better. You’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears. Every word, every glance, carries weight here, and even in the relative solitude of this alcove, your interactions could be reported back to Macrinus. Only when you’re hidden away in the cell you share each night can you let the pretense fall away.

Lucius hums in response as he lets his head fall back against the cool stone. His muscled arm rests on the edge of the pool and you offer him a brief, gentle touch before withdrawing. The tension in his frame eases a fraction and his eyes flutter closed, but the sharpness of his presence doesn’t fade. He’s aware of every shift in the air, every sound around him. Even in the quiet comfort of this place, Lucius is never truly off guard.

You pick up a ripe fig, its skin velvety and fragrant, and drag it slowly through the warmed honey. Gently, you bring it to his lips, offering it with a quiet gesture. Lucius sighs—softly, almost imperceptibly—and then his lips part, taking the fruit from your fingers. As he bites into it, you feel the heat of his tongue brush against your skin. You try to ignore the traitorous feeling that springs to life in your belly. That feeling has become a frequent companion, one you never asked for, and one that sits uneasily beside the grief you still carry for your late husband.

“You must eat too,” Lucius commands. “You will need your strength for later.”

His rough words carry no real threat, but you react like they do, tucking your chin to your chest in a subtle gesture of submission. At times, it feels like a performance—like you're both actors on a stage, with an unseen audience watching every move. You eat in silence until the tray is bare and the goblet empty. When he rises from the pool, water cascading from his sun-kissed skin, you reach for the fresh robe laid carefully over the stone bench.

“Do you wish…” you begin, lifting your eyes to Lucius, only to falter at his expression. His eyes flicker briefly past you, and then, just as swiftly, return. He gives no warning before he pulls you forward and drags you into the water. Your cry of surprise is swallowed by the splash your bodies make as ripples spread outward. The wet robes cling to you like a heavy second skin and you sink deeper into the water.

“I’ll have you here,” Lucius announces loudly. He grasps your biceps and easily forces you to straddle him. Your face shields his from the outside world. His expression softens and even as his lips part to speak, you shake your head, stopping him before the words can leave his mouth.

You understand, without needing to hear it. The two of you are no longer alone.

He leans back, arms stretched along the edge of the bath. “Ride me,” he commands.

You struggle out of the heavy outer robe and your knuckles unwittingly brush over his abdomen. Lucius tenses beneath you. You offer him a quiet apology before withdrawing and rising to your knees. Your hips shift forward in a facsimile of his request, meeting nothing but a swell of water as you keep a careful distance from his body. He groans and you answer him with a quiet moan of your own. You rise up and down almost mechanically, staring at the chipped stone above his head. His hot breath fans over your neck, the heat of it lingering on your skin. You shudder as a warmth that has nothing to do with the pool gathers under your skin, shame twisting your insides.

Lucius grabs your waist urging you to move faster, and the sounds of his pleasure rise in intensity. The muscles of your thighs protest, burning with effort as you hold the distance between your bodies. The air around you shifts and the murmur of conversation in the other pools begins to fade as the gladiators are drawn in, listening to your performance. The silence grows almost suffocating, but you force yourself to push through the charade. This is just one of many indignities you’ve endured since Rome descended onto the sleepy fishing village you called home. It pales to what could await you if it were gifted to a different gladiator.

“Fuck,” Lucius growls loudly, abruptly stilling your movement to feign his pleasure.

After a beat you gather the courage to look over your shoulder, meeting Viggo’s stare. You tense. Calloused fingertips brush lightly over your jaw, drawing your attention back to Lucius. You stare down at him, taking in the light flush of his dusky cheeks and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His touch lingers for a moment more before his hand disappears beneath the water.

“Use my robe to cover yourself,” he instructs roughly.

It’s then that you realize how transparent your dress has become in the water. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you slide away, only to freeze when your thigh brushes over an unexpected hardness. Your eyes jump to his and Lucius’s throat bobs, the usual intensity of his features faltering for a brief moment.

"I will fetch more wine," you stammer after a pause, your gaze flicking nervously to Viggo still lingering at the edge of the bath, all too aware that Lucius cannot leave in this state.

Wrapping your arms around your chest, you rise from the pool. The cool air instantly prickles your damp skin. You reach for a robe nearby and pull it around you quickly, grateful for its modesty. Viggo shoots you a brief, assessing glance, but it’s Lucius who commands his attention next.

"Come to admire what isn't yours?" Lucius taunts.

He leans back casually, as though completely unfazed by the situation. It’s effortless the way he slips into his confident, unshakable mask while you hurry away, eager to break the silence and escape the strange weight of the moment.

–

The clang and clash of metal from the arena become a distant hum, fading into the background as you clean the wounds on Lucius's body. Ravi is occupied, tending to the more seriously injured men, so it falls to you to care for your gladiator. You kneel between his thighs and the coarse sand scrapes against the soft skin of your knees. The heat of the day clings to you both, the air thick with the smell of sweat and blood. But beneath it all, there's a scent you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his — a mix of earth and salt that’s oddly comforting.

You gently press a cloth to one of the deeper gashes, cleaning away the blood before you begin stitching the wound. Lucius hisses as you draw the needle through his parted skin, and you glance up at him in concern, but his eyes are closed, his breath steady despite the discomfort. His fingers curl into the edge of the cot, gripping it tightly. You smear the thick, fragrant paste Ravi left over the wound once you’re done.

“You’re getting better at this,” Lucius observes.

“Flesh is not so different from cloth,” you reply.

“A far cry from mending fishing nets,” he says, and for a moment, your eyes meet and you share a small, pained smile.

“And you are a long way from a farm, gladiator,” you acknowledge, shaking your head.

You help him stand, your hands steady as you support his weight, but you pause when you spot Viggo standing in the doorway. Lately, he seems to haunt your every step, his presence a constant shadow. On instinct you shift a little closer to Lucius, your body seeking the reassurance of his proximity just as he draws you near. The subtle movement doesn’t go unnoticed. A small, knowing smile tugs at Viggo’s lips. It’s a look that sends a trickle of unease down your spine.

“Macrinus is entertaining some important guests tomorrow evening, and you are required to attend,” he announces looking at Lucius. “They wish to see a real gladiator up close, to witness your strength and skill firsthand.”

Then, to your surprise, Viggo turns his gaze toward you. “Your presence is also required,” he adds. Although his tone is casual there's an edge to it that makes your stomach tighten.

Lucius doesn’t speak, but his fingers flex against your hip as he considers the other man’s command. You both know there’s little room for refusal when it comes to Macrinus.

“I understand-” you say at the same time Lucius’s voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

“She is not needed. I alone will attend.”

His gaze never leaves Viggo, and you can see the challenge in his eyes. It’s an attempt to shield you, one you appreciate but understand is futile.

Viggo’s smile remains unchanged. “Macrinus insists.”

The matter is settled and you bow your head, waiting for the other man to leave. Once he is gone you look to Lucius, voice tinged with concern.

“You should not challenge him.”

Lucius steps away, anger rolling off him in waves. “And you should not submit so easily.”

You touch your throat, then turn away to busy yourself with the bloody scraps of cloth and scattered supplies. There’s no point in arguing. You know the truth: that sometimes submission is the only way to survive in a world ruled by men like Macrinus. As you work the silence between you stretches on, thick and charged before Lucius steps toward you.

He sighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck. A moment later, his hand rests on your shoulder. The calloused pads of his fingers graze the nape of your neck, sending a fleeting sense of unexpected longing through you as they briefly sweep over your skin.

“I….” His voice trails off and you close your eyes.

“I know,” you say quietly.

So much of what transpires between you seems left unsaid. You reach back, your hand finding his briefly as the two of you share a quiet moment before he must return to the arena.

–

The bangles on your wrist are heavy and ornate, far too extravagant for a slave. They feel less like adornments and more like shackles. Beside you, Lucius looks equally as uncomfortable in his fine clothes. They’ve trimmed his beard and his tunic—lined with gold thread—glimmers in the dim light. From across the room, Macrinus raises his goblet to the two of you. All around you his guests mingle, sharing hushed conversation and knowing smirks that deepen your discomfort.

The servants, once familiar to you from your time as a slave working in Macrinus's kitchen, all avoid your gaze. You spent years alongside them before you were plucked from that world and thrust into Lucius's service. Their hesitation, the way they look past you, is more than simple discomfort, it’s a warning you don’t yet understand. Your fingers tremble where they rest on Lucius’s arm.

“Something is not right,” you whisper, fear rising in your throat.

Before Lucius can reply, the conversation around you falters, and the air grows still as Macrinus moves to the center of the room. Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, the noise dies completely.

“Our entertainment is about to begin,” he announces, beckoning you forward.

As you approach, his eyes drift between you and Lucius. His smile widens, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “I hope you enjoyed your meal. You’ll both need your strength for the show,” he says.

“I am to fight?” Lucius questions, his voice edged with suspicion.

“No, not today,” Macrinus replies. “My guests are eager for a performance of another kind.”

Your brow furrows and Lucius stares blankly at Macrinus until two servants, moving in unison, pull a table forward. It is laden with the remnants of the earlier feast — half-finished plates, empty goblets, and discarded silverware. They work to clear away the table until it is left bare.

“It is no bed, but it’s finer than your cot,” Macrinus assures.

Lucius jerks back as if struck, his body stiffening in shock while cold dread settles over your shoulder as you both understand Macrinus’s meaning. He watches the small exchange between the two of you with amusement.

“Or, if you prefer not to,” he offers, watching Lucius intently. His voice is smooth with mock consideration as he continues speaking. “I’m sure another gladiator would gladly take your place.”

“No,” Lucius snarls. Before he can move, you dig your nails into his forearm, trying desperately to hold him in place.

Macrinus leans in close, his next words meant only for the two of you. “I expect a good show. Not like that mummer's farce in the bath.”

Ugly surprise washes over you as the full reality of your situation sinks in. Beside you, Lucius shifts and you see the familiar spark in his eyes. It’s the look he gets before a fight when the fire that lives inside him is ready to explode and consume everything in its path. You’ve seen it a thousand times in the arena, and it always ends the same way: with blood.

You almost wish you could let him fight, but you know better. You step closer to Lucius, your presence a quiet plea for him to stop. It takes a moment before he meets your gaze and when he does you see the pain beneath the rage, the knowledge that this moment is slipping beyond his control.

There’s no glory in this—only survival. Yet that truth doesn’t make it any easier to watch the fire in his eyes fade as he steps back. It’s the kind of defeat that no arena or battle could ever impose on him.

“My guests are eager for the show,” Macrinus says and gestures to the table.

You straighten your shoulders, willing your body to follow the courage your mind struggles to summon. Lucius follows with heavy footsteps. You stop before the table, heart pounding, and take a slow, steadying breath to gather your resolve before you turn to face your gladiator. You know the role you’re meant to play, this moment is just another part of the spectacle your life has become.

Without a word, Lucius steps closer and his hands come to rest on your hips, guiding you to sit on the edge of the table. When he moves between your legs, you can’t read his expression. Unexpectedly, one of his large hands cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Focus on me,” he urges. “It is just us here, no one else matters. Do not think of them. Do not think of anything but me.”

His words are a command and a reassurance all at once, grounding you in the moment even as your pulse quickens.

When he speaks again, his voice is louder, carrying across the room. “Lay back.”

The table is hard and cold beneath you as you follow his instruction, the chill seeping through the thin silks you wear. Lucius pulls you forward until you’re at the very edge, your legs hanging loosely off the sides. Gently, your dress is peeled away until you’re bare to him. His broad frame blocks the crowd from seeing much but you still feel vulnerable and exposed. You curl your fingers into the palms of your hands, trying to remember Lucius’s words as you close your eyes.

The murmurs of the observers increase, and you feel them shift, edging closer. Then, a woman’s gasp cuts through the tension, followed by a wave of hushed surprise that ripples through the gathered Romans. When you open your eyes you can only see the top of Lucius’s head from where he kneels between your thighs. Guilty anticipation zips through you, followed by a spark of heat that flickers low in your stomach at the sudden realization of what he intends to do.

“Barbaric,” a man utters, his voice thick with disdain.

“Now now,” Macrinus says with a slight chuckle. “Remember, our gladiator hails from Numidia. Their customs are not ours."

The first touch from Lucius is barely there, a whisper of contact against your inner thigh, but it grows firmer the higher his fingers climb. Instinctively, you hold your breath, waiting for him to reach the most sacred part of you. At the first touch of his mouth to you, the rest of the world fades away.

Lucius builds your pleasure with slow, steady strokes while his calloused hands knead your thighs. His touch is an anchor and spark all at once. There is little resistance when he curls a finger inside. A second joins the first a moment later and without thought, you thread your fingers into his curls. A long, shuddering moan leaves him, and the vibration tightens the coil in your belly. Lucius’s touch grows rougher and more demanding. He drinks from you like he’s starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive while his fingers work you open.

You come with a throaty cry, your hips leaving the table. Every nerve in your body is alight. You cannot help but hold Lucius against you until the mere brush of his nose against your center makes you quake again, sending waves of warmth through your veins. As much as you want him to stop, you’re desperate for him to continue and keep you in this moment where nothing but the two of you exist.

Lucius pulls away and reality crashes in with starting clarity while the eyes of the crowd cut through you like a thousand sharp edges. Before it all overwhelms you, he climbs onto the table. He lowers himself onto his forearms and the weight of him presses against you.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.

You open your mouth but the words you want to say seem to get caught, trapped somewhere between your chest and your lips. To your surprise, wetness gathers at the corner of your eyes. But even that feels like something you can't fully surrender to. You’re trapped in this strange, painful moment where nothing feels real and everything feels too real all at once. It’s all too much – his tenderness and the horror of the situation.

There’s a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Lucius’s expression in response, but it’s enough to reveal something beneath the surface and allow you to see the guilt he bears. The lines around his eyes seem to deepen and the tension in his expression makes him look older, wearier, and more vulnerable than you've ever seen him. The desire to soothe him is enough to break the strange spell on you.

"All is well," you assure him, gently brushing your nose against his. “I am no maiden.”

“Fuck her already,” a voice shouts and Lucius pulls back, his handsome face twisting into a snarl. You feel the tension in his muscles, coiling like a spring, ready to snap—and a knot of anxiety tightens in your chest.

You breathe his name, soft and pleading, and he stills, the clench of his jaw betraying the war within. “It is only us,” you remind him, repeating his own words back to him.

He stares down at you, nostrils flaring and then suddenly he bows his head. You feel the fight leave him as he chooses restraint over the violence you both know he’s capable of.

"Only us," he replies, strained.

You hold his gaze as you feel his knuckles brush against your inner thigh to line himself up. He pushes inside slowly and you lift your hips. Your body welcomes him with only the briefest flare of pain, eased by his earlier attention.

“Oh,” you gasp.

Your eyes close as he fills you completely. The sensation is both comforting and alien all at once. You can’t help but think of your late husband, so different from Lucius in every way. You wonder fleetingly if the man above you is thinking of his lost love too. Does that unspoken grief weigh on him as heavily as it does on you?

Before your mind can wander further, Lucius begins to move and your thoughts fizzle out. He curls his powerful body over yours and keeps up a steady pace that makes your skin buzz. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and the smell of him surrounds you, familiar and comforting. As you move together each breath and shift of your body becomes a silent conversation between only the two of you.

“Gods,” he groans into your ear. “You take me so well.”

His unexpected praise has you rocking into him, needy for more. The table creaks each time he thrusts back into you. His lips trail along your neck and you feel that familiar climb to ecstasy begin, like a delicate crescendo inside you. Your nails dig into his skin and his rhythm stutters.

“Sweet girl,” Lucius sighs, pulling back just far enough to meet your gaze.

The tenderness in his eyes is unexpected. Since Macrinus gifted you to Lucius nearly six months ago, you’ve shared many looks; full of pain and grief, anger and understanding, but this is something new, fragile. You stroke his cheek and he surges forward, kissing you roughly.

His lips on yours are a revelation. A storm of emotion rolls through your chest, crystallizing into the realization that you want him. You long for him in a way that goes beyond the need for protection, or a desire for connection. You grasp his face in both hands, your fingers trembling against the hard line of his jaw, and return the kiss with urgency. It’s desperate, almost frantic, as though you’re trying to pull him closer, to merge with him in a way that makes the world outside of the two of you disappear.

He responds with a sharp thrust, angled so perfectly that it sends a flash of heat up your spine. You taste yourself on him when his tongue delves into your mouth. He hardly lets you catch a breath as he pours himself into you over and over until another orgasm washes through you. It’s more intense than the last, bleeding into his own as he comes with a quiet moan.

He gives a few more thrusts and stills, his lips hovering over yours as you share the same air. Your thumbs stroke the soft skin under his eyes and you hold his gaze. In the depths of it, you feel a thousand words rising in your chest, aching to spill out, but you are all too aware you’re not alone.

Before you let the world back in you tilt your chin up, lips brushing over his in a slow, tender kiss that he returns with heartbreaking gentleness. When you finally pull apart, the applause from Macrinus makes you flinch, and Lucius’s expression clouds over.

“What a performance,” Macrinus exclaims.

A titter of applause follows from the audience as though they’ve witnessed something to be praised. Lucius pulls away and you wince as he slips from inside you. A trickle of his seed follows and cold air blankets your body. You curl in on yourself, feeling vulnerable and anxious. When Lucius moves to stand, he carefully pulls your dress to cover you. Then, he helps you upright, and draws you into his side, shielding you with his body. He lifts his chin and offers the crowd a sharp, almost vicious smirk that’s more a baring of teeth than a smile.

“I thought you might fuck like you fight,” Macrinus says. He lays a hand on Lucius’s shoulder like they are old friends and leans close. “I’m pleased to see that I was wrong.”

There’s some other meaning in his words that you don’t catch but Lucius seems to understand. Anger flickers across his face, but beneath it, you see something more unsettling, something you’ve never seen before. Fear.

“We will do a great many things together, I think,” Macrinus continues in a pleased tone, his gaze lingering on the hand Lucius settles possessively on your hip. “A great many things.”

This time when he smiles it reaches his eyes; cold, calculating, and full of something far more sinister.

You spend the rest of the party seated on Lucius’s lap, his arm banded around your waist while the other rests on your thigh. He’s tense and angry as you expect but his focus seems distant, lost somewhere far beyond the room. He rubs the fabric of your dress between his thumb and forefinger, the motion almost absentminded. The wine you sip is overly sweet and sits like a sour stone in your belly. Neither of you speak. Occasionally, some guests, perhaps emboldened by drink or bravery, approach, but Lucius quickly sends them on their way with nothing more than a look.

Only once the party dies down are you dismissed by Viggo. On the journey back to your cell Lucius’s grip on you remains firm, as if he's afraid you might slip away. He doesn't speak, and you notice every so often, his free hand curls into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. It’s not until the door closes behind you, locking you both inside the small, dimly lit space, that Lucius finally speaks.

"You know my true name,” he begins pacing the length of the cell. “But there are things I have not told you."

He speaks slowly, each word carefully measured, as though he’s weighing the cost of revealing what’s hidden. He tells you the truth of his origin, and with each sentence, you sink deeper into the thin cot you both share, the weight of his words pressing down on you. When he finally falls silent, you remain there, frozen. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, but none of them seem to form into anything coherent.

"Does this mean-" you begin, words faltering as you try to process the magnitude of what he’s revealed to you. “Does this mean… you are the rightful emperor?”

“I am.” There’s no pride in his admission, only worry. He releases a harsh breath through his nose like he’s trying to clear something from his chest before he speaks again. “There is a plan in place, with my mother and Acacius, but he will not return from Persia for several weeks yet. We cannot wait for them.”

“What has changed?”

“Surely you must know,” he whispers, regarding you softly.

You shake your head, a quick, instinctive denial, but a deeper part of you already understands. Or perhaps, hopes you do.

“You," he says simply.

It’s the way he says it, so certain and knowing, that makes your breath catch. You stare at him and your heart throbs in your chest, low and sweet like a song.

“I never thought I could want someone again,” he admits. His unexpected words summon the ghost of all you've both lost, and they rise between you like a shadow, lingering for a long painful moment. "I thought it would feel like..." His words trail off.

“A betrayal,” you finish for him, keenly aware of what he must feel.

The vulnerable look on his face awakens something deep and real inside you that you never expected to feel again. You rise from the cot without thinking and move to stand before him.

"It feels right," he continues, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "As easy as breathing."

And then he kisses you, tentative at first, before he grasps your jaw, seeking more of you. The way he holds you, possessively, protectively, makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters, like you're his lifeline in a world that’s about to crumble. It fills you with such longing that you chase his lips when they part from yours.

"Macrinus knows now. And he is planning something," Lucius says, his voice tight with urgency, "and whatever it is, it will be at odds with the good of Rome. He will use you to get to me. And I cannot lose you."

“What will you do?” You ask.

"I'll send word to my mother in the morning," he replies. "You and she must leave Rome. It’s the only way."

You shake your head, unwilling to part from him.

“I will come for you when it is safe,” he promises, capturing your lips in another kiss before he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "But tonight… tonight, I need you again. Will you have me?” He questions.

You answer him with your lips and he gathers you in his arms. The coarseness of his beard against your chin and the firm press of his lips to yours ignites a bone-deep need within. Suddenly all the danger, the uncertainty, and the inevitability of what’s to come fades into the background. It's just the two of you, the heat of his touch, the depth of his kiss, and the unspoken promise in his embrace.

When he pulls you down on the cot, urging you on top of him, you let his momentum carry you.

“Ride me,” he pleads desperately, framing your hips with his hands.

He gazes up at you with such a mix of desperation and love that you couldn’t deny him, even if you wanted to. The shudder he gives when you take him in hand emboldens you to stroke his length. He groans and pushes his head back, exposing his thickly corded neck. You rise up and sink down on him slowly, savoring each inch. It’s near perfect how he fills you, and even though you’re still sore from earlier, the blend of pain and pleasure thrills you too much to stop.

“Your dress,” he pants, “remove it. Please. I want to see you. All of you.”

You pull the fabric from your body and shed the bangles on your wrist while Lucius removes his tunic. You’re familiar with every inch of his body from tending to his wounds and time in the bathhouse, but you gaze down at him now with renewed appreciation, resting your hands on his firm shoulders. His eyes are filled with affection and desire as they roam your body.

“You’re beautiful,” he praises.

He cups your breasts and draws his thumbs across your nipples until they grow hard. The touch sends sparks of pleasure along your nerves and you twitch around him. He moans and rolls his hips. His arms encircle you, holding you close while he fucks you with strong, powerful thrusts. You bury your face in his neck and drag his skin between your teeth. He answers your action with a groan.

“Gods, the way you feel. You’re perfect,” he praises.

You sit up and plant your hands on his chest, moving your hips to take him deeper. You gasp his name and arch your back, rocking forward with an urgent need that eclipses everything else. For the first time in what feels like forever, you close your eyes and let yourself simply feel. There’s no need to shield yourself, no barriers to maintain.

“Look at me,” Lucius begs, grasping your waist to take control of your movements.

Your eyes flutter open and meet his, the beginning of your orgasm rising to the surface like a tide pushing its way to shore. It grows steadily until it finally crashes over you, flooding your senses and leaving you breathless in its wake. Lucius finds his own end moments after with a low, shuddering gasp. It takes several moments for your breathing to return to normal and when it does Lucius sweeps his hands up your sides comfortingly.

"Stay with me like this,” he asks.

You acquiesce and he gently guides you to rest your cheek against his chest. His hand slides to the middle of your back, his palm warm and steady as he holds you close. Even though he remains inside you still your body relaxes, pooling in his. You close your eyes and listen to the steady drum of his heart, feeling a profound sense of stillness.

You’ve always felt safe in Lucius’s arms, but now, you feel loved in a way you never dreamed you’d experience again. It’s a kind of peace that settles into you, filling all the broken, hollow spaces in your heart where your grief and pain have lingered for so long.

Whatever comes next, his love and strength are something you can hold onto. And for now, that is all you need.

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Finis

Protego te

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

#girl I’m eating this series UP. 🍽️🍽️🍽️#lucius verus #gladiator 2 #series #smut #nsfw

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dxndjxrin · 8 days ago

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‘idiots in love’ prompts

## for idiots who are pining for each other but aren't aware that they're pining for each other.

“you’re so cute.” “what did you just say?” “i said you look like a boot.”

“we should compare hands, you know. science.” “what?” “what? it’s not like we haven’t done anything worse.”

“yeah, okay, so what if i dreamt about kissing you? don’t we all do that to our best friends? …no? what do you mean no?”

“you’re cute.” “what?” “i said you look like a fruit.” “that doesn’t even make any sense.”

“how do i know if i have a crush on someone?” “well, you can’t stop thinking about them, you feel strange when they’re around, and then you want to— why are you looking at me like that.”

“i can’t get you out of my head.” “...thanks?”

“would it be weird if i kissed you? be honest.” “honestly? yes. do i care? no.”

“i feel strange when you’re around.” “do you have a fever or something?”

“just to clarify: me holding your hand doesn’t, like, mean anything, by the way. not in that way, at least. unless you want it to mean something. i don’t mind. that’s cool.”

“you’re an idiot.” (it stands for ‘i love you’)

“...” “...” “do you want to kiss?” “yeah.”

“this sounds like you’re flirting with me.” “...i have been trying to do that for three years now.”

- mod sushi | masterlist

#writing #prompts

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dxndjxrin · 25 days ago

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Pick Up Where We Left Off

Raymond Smith x F!Reader

Summary: You and Ray are both the right-hand man to your rival bosses. There’s always been a lot of sexual tension between the two of you, and you decide to pick up were things left off after your last encounter.

Tags/warnings: NSFW, smut, rough unprotected sex (use protection y'all), fingering, degrading, praise, bit of choking, spanking, physical restraint, language, mentions of guns, no use of Y/N

Word count: 3.6k

Keep reading

#okay ate #Raymond smith #the gentleman #nsfw #smut

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dxndjxrin · 1 month ago

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Pretend | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: You aren't sure what's worse: having to share a bed with the boy who was your first boyfriend who you haven't seen in years, or having to pretend he's your boyfriend when you wish he actually was.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: f!reader, light smut, 18+ only as always, unprotected pinv, fake dating trope, one bed trope, lots of switching between present and past tense whoops

A Note From Mo: It's Choose-a-Fic! Thank you to everyone who voted and has been part of my 500 Follower milestone! Hopefully you like the fic I wrote just for you (with a little extra one bed trope as a special thank you)! 😘

Coupe glasses tinkle and laughter rings out as the rehearsal dinner draws toward an end. Everyone’s had a little too much of the hotel’s signature white sangria. On your left, Isabel and Reuben are frozen in blissed smiles, the outdoor lights casting an ethereal glow. An idyllic night before the wedding.

You should be relaxed. You’ve had a little wine, the most delicious dinner, and tomorrow your college roommate is getting married at this stunning resort. But every time that big hand grazes your shoulder or his breath heats the skin of your cheek, you’re reminded none of this is real and you desperately wish it was.

The only difference between six-year-old Robert Floyd and the man standing in front of you is the broad shoulders. Those pink cheeks are just as prominent and his eyes are wide behind updated corrective frames. Sandy hair politely brushed off his face. Even his thin lips warp in that same warm smile that instantly relieves tension. The only significant difference is those shoulders that fill out the entire doorway as he checks his rooming assignment with Isabel.

From where you stand behind her, suitcase in tow, you feel your cheeks warm and your gaze drop. You haven’t seen him since the engagement party where you muttered, “it’s a small world after all” more than once. It seemed all too coincidental that your college roommate would be marrying a guy who just happens to be in the same Navy squadron as your first grade boyfriend.

To be fair, you had “dated” Bobby Floyd for a total of a week before your parent’s divorce landed you on the opposite side of the country. There hadn’t even been a formal breakup. He’d simply been the guy you jokingly referred to as your “first love” at wine nights. Occasionally you remembered his collection of vintage Coke bottle caps.

He was practically a figment of your imagination until Isabel introduced you to the man in the nicely ironed pale blue button down and you sputtered out that you already knew each other.

You’re so lost in how bizarre the coincidence of it all is that you zone out through Bob’s check-in and the next few guests that arrive. It’s not until her line of relatives has dwindled that she remembers you’re sat behind her, sorting out the favors for after the reception.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have given you your card earlier!” she apologizes as she flips back over her clipboard to find your room number. It’s all forgiven, you were waiting to finish up your bridesmaid duties before checking in. Get the work out so you can slip on your bathing suit and enjoy the amenities - pool, sun, and cabana boys - before dinner tonight.

She hands you a room card and walks you through the map of the hotel. You miss the second half while gathering up all your items, mentally trying to remember exactly how many rights before a left. Dinner is at seven and anything else surely she will remind you. With a kiss to her cheek, you head off to your room to begin the fun part of this destination wedding.

The property is stunning, all sun-washed sandstone and lush tropical plants. Deep blue terry cloth draped over the sun loungers you would live on all weekend. Some sun to compliment what should be a flawless wedding weekend. Maybe you’d get lucky and one of Reuben’s hot Navy friends would join you for some eye candy. You deserved a little one-weekend-in-paradise romance.

Suite 4. It’s a little deflating to remember that you’re in this big suite alone because all the other bridesmaids have dates. A least you have some privacy. The intricately carved door accepts your room key and you push the heavy wood open, ready to change and relax.

W-why was Bob in your villa?

Standing amongst the floor-to-ceiling windows draped with ochre that overlook the ocean, white oak furnishing topped with plush linen bedding, and a trailing pothos overtaking the wall, was Bob Floyd - right in the middle of changing his shirt. Equally wide eyes taking you in as he held the bunched heathered grey cotton right in front of his head, thumbs through the head hole, mouth open in shock.

“What are you doing in here?”

What was he doing in here? This was your room. “Why are you in my room?”

Despite knowing he’s not in the wrong, his cheeks tinge a deep pink. Takes a moment to pop his head in the hole of his shirt and brush out the wrinkles. You cling to to the annoyance of him interrupting your afternoon instead of focusing on how toned he’s gotten as an adult.

“This is my room. Suite 4. See?” He holds up a card identical to yours, the glossy ‘4’ reflecting the sunlight. The same ‘4’ that looks back at you.

Clearly there’s been some sort of mistake, someone at reception accidentally typing in the wrong number while going about their busy day or Isabel reading her meticulous list wrong. An easy fix.

You bite your lip. “Oh. Maybe I grabbed the wrong card. I’ll go find Isabel and sort it out.”

“I’ll come with you, she might have handed me the wrong card. Probably supposed to be sharing a bed with Fanboy.” He’s impossibly sweet as always.

You have no idea who or what a Fanboy is, but you accept his company back to reception, leaving your bag in the room purely because the bridesmaid dress alone weighs a half ton. The walk back there - with a few long turns - is a tad awkward as you both walk in silence, occasionally jerking your heads in the direction to turn.

Isabel has wandered away from reception, and is now soaking in one of the poolside bars with Reuben, their lovesick smiles contagious. She gives you the warmest smile when you approach, face splitting in two as she takes in your companion. “Hey, you two! You get settled in okay?”

God, this is awkward. Thankfully before you can muster the courage, Bob steps in. “I think there’s been a mix up with one of our rooms.”

Her eyebrows furrow as takes in what he said. Eyes flit to her lounger where her clipboard of rooming assignment lies within her tote. Reuben sips his frozen margarita in casual interest, not involved in the logistics.

“Which room are you in?” Even without her clipboard, Isabel is pretty sure she knows who is in what room. She spent months perfecting these details.

You hold up the glossy ‘4’, now slightly sticky with your sweat.

“Four? Hmm, I’m pretty sure that’s right. Was there a problem with the key? Both your keys?”

You give her a bewildered look. “One of us has the wrong key. We’re not sharing a room.”

“Why not? Your prude parents aren’t here to care if you share a room with your boyfriend.”

Every muscle in your body freezes. What is she talking about?

And while you’re paralyzed on the spot, Reuben looks like he’s about to throw up the margarita. Because he knows exactly what just happened. And not only is it his fault, but he does not have a solution.

Before you can question Isabel, the pilot is throwing his arm around your shoulders and grabbing Bob’s elbow, whisking you two away, calling out to his confused fiancée not to worry, he’s got it handled. The controlled hands of a fighter pilot steering you back in the way of Suite 4 while his face reads like he’s watching a plane crash.

Reuben won’t answer any of your questions, holding up a palm while you sputter out the who, what, where’s? of what is going on. Bob silently allows himself to be directed, confusion upon his brow, but patient enough to wait for an explanation.

Once you’re privately within the confines of Suite 4, the soft scent of bergamot and sandalwood wrapped around your bodies, Reuben finally confesses his mistake.

“Isabel thinks you two are dating.”

You expect to see eyeballs on the floor from how violently they pop out of your head. What? Bob doesn’t look much better. You two have barely spoken in decades, let alone are in a relationship! Why in the hell would Isabel think that?

Reuben drags a hand down his face, wishing he was back in the pool drinking. “When Bob over here told me that you two dated way back, I casually mentioned it to Is. When she asked the other week if he’d be good sharing a room, I thought she meant Fanboy or Harvard.”

You skip over the fact that Bob has talked about you to other people to focus on the details. “She meant me.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” By this point he’s rubbing the skin on the back of his neck raw, eyes wildly desperate. “Can you two share? It’s only two nights.”

Your eyes meet ocean blue as you both look at the single bed, then at each other. Bob intervenes calmly. “Why can’t you just tell her we need another room?”

Reuben crosses his arms across his chest, suddenly defensive. “We don’t have any other rooms. We booked the place out entirely. Short of Aunt Muriel keeling over, one of you would have to be at another hotel.”

“That’s fine,” you quip, grabbing your suitcase and ready to get the hell out of this situation.

“There’s nothing within a half hour drive. And you’re both in the wedding, that is not going to fly with Isabel.”

You’re tough, you can do hard things. Two nights at a gorgeous resort where you have to share a king-sized bed with the sweetest man on the planet? Could be so much worse. From a look at Bob’s face, he’s having the same realization.

And right as you’re about to tell Reuben that it’s not a big deal, he sends in the clincher.

“You’re also gonna have to pretend you’re dating.”

“You’re joking.” Your tinny voice rings out in the room. You can do a lot of things - go to a wedding alone, sleep in the same bed as Bob - but you draw the line at pretending you’re dating someone you hadn’t seen until an engagement party six months ago. Nope, no way.

You look at Bob, standing with his hand resting low on his hip, watching this entire scene unfold. Giving him an expectant look, he smooths out his face and gives you a little nod. He’s on whatever team you’re on.

And just as you were about to tell Reuben to get lost, Isabel’s sweet face floods your mind’s eye. That happy smile she always greets you with, and her dismay that something had gone wrong with your room. Her perfectly planned out wedding weekend ruined by her misunderstanding a minor detail. She would insist that you have separate rooms, even if it interfered with plans, and she’d be upset - the smallest tinge of disappointment clouding her bridal smile.

Isn’t the job of a bridesmaid to make the bride not have disappointment?

And now, sitting here at the rehearsal dinner, warm conversation all around you, you can still hear yourself let out a large huff of breath and agree. “Alright, we can pretend for the weekend.”

It’s a decision you stand by, but doesn’t make the subtle way Bob has been playing your boyfriend the last 24 hours any easier. He plays devoted partner a little too well. Carrying your beach bag down to the water that afternoon when everyone wanted to sit by the pool, sweetly rubbing sunscreen into that spot on your back that you can never reach. Grabbing a drink for you when he went up to the bar.

Your lonely wedding weekend is suddenly filled with this broad-shouldered Navy man who gives you a shy smile every time you make eye contact.

There wasn’t time to put in ground rules before Reuben threw you you to the wolves to socialize with the rest of the wedding party. When Isabel saw you, standing a healthy foot away from Bob and her sculpted eyebrow raised, it was the first test of this “relationship”. Your heart slamming in your chest as you slipped a hand around that thick bicep and rested your hot cheek against his shoulder. His own face fighting anxiety as he allowed you to set the pace. Isabel’s smile brightening as she beckoned you closer, instantly fawning over the two of you and the way Bob’s hand fits a little too nicely around your waist.

Thankfully the copious amount of relatives and friends constantly interrupting Isabel and Reuben prevented your friend investigating too close into this development in your love life. Happy to believe over some intentionally placed hands and the casual way he throws sweetheart in when asking if you want a drink.

“Now that I have you alone, why didn’t you tell me you were together? First loves reunited?!” Isabel drags you away to the other bridesmaids, Bob giving you a small wave as he joins the men.

You shrug, making a show of looking at the hibiscus to avoid her eyes. Desperate for a believable lie. “I didn’t want to…uh, distract from your big day?”

She wraps you in a warm hug you don’t deserve. “Not distracting in the slightest. He’s the best, you’re so lucky!”

You throw a glance his way, watching his good-natured grin as Reuben’s groomsmen, mostly aviators he’s worked with over the years, joke and jostle on the other side of the lawn. It’s side glances like these that carry through the night; when he pulls your chair out for dinner, asks the waiter to refill your water, and offers you half of his dessert. When your eyes do meet, you drown in the twin oceans that twinkle back at you.

By the time you’re heading back to Suite 4 to share that big bed, you’re pretty sure you’re not pretending to like him anymore.

You’re regretting not putting up the pillow barrier Bob so kindly offered to set up. It seemed childish at the time - you didn’t need a divider to stay on your side of the bed - but now you’re lying here in your little cotton pajamas you did not expect anyone to see and you can hear him breathing and the room is a little too warm. Every sense is on high alert and a pillow barrier would give you an inkling of privacy.

In the silhouette of the moonlight peaking through the curtains, you watch the planes of Bob’s face as he peacefully sleeps beside you. If he’s good looking in the daytime, he’s breathtaking at night. Pale eyelashes against his cheeks, lips slightly pouted, hair mussed from changing sides. You wish you could smooth your fingers over the planes of his face, appreciate the sharpness of his jaw, the roundness of his cheeks.

Tomorrow you have to pretend all over again to be in love with him. A feeling that’s already starting to creep inside you. A whole day of his gentle touches and laughs against your cheek. He was the perfect boyfriend that week in grade school, and even more perfect as an adult. Holding his hand made you want to never let go…which promptly made you want to jump out of your skin.

This was a tiny white lie to get through Sunday morning. That was it.

You keep replaying the last moment before you retired back to your hotel room for the night. The drunken group sitting around the fire pit, a bottle of tequila making its way around the circle. Not enough chairs so you ended up in Bob’s lap, body cradled in the firm comfort of his chest.

He made it so natural, the way his hand ran up and down your arm when you shivered in the night chill. You knew he could feel the shock up your spine when you noticed how intently he watched you during your story of how Isabel found a rat in your dorm room. He made you feel like the only person out there by the fire pit. The only person on this island.

When even the tequila couldn’t keep you warm any longer, the group disbanded in favor of cozy beds and hot showers. And even when no one else was in sight he still kept his arm around your shoulder to share his warmth, the pinching heels you’d shed in his hand as he asked whether you wanted to shower first.

Lips accidentally brushing your ear when he said he liked your dress; it matched the bougainvillea.

While you hadn’t spent much time together since your parents moved you away too long ago to remember, you were continually floored by how thoughtful he was still. He remembered how Isabel didn’t like ice, and that a few members of his squadron had allergies. Giving up his water because the woman next to him was without. Not to mention how he seemed to go the extra mile with you. All the years of boyfriends before this and not a single one had ever noticed you picked the pine nuts out of your salad; your new fake boyfriend requesting a fresh one sans nuts.

And it was borderline torture watching him get ready for bed post shower. Face and chest red from the scalding water and slick hair pushed back, towel slung a little too low as he dug through his suitcase. You were still speechless as he offered to put up a pillow barrier or something if it would make you more comfortable, making sure you knew he respected your boundaries.

His eyes were so blue without his glasses…

Caution to the wind, you run a finger over his cheek, brushing away a rogue eyelash and promptly turn away from him. Only one more day and you would be free of wanting a man that wasn’t yours.

The Fitch wedding day was perfect. Wide smiles, bridal lace, stunning hydrangeas, and not a dry eye in the house when Isabel and Reuben officially became husband and wife. It was the storybook start to a happy ever after.

The sunlight blessed ceremony was followed by a lantern-lit reception, dancing and drinking overtaking the sprawling beach-front lawn of the hotel. You stayed out until the evening ended, the wedding party laughing and overfilling glasses of champagne until the last lantern was blown out.

You barely remembered your rooming/relationship situation until a warm hand was on your forearm, asking if you were ready to go back to the room. It’s entirely unfair how good he looks in his suit. All day you’ve admired it, from the moment he emerged from the bathroom asking for help with his bow tie to an hour ago, when the wedding party did one last rendezvous on the dance floor.

Bob has an ease on the dance floor, clearly practiced, the hand on the small of your back gently guiding. A hand big and warm and more distracting than trying to remember your own footwork. The dark-haired woman he seems close with whooping out, “Look at those moves, Floyd!” every time you get close, her own date cheering along.

You shake the memory from your brain as Bob walks you back to the room. Keep the pining to a minimum until you can get to the airport and not have to see him ever again. You’re doing this for Isabel, your own emotions have no place. Even as you watch him open the door to the room and welcome you inside, looking so perfectly boyfriend-shaped.

Your skin feels too hot, your head clouded by bubbles and loud poppers exploding into the sky. Shedding this satin dress and getting into a warm shower sounds like heaven, washing away the buzzing ill-content flooding your body since you joined the wedding group that morning hand-in-hand with Bob. But a broken zipper interrupts those plans.

“Bob?” He stills on his way to the bathroom, bow tie loose around his neck. You indicate to the stuck zipper you’re fiddling with, warmth flaring at the top of your cheeks at your predicament.

The tips of his ears flush as he walks to you, chest a breath away from your back, admiring the way the satin flows over your curves and dips. Takes a moment to gather your hair over your shoulder before reaching for the zipper. The skin of his pinky accidentally brushes your neck, twin breaths catching at the shock.

Firm fingers guide the zipper onto the track. As they guide the cool metal down your back, the boiling point that has been simmering below the surface since yesterday afternoon comes to a head. The lace of your bra is visible. Now the silken band of your underwear. The air of the room is still, eagerly awaiting what happens next.

While his voice is shaky, his words are firm. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Your head turns to the side, eyes catching his profile, too scared to look at him directly.

“What are you pretending to do?”

His face falls into the crook of your neck, fingers tightening along the satin of your hips. “Pretending I’m doing our friends a favor. Pretending I’m not falling for you. Pretending every time I touch you it’s not the best part of my day.”

Your hand wraps around his, rough skin and satin beneath your fingers. Needing to tether yourself to reality to make sure this isn’t a champagne-fueled dream that he’s professing against your neck.

“In that case, I don’t want to pretend anymore either.”

While you can’t see him, you can feel his realization against your skin. Brow furrowing, lips parting. The soft brush of his nose as he straightens up, uses his hands to turn you to him. Finally forced to look at each other amidst the information divulged.

You aren’t sure who leans in first, who braved the waters of uncharted territory. Time stills and speeds up as his face grows closer. The scent of sandalwood and bergamot that’s followed you all weekend replaced by the woodsy mint of his cologne you’ve treated yourself to when tucked into his side. Anyone outside can hear two hearts beating erratically, anxious and excited.

His lips are warm and comforting, just like everything else about him. Pressing delicately against yours, taking his time and letting you set the pace. You’re torn between the shock of how divine he feels and the greedy need for more. Senses overwhelmed by him; you want to taste more, feel more, see more.

When he pulls away, a gentleman not wanting to overstep, you’re breathless.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to kiss you.” His confession is paired with pink cheeks and large hands playing with your fingers.

You can’t help but to tease him, the banter from your childhood coming back. “Did it live up to expectations?”

“Way, way better.” Your smile is swallowed in his kiss, chins knocking as you trade off enthusiasm. A groan leaving Bob as you grab his hands and walk back to the bathroom. That hot shower still sounds amazing, but you need more of him.

The travertine tiles glow in the soft light as you watch your childhood love remove his suit, taking time to fold the pieces on the counter, letting you indulge in unbuttoning his crisp shirt as you share another sweet kiss. His own hands twisted in the dress barely clinging to your skin. The sounds that escape him as your hands explore his chest are purely sinful, meant only for your ears.

He barely lets you bask in his body, honed from years of Naval training, before he’s stripping the satin from your frame. You beg for another kiss, but he denies you. He can’t be distracted from watching every inch of skin being revealed. From letting his fingers follow the fabric as it pools at your feet. From kissing his way back up your body until your head falls back against the wall, fingers beckoning him to the shower.

“You’re so beautiful.” It’s more breath than words, but ignite the goose flesh along your skin as he adjusts the hot water and shower head to your liking.

Minutes or hours passed as you reacquainted under the steam. Your fingers tangled in wet strands of sandy hair, fingers slipping along any skin you can reach. His own hands tightly hugging your body, holding you close as he appreciates your nude form. Swallowing each other’s moans as his fingers dip between your folds and you run your palm along his shaft.

The universe has ceased to exist by the time Bob kisses you against the shower wall, fingers wrapping under your thighs to hoist you to his level. Loving the way you giggle as your arms wrap around his neck, trusting him wholeheartedly. Eyes trained at where he lines up with you, relishing the way your breath catches in anticipation. He kisses your forehead as a promise to take care of you, a promise you know he’ll keep.

Once he’s seated deep in you, the moment about connecting rather than getting off, he tilts your head up to check in with you. A kiss as his eyes search you for discomfort. The flames of his eyes burning the brightest blue. One final clench around him and he knows he needs to move; if not for his sake, for yours.

It’s the most glorious dream as he fills you completely, hips rocking into yours as sweaty foreheads meet.

When he brings you to orgasm, a steamy moment punctuated by your muffled screams against his shoulder, there’s nothing fake about the affection as he peppers you with praise. Or when he fills you with his own release a moment later, exhaling thank you, thank you, thank you.

A pillow barrier isn’t even discussed as you lay in his arms that night, cheek against bare chest. His arm trails down your arm like it had the night before, a mindless action you now recognize as meaningful to him as to you. Sated and content, as it should be.

You sit up a little to run your nose along his neck, producing a low groan from him. “You need something, sweetheart?”

“I was wondering, after that,” you gesture to the shower, cheeks heating, “does this mean we’re, uh, dating again?”

He smiles at your flush, cupping your face with one of his large hands. Presses the sweetest kiss to your lips.

“You know, we never had a break up. Technically we’ve been dating this whole time.”

taglist: @bella-maria2018 @berryvanille @bobfloydsbabe @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @desert-fern @drxgxnslxyer @hangmanapologist @hiireadstuff @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @kmc1989 @mariaenchanted @maryelizabeth13 @petersunderoos96 @roosterforme @seitmai @senawashere @sometimesanalice @sorchathered @sweetwhispersofchaos @topherwrites @xoxabs88xox @yuckosworld

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#bob floyd #giggling and twirling my hair #top gun #top gun maverick

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dxndjxrin · 1 month ago

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𝘕𝘖𝘛 𝘈 𝘓𝘖𝘛, 𝘑𝘜𝘚𝘛 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙

summary - a saturday morning, and I love you on the tip of both your tongues.

pairing - bob floyd x (gn!)reader

word count - 2.1k

rating - nsfw content, 18+, mdni!

content warnings & tags - no use of (y/n) / fluff / slightly h*rny fluff / bob's love language being acts of service / the peak fantasy of homeownership / bob floyd being the ideal man™ / lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: time for my bi-yearly fic drop, lol! i wrote this in semi-conjunction with this moodboard. (a.k.a i started this months ago.) everyone who said they want to live in it... same. reblogs, comments, and likes super appreciated!

TOP GUN MASTERLIST / LIBRARY BLOG

Your boyfriend has disappeared.

Even before your eyes are open and your brain is semi-functioning, you feel the lack of his presence, the sheets next to you devoid of his usual space heater existence. You touch the left side—his side—double checking—hoping, really—that you won’t have to peel yourself out of bed to search for him.

A cascade of orange and pink spills through your curtains, painting your room in soft light, letting you know it has to be before seven. With a groan, you check your clock, confirming your suspicions. The time reads a quarter past six—far too early for you.

Not nearly as agonizing for him, one of those irritating early riser types, but Bob is diligent about letting you know when he’s leaving for his early morning runs, a kiss planted to your temple, and a ‘be back soon’—just a little moment in case you have to leave for work before he gets back.

But it’s Saturday, and you had plans of lazing about in bed until at least eleven, preferably with him.

Your brow creases as you push up onto your elbows, slowly blinking around your room as if your boyfriend will just appear in front of you, and you won’t have to pull yourself out from under the covers to try to coax him back to bed.

As of late, it’s like he gets struck by a whim, and his body is overcome with the need to check it off a list, unable to rest until he does—changing your oil at ten o’clock at night, fixing the light in your fridge that flickers before he heads off for a run, trying to fix the leaky pipes under your en-suite sink—he did eventually give up on that one and call a plumber. Thank god.

Part of you has just taken it as part of his job and personality—he likes getting up as the sun does, he likes fixing things, and his job is a stressor, you're sure. But it doesn't feel work-related, so part of you is beginning to wonder if it’s you.

An ugly little thought that you can recognize has no factual basis. He’s never been anything but honest with you, open and vulnerable, even when you’ve guarded yourself.

As a result, you tuck it away, considering that he’s off on another one of his little quests. They’re things that always make you feel cared for and thought about—weeding or checking the pressure on your tires or rearranging his kitchen so you can reach the things you frequently use.

So, as you begin to pressure yourself to leave your cocoon of early morning sleepiness, a quiet metal-against-metal clattering floats down the hall and through the crack in your bedroom door, catching your attention.

Slipping out of bed, you pad down the hall, sleep shirt brushing your thighs. Growing nearer to the sound of the soft noise—clearly being sensitive to try not to wake you—-you catch soft guitar strings and the twang of John Prine and Iris DeMent coming from your grandma’s old record player.

You cringe as your foot touches the cold tile lining the floor and immediately regret not rummaging around for your slippers.

You find Bob there, posted at the counter as he cuts something at a butcher board, only wearing the sweats he went to bed in. He's still warm despite the lack of clothing and the countertop fan blowing at him.

At the arch entry, you stop and watch him for a moment, entranced by the way his broad shoulders and the muscles of his back move with the motion—by the sight of him in your kitchen. Something so distinctly domestic and intimate about it.

Completely focused on his task, he doesn't hear you come up behind him. He slightly jumps under your touch as your hands slip around his middle, his stomach beneath your fingertips.

He makes a short noise of surprise that washes into a gentle greeting, his voice low, “Hey, sweetheart.”

You press your lips to his shoulder blade, enjoying the feeling of his skin against your own.

You've clearly ruined some sort of surprise, but you can't feel too bad at the sight of his eyes still clouded by sleep and the odd angles his hair sticks up.

Keeping his eyes on the cuts he’s making, Bob briefly twists around to press a kiss to your temple as he mumbles, “Go back to bed.”

You just hum, beginning to press kisses to the freckles that scatter along his shoulders, deepened by the tan he’s obtained from working in the flowerbeds that sit alongside your front door. The beds were slightly tragic before you began dating, some sort of sparse bushes planted there. They were alive at one point, you assume, but lying half dead and bare when you bought the place.

In no time at all, he had the beds torn up and replaced with bright white hydrangeas that now sit in full bloom under your front windows. Pink zinnias, sunny yellow goldenrods, and pale milkweeds—all chosen by him because they attract monarch butterflies during their migration—flank either side of the brown brick pathway. Cheek pressed to his skin; you cast a glance outside just as a small orange and black blur flits by the glass.

“So… where is it?”

Chewing on the inside of his lip, Bob casts a lost glance around the plant nursery’s vast outdoor gardens—bright pops of color among vast expanses of green, the high afternoon sun beating down on them—the acreage of it is astounding and certainly a workout.

You’re supposed to be picking up some mulch for the beds—but you keep getting sidetracked. Half your fault; you beeline for every slightly pretty plant, balancing it on the cart that’s rapidly becoming overloaded. The wheels digging heavily into the gravel pathways, little trenches left in your wake.

It’s early days with Bob Floyd, but he’s sweet and helpful and easy to get free labor out of—a big plus in your book.

On your first date, when he walked you to your front door, sweet and gentlemanly, you made a quick joke, a callback to your hinge profile. There, you had answered the prompt, I'm looking for…, with, ‘someone to put together my ikea bookshelf. seriously.’

Because, after two unsuccessful attempts to put it together and three months of it languishing in the corner of your living room, you were tired of feeling a pang of guilt every time you piled another book on top of the precarious stack teetering next to your reading chair.

Of course, on the date, you didn't actually expect him to do it. You made the joke as a way to test the waters, to see if he was open to coming inside without fully putting yourself out there that way.

But then he followed you in, sat himself down cross-legged on your living room rug, and got to work. You stood there in the doorway for a moment, warming even further to him.

You poured a glass of wine for each of you, and watched his hands as he set joints together and tightened screws with a furrow between his brows. And despite his serious focus on the job, he continued asking you questions about your taste in books, your favorite bands growing up, what you liked about San Diego as you sat near—your only real contribution being the wine, simple conversation, and occasionally handing him a screw.

He’d finished near midnight, asked if you wanted help sorting your books, and when you said no, already mildly abashed at the fact that you’d set him to work on your first date, he’d given you a kiss goodnight on your cheek—chaste and unpresuming—and left it at that.

You’d fallen for him a little bit then and there.

Blinking, he stares down at the map once again—same furrow in his brow—turning it in his hands. Not sounding any more sure than he was a second ago, he points slightly westerly of you, “That way. I think.”

It draws a slight laugh from you. You lightly hip-check him, teasing over your shoulder, “Come on, farm boy, you’re supposed to be helping me.”

The scent of lemon carries inside from the open window over the sink, summer ripening the tree planted in your yard. That’s also when you spy past his shoulder a small stack of the same yellow fruit on the counter. A pancake crackles away on the stove.

Your voice is quiet—reticent to break the seal of this hushed moment—as you ask, “What are you making?”

Hands wandering mindlessly, your touch follows the trail of hair from his belly button, fingers sneaking only just under the waistband of his sweats, loosely hung on his hips.

He seems to part with the idea of whatever he’s doing being a surprise, clear that you’re not going to accede to his request and tuck yourself back into bed, too awake now to do so.

“Pancakes,” he reveals, continuing to whip, “with lemon ricotta whipped cream.”

“Trying out a new recipe?”

His throaty laugh reverberates into your chest, shaking you. Your smile hikes higher before you even know what he’s laughing about—just enjoying the sound, the melody and the slight grit to it.

“Emphasis on trying,” he says, scooping a bit of the whipped cream onto his finger, offering it to you to taste. “Would you?”

You draw his finger into your mouth. It’s slightly sweet with a burst of tang, the sugar and cream mellowing out the sharper edges of the lemon flavor. A success, you think. As you draw back, you flash your gaze up and find his eyes unabashedly caught on your mouth.

You pull off and without breaking eye contact, breathily tease, “Lech.”

With a slight flush to his ears and cheeks, he laughs and leans in, nose brushing yours as he presses his lips to yours. His mouth slants over yours, insistent, his hand finds its way to cradle your jaw, tilt your head just right. It catches your breath, makes your toes curl against the tile.

You're still not entirely used to this, the sweetness of Bob Floyd. His eyes are soft as he pulls back, his thumbs sweeping along your cheeks. He clicks his tongue, cheekily muttering, “I think it’s good.”

His lips move to your cheek next, mumbling between a kiss there, “You're distracting.”

The gesture, so simple, makes your heart flip.

By this stage of dating you're usually spiraling, finding reasons that it won’t work out and tallying up slights so when the expected happens, you're not blindsided. Like it's a game you’ll win; perpetually preparing yourself for heartbreak.

And it’s often been easy, dating men who were noncommittal or uninterested or flippant with affection made it so. They were easy to write off— jettison them from your life and think, onto the next.

But everything has changed with him. There’s an ease to the intimacy, a frankness to him that makes that defense mechanism very difficult to muster. You're… settled.

And it should scare you, the way your heart is fully on the line, but then you catch sight of one of his dogeared-to-hell paperbacks in the living room or the little date night notes he leaves scribbled on the calendar that hangs next to the fridge or his mismatched colorful socks mixed in with your laundry and it doesn't. As simple as that.

You haven’t said the L word yet. But it’s there, dancing on the tip of your tongue every time you look at him.

Bob is near certain that this is love.

No, he supposes, he is certain. He’s mulled this particular topic over too much in his mind not to be.

It's love—the big kind. He’s just not certain when he should let you in on that fact. Release it out to you and see if it comes back returned.

In the past five months he’s undertaken a million little projects to keep his hands, mouth, and mind busy, working out all that excess energy. All he’s doing is kicking the can down the road, trying to find “the right time”.

He's gotten close more than once, yet every time it catches in the back of his throat, his tongue an uneasy ally in the venture. The words, three simple ones, are left as something uncomfortable to swallow down at each abandoned attempt.

And yet, virtually all that discomfort is eased by the way you say his name, catching his attention when they nearly slip, nearly an endearment all on its own.

His call sign being his name means that Bob hears it alot, from a considerable amount of mouths. Shouted, whispered, whooped. In a variance of forms, he's heard it. But it's never sounded so important, so weighty, then it does as it falls from your lips. Like you're speaking a dialect only the two of you hold knowledge of, his name equivalent to the word in the forefront of his mind.

"Bob."

He hums, certain that his face gives him away; 'Whipped' as Mickey called it or 'in love' as his mother did the first time you met.

This is the sort of thing that his parents have, the ease, the humor, the affection. It permeates every space of his life, the knowledge that you're here, with him, choosing each other easily.

Eight letters.

I love you.

He lets temptation run wild, hands glancing down your back and tugging you right into him. He takes a moment just to look at you, your bright eyes, and the sweet shape of your lips as you smile up at him. Your hands slide around his neck, gently teasing the hair at the nape of his neck, his stomach swooping at the feeling.

Three syllables.

I love you.

He lets them swirl in his head, settle in the back of his throat as he prepares his tongue.

Your thumb runs along his cheekbone and he opens his mouth, readying himself, just as your lips part, and twice at once, I love you, becomes tangible reality.

Like a held breath released, a smile, broad and uncontrollable, spreads over his face, mirrored on yours as everything comes into view.

Just as Bob leans in to brush his lips against yours, higher than he’s ever felt, the smell of rapidly burning batter hits his nose.

"Oh, shoot."

a/n: thank you for reading!

#sobbing right now #bob floyd #top gun #top gun maverick #fluff

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dxndjxrin · 1 month ago

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do you wanna make somethin' of it (Robert "Bob" Floyd x fem!reader)

pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader (no y/n)

synopsis: turns out, our favorite WSO has a side hustle, as quinn's favorite cowboy.

word count: 10.4k

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI: audio porn, a truly unhinged amount of dirty talk, overuse of pet names, bob's raging size kink, overstimulation via vibrators (and otherwise), unprotected PiV sex, an unrealistic number of orgasms, some dumbification, as can be expected.

A/N: this is way late bc i had to make sure the people who reblogged the moodboard were legal, thanks everyone for the patience and support! esp thank you @hangmanssunnies for being so encouraging, @sometimesanalice for being a gem and betaing thank you @laracrofted for coming up with bob's (ahem) inspirational reveal, and thank you everyone else for letting me be feral. there were a couple people who reblogged the moodboard but I couldn't tag them, so for the record, if you ask to be tagged, pls do make sure you're taggable AND ALSO THAT YOU HAVE YOUR AGE IN YOUR BIO I AM NOT KIDDING. the title is from Jo Dee Messina's 90s country bop, "Do You Wanna Make Something Of It" -- okay enjoy!

You paused, halfway into your flight suit, looking down at your phone.

It was probably a bad idea to open an audio erotica app forty minutes before you had to be in the debriefing room with the rest of the aviators in your unit.

But.

You were ovulating, your vibrator was charged, and you’d just gotten a notification that BullRiderRhett had posted a new audio.

Before you knew it, you were grabbing your headphones and folding your flight suit by the door, leaving your tank top and sports bra on, but shimmying out of your panties. You set an alarm on your phone, connected your headphones and opened the app.

Quickie During the Rodeo

After my ride, I don’t have much time before they call up the winners…but you look so damn good in that sundress. We have to be quick, though. [M4F] [Short Audio] [Established Relationship] [In Public] [Strong Language] [Moaning] [SFX]

Yeah, you thought to yourself, that’d do.

You slid into bed, pulling a muting blanket over the lower half of your body as you settled into your bed and clicked play.

Immediately, the sounds of a rodeo pushed through your headphones.

You heard the shuffle of hundreds of feet, a rowdy crowd cheering, and distant country music over a speaker. You could almost imagine the dusty air, the smell of fresh hay and sweat, and the clamor of barrel racing in another arena.

There was a steady clanking of spurs as a pair of boots walked towards you.

“There y’are,” a low voice said, the perfect combination of fond and gravelly. You heard a shuffle of fabric, and a soft inhale, like the cowboy was wrapping you in his arms. Your eyes fell closed so you could immerse yourself in the fantasy.

“How’s my girl doin’?” he asked, his voice muffled like he had buried his head in your shoulder.

You never responded verbally to these things; it broke the illusion to speak to an empty room, but you liked that Rhett paused, as if waiting for your answer.

“Ah, well, I always ride better when I know you’re in the stands, cheerin’ for me,” he said. He had such a fantastic voice, low and soft, with this drawl that was so unpretentious and alluring. His canvas jacket rustled like he was hugging you tighter.

“Just let me hold you for a sec, yeah?” he asked, as the ambient sounds of the rodeo seeped back in. You found yourself just listening for the sound of Rhett’s breathing over it, a slow and steady rhythm that was deeply centering.

You heard when his breath caught, followed by a shuffling sound and a choked gasp from the cowboy.

“Whoa, whoa,” Rhett’s voice was warm with surprise and delight. “Cut that out, darlin’, we can’t, they’re gonna call me back–”

His voice broke off on a low moan that had you biting your lip.

Why did guys in real life never moan?

It was such a pretty sound, deep and masculine, and full of desire. It was one of your favorite things about Rhett. Your hand slipped under the blanket, rubbing over your pussy gently, getting yourself used to the pressure.

“Darlin’,” Rhett’s voice had gotten deeper, like a warning. “Ya can’t tease me like that, ‘s not kind.”

Your hips shifted at that voice, and Rhett laughed, low.

“Y’just can’t help yourself, can you, sweet girl?”

It was your favorite pet name he used, just the way he said it. You were obsessed with the gravel in his voice, the melodic twang coupled with a gentleness that belied all his ruggedness. It was like he was being quiet to make sure no one overheard him, like his words were for your ears only.

His spurs clinked as the noise of the rodeo faded, as though he was leading you somewhere away from prying eyes. A second later, there was a gentle, wet sound, like he was kissing you.

How would he taste, you wondered. Would his lips be soft? Or would they be chapped? Would he be ravenous, turned on from the adrenaline of the ride, or would he be slow, savoring your taste?

You turned on your vibrator, on a low and warming setting. You traced it lightly over your pussy, acclimatizing, as Rhett’s voice and the soft vibrations sent a heat under your skin.

Rhett’s breathing was heavy, like being near you made him breathless.

“Shameless,” Rhett chided, amused and fond. “I know I can’t stop you, but I’m not about to let anyone see ya like this. You’re mine.”

Your hips canted up into the vibrator, spurred on by the idea of being his.

“Oh, you like that, huh, sweet girl?” Rhett practically purred, his voice like a caress, “You like being mine?”

Rhett’s words washing over you, and vibrator’s motions met less resistance as you felt yourself growing wet.

“What if I…” he asked, and you heard fabric shuffling, like he was reaching down and under your dress. “Fuck, darlin’, are you wet for me already?”

You pressed your lips together to trap in a whimper.

You knew it was formulaic, but that didn’t make you less turned on. In this fantasy, you were Rhett’s girlfriend, you were already wet for him, you were needy enough to risk being caught to have his dick inside of you.

“Ya sure about this?” Rhett asked, and you could hear the intensity in his voice. Like he needed you too, just as desperately. “Yeah? Yeah, me too…fuck—yeah, feel me through my jeans. Feel how hard I am for you.”

You turned the vibrator up, imagining the rough texture of denim against your pussy. How hard Rhett would be, how good it would feel to rock up against the dirty fabric. Probably not the most hygienic, but he’d be so hot, even through his jeans, impossibly tempting.

“Go on, take me out,” Rhett directed, his voice a low whisper.

He moaned in your ear as a belt buckle came undone, and your head fell back as you circled the vibrator over your clit. God, he sounded so good, he sounded unraveled. You imagined the weight of him in your hand, and you shifted your hips, wishing you could feel the heat of him.

“Shit, okay. We hafta be quick,” Rhett panted. “I know, I know, turn around for me, darlin’. Brace yourself against the wall here…Christ, you look so good like this…ya ready for me?”

You couldn’t help yourself; you slid a hand down your body, changing the angle of the vibrator so you could run a finger through your folds.

Rhett held his breath, like it was too good, too much, and you waited.

Then came his strangled, relieved exhale, and you pushed a finger into yourself as you imagined him sliding into you.

“That’s right, sweet girl,” Rhett praised, his voice breathless, awed. “Let me into that tight pussy, nice and easy...”

Your mouth fell open as you imagined him filling you.

Would he be thick? Long? Maybe a slight curve to his cock? Cut or uncut? You licked your lips, your mind spinning with possibilities, your fingers a paltry imitation of the thing you wanted so badly.

“Ah, that’s it, that’s it,” Rhett murmured, and you couldn’t help but add another finger. “Such a good girl, for me, aren’t ya?”

You wanted to be his good girl.

Rhett was breathing hard, and the rhythm of it was perfect. You circled around your clit with the vibrator, and you were panting now too, your hips canting up as you fucked yourself on your fingers. You could imagine him driving into you, his hips thrusting his cock into you. It would be thick, you decided, broad and heavy.

“Ah, you’re taking me so well,” Rhett grunted. “You were made to take this fat cock, weren’t you?”

His breaths were coming faster, and you could hear him slamming his hips into yours. You could imagine his balls swinging, could imagine him driving into you to reach that spot your fingers just couldn’t brush against.

“This pussy feels so good, darlin’,” Rhett whispered, “the way you’re clenchin’ around me…”

Your thighs fell farther apart as you tried to time your fingers’ thrusts to his cadence. He was grunting after each thrust, this beautiful soft sound of exertion and pleasure.

A faint cheer rose above the sounds of your panting; another event had concluded.

“Shit, we hafta hurry, they’re gonna–” Rhett broke off, his hips snapping faster. “C’mere, let me play with that clit, let me feel you–fuck yeah, clench around me, just like that.”

You turned the vibrator up, your fingers faltering inside of you at the increased vibration and his words. Rhett’s grunts were getting higher pitched, a delicate thread of need seeping into them and you were going to lose your mind; it was perfect.

“Ah, such a good girl,” Rhett groaned. “God, I don’t deserve you, ya feel so good…are you close, darlin? Tell me you’re close, I need to feel you cumming on my cock, will ya do that for me?”

You were bucking into your hand, chasing a release that had come on so fast, so strong and you were so damn close, you just needed–

“There ya go,” Rhett breathed, his voice tight. “You feel–oh, sweet girl, don’t stop clenching me like that. Oh, you’re gonna make me cum with that tight pussy, fuck, are you gonna come with me, darlin’? Please come with me, please…”

You pumped your fingers in time with his pleas, Rhett’s voice growing hoarse as his hips sped up. You were so close, he sounded so good, you were almost there.

“Feels so good…Ah, I’m coming, I’m there– ah, shit,” Rhett moaned, his voice choking, and you orgasmed along with him, collapsing back into the pillow.

Your legs shook and you jerked the vibrator away from your sensitive clit, stroking gently over your pussy with your other hand and easing yourself down.Your body felt like it was humming and you turned the vibrator off, sated and pleasure drunk.

Something about Rhett always had you timing it perfectly, feeling so in sync and so primed, and when he came, it was like your permission to.

Rhett was groaning softly in your ear.

“So beautiful, darlin’,” he whispered. “God, I’m so lucky, look at you…so damn beautiful…”

The audio would fade out in another few minutes and you fumbled for your phone to turn it off, and turn off the just-in-case alarm that you’d set.

There was a bittersweet moment with audio erotica that didn’t exist in traditional porn– aftercare. Instead of just ending a scene, most creators seemed to enjoy winding down with their listeners, saying soft things, silly things, fond things. It straddled the line between soothing and demoralizing, and you couldn’t say you loved the contrast between the care in Rhett’s voice and the emptiness around you.

An emptiness that was interrupted by a loud pounding on your door.

“Hey, I can see your light under the door,” Bradley called from the hallway, “you better not still be asleep! If we’re late to Mav’s briefing you know he’s gonna have us doing laps around the tarmac.”

You stuck your tongue out at the ceiling on principle, grateful for the quiet of your vibrator and the distance between the door and your bed.

“Calm your tits, Rooster,” you yelled back, “I’m practically ready.”

“Damn better be,” you heard Bradley say, loud enough to be heard, soft enough to know he wasn’t actually pressed.

You gave yourself another ten seconds to revel in that perfect orgasm, and then swung your legs over the side of the bed. You cleaned yourself off quickly, dressed even quicker, and were out the door in no time.

Some might even say, with a pep in your step.

“Told you,” you muttered as you walked by Bradley’s row in the debriefing room, on time, and he huffed.

You settled into your normal seat, waving good morning to Callie and lifting your chin at Mickey, who grinned back at you. Bob was in the seat next to yours, as you’d all agreed early on that WSOs had to stick together, and you bumped his shoulder with yours as you sat.

The sweet man smiled, a hidden thing, and looked away quickly.

Sometimes, you felt like you knew there was more to him than he let on.

You’d seen him in action, seen him make split-second decisions that kept him and Phoenix in the air. You’d seen him crank out 200 pushups with Jake and Javy like it was nothing. But at the same time, he never seemed to hold your eye for longer than strictly necessary, seeming more comfortable to address the floor (unless someone pushed too hard, and he’d snap something so sassy it’d make you bite the inside of your mouth to keep from laughing).

When you’d first met him, you’d thought he was cute, in an Old Hollywood leading man kind of way, soft muscles and deep eyes.

You’d wondered if maybe you made him nervous. You’d thought maybe there was interest in those ocean blue eyes, but time went on, and he remained sweet and polite and kind. He was the same to you as he was with everyone else, and you were led to the reality that he was just an incredibly decent person.

Crushes came and went like water, especially in a group as gorgeous as the one you flew with, so you let him have his secrets.

The lights clicked off as Maverick strode to the front of the room, already talking and clicking his way through some kind of demonstration.

The hours in the room flew by.

By the time he finished, your head was spinning with a blur of parameters and calculations and mission expectations. You knew pilots felt the same way about your job as you did about theirs, but you were always grateful that at the end of briefings you only had to worry about systems and odds, not about flying a plane. As you were dismissed, everyone crowded to the center aisle, trying to get out and to the hangar as quickly as possible. Someone sneezed, or someone pushed someone; Harvard dropped his coffee.

It wasn’t full, and you were all in flight suits anyways, but you still startled when it fell, splashing over the row you were sitting in. Black coffee flew over seats and notebooks (thankfully no phones), and someone laughed as Harvard’s attempts to catch it just served to further empty the cup. Bob took the worst of it, on the end of your row.

"Ah, shit," Bob muttered, and you froze.

It wasn't that Harvard's spilled coffee had ruined Bob's notes, and yours too.

It wasn't that everyone in the briefing room was looking back at your row in surprise.

It wasn't even that Bob had sworn, even though you'd never heard anything harsher than "gosh" from the WSO's lips.

It was that that cuss, in that voice, in that same mumbled tone, had pushed you to orgasm four hours ago.

“Alright, it’s just coffee,” Maverick called over the clamor. “We’re burning daylight, people, come on.”

Harvard was apologizing profusely, someone was passing paper towels out, but you felt completely out of your body, in shock.

Bob was BullRiderRhett.

The WSO who asked for ginger ale when everyone else did shots at the Hard Deck, who cleaned his glasses when he got nervous, who stayed up all night to help Payback’s kid put together a Lego Statue of Liberty last time he was in town …was the guy who had talked you through the last few months of orgasms.

(Yes, you had an annual subscription).

(Yes, you deserved it).

When you let yourself back into your room at the end of the night, it still felt surreal.

In retrospect, you should’ve been a million times more dialed in– you’d had a $73 million machine under your hands, and the only thing on your mind all day had been this revelation.

How had you never noticed before??

Now that you were thinking of it, Bob did have that slight accent when he was tired, or when he was mad enough at something stupid Jake said…but what were you even supposed to do with this knowledge?

You moved through your skincare much the same way you’d moved through most of the day – on autopilot.

A knock on your door startled you.

“Now’s not the time, Bradshaw,” you called, automatically.

“Uh,” called a too-familiar voice, “not Bradshaw.”

You winced at your reflection in the mirror, trying desperately to decide if you recognized Bob’s voice from countless drills or from your Favorites list. You crossed your arms across your chest, your sweatshirt dragging against the hem of your pajama shorts as you slouched over to the door.

“Robert,” you announced, as you opened it, mentally smacking your palm against your forehead. You had literally never called him Robert; what was wrong with you??

Could’ve been worse, you mused.

You could’ve said ‘Rhett’.

“Hey,” he said, and if he was thrown by the use of his full name, he didn’t show it.

He looked the same.

The same, but in the way that had made you catch your breath when you first met him, when you were relieved that he was so unassuming and kind, because if he’d been any kind of authoritative, it would’ve debilitated you.

Tonight, he’d clearly showered after drills.

His hair was freshly combed and still damp, darker than normal. A tendril fell in front of his glasses, leaving a small line of fog against the outer corner of one of the lenses. He was in a plain white tshirt and light sweatpants, and you made yourself stop from looking further because you were not about to objectify your friend just because you now knew that he could dirty talk with the best of them.

And now you were thinking about that.

“Are you mad at me?” Bob asked, and it snapped you out of your spiral.

He was frowning at the sill, his hands shoved in his pockets, and his chest tight. There was a purse in between his eyebrows, and you really could not understand him, because how could a man who was objectively gorgeous, subjectively sweet, be this adorable? He looked up and the moment your eyes met, you looked away.

“No,” you said quickly, clearing your throat. “Of course not. Obviously.”

“I mean, not obviously,” Bob said, rubbing a sneaker against the carpet in the hallway. “You practically sprinted out of the briefing this morning, refused to speak to me over comms during drills, and you won’t look at me for more than two seconds, and that’s normally someone else’s line to me.”

It was a weak joke, but it was funny, and you could hear in his voice that he was trying to set you at ease, and that really only made you feel worse.

So you stepped aside and held open the door, not really trusting yourself to say anything else. Bob looked nervous, and you wanted to tell him it was you, not him, but instead you waited in silence as he stepped into the room.

You only had the light over the sink on, and the room was in soft shadows, but you thought it might be more weird if you turned on a light, like you were calling attention to it. You shut the door and Navy rooms didn’t really come with guest furniture, so you gestured to the foot of your bed, while you paced.

“This is going to be awkward,” you warned him, glancing in his direction, and wishing you hadn’t.

He was sitting on the foot of your bed, as directed, legs spread slightly and his elbows resting on his knees. You could see the muscles of his shoulders through the tshirt, and his eyes seemed especially bright, in the dim light from the room.

“Okay,” Bob said easily, and you appreciated that he wasn’t rushing you. Maybe he was starting to understand that this was something you were working through, rather than something he had done.

You switched directions, walking the length of the room, and then the length again.

You had to say it.

You’d just have to say it, and that would explain it, and then it would be out, and then you could figure out how to move forward. Bob was a problem solver, like you, and you were both smart enough to figure this out. You were also both adults. You could just say it.

You stopped in front of him, and Bob sat up a little straighter, like he wanted to be sure he was being respectful to the weight of whatever you were saying. God, he was such a good person, why did you have to be such a creep.

“Iknowaboutbullriderrhett,” you said in a rush, clasping your hands in front of you. The words seemed to echo around the room and you stared at Bob, waiting for him to react.

He didn’t, not really.

He nodded, slowly, and you watched him process the day through the lens of your revelation.

“So, you’re disappointed it’s me,” he said, like he was clarifying, and you shook your head.

“What?” you asked, confused, and Bob shrugged.

“Like if you were expecting a ranch hand from Wyoming, I get it, it’s weird that it’s just me.”

You blinked. “That…that’s beside the point; I feel guilty, like this is a weird invasion of privacy, and isn’t that what you should be asking, anyways, is if I’m going to tell anybody? I won’t, but–”

Bob shook his head, his expression still pretty guarded. “Whose opinion do you think matters to me more than yours?”

And how the hell were you supposed to respond to that?

“What?” you managed again.

Bob looked at you.

It was maybe the longest uninterrupted eye contact you’d ever had, and you weren’t sure if it was because he initiated it, or if something was different. But it made you curious, it made you stop rambling, it made you be still, and let Bob look, because you liked how he was looking at you.

He smiled, that familiar, bashful, expression, and it calmed you slightly.

It wasn’t like there was a demon possessing your friend, it wasn’t a dark secret, it was just a part of him that he didn’t bring out at work. His smile reminded you that you knew him, that you trusted him.

Then his head fell to the side, his eyebrows lowering behind his glasses, his expression turning inquisitive as he said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

It was still Bob.

But his voice was lower, his voice was softer and you knew that voice, but seeing it fall from petal pink lips was a revelation and you shivered. You pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt down over your palms, hoping you could disguise it, but Bob saw it anyway.

Of course he did.

He could calculate projectile trajectories while at supersonic speed; of course he could see when his voice made you shiver. The expression on his face turned smug, and that was new, that was nothing you’d seen before and you were pretty much infatuated with it immediately.

Objectively, Bob was the best.

You knew it, everyone knew it. This was maybe the first time you’d seen him look like he knew it, and something like pride blossomed in your chest at the thought that it was because of you.

“I’m not disappointed,” you said honestly, and Bob smiled fully.

That was how he should always be, you decided, proud of himself, pleased by you.

He pushed himself off the bed.

He walked towards you slowly, slow enough that you could tell he was giving you time to back away, or tell him to stop, but you sure as shit weren’t going to do either.

Instead, your head tilted back as he came to stop in front of you.

“We have two options,” he said, almost conversationally, like you weren’t this close to melting into a puddle at seeing this side of him. “One: I go back to my room; we’ve learned something new today, but we go on like normal. Or–”

“Or,” you chose, not waiting to hear what the second option was. “Whatever ‘or’ is, that’s the one I want.”

It truly didn’t matter; if the choice was him walking out the door or not, you wanted whatever made him stay.

He huffed an exhale of a laugh, a soft sound that you’d heard a dozen times but it still made your breath catch. You’d grinned fondly when you heard it over comms, after Callie calmly roasted Jake, you’d shivered when you heard it in your headphones, but now that Bob was physically in front of you, you thought this was the best iteration of it.

“What do you like?” he asked softly, and it felt like a loaded question.

Like maybe he was asking which audios, or maybe the themes, or if him, in front of you, was enough. The room felt suspended, like someone had paused the film of your life and you could see everything outside of yourself. The heat in Bob’s eyes, the way his fingers, held loose at his side, twitched slightly, like he wanted to reach for you. The way your own breath caught, like you were careful not to break a spell, like you wanted it to never break.

You kissed him.

You probably could’ve been more graceful about it, but he was standing just there, and you needed to know, needed to feel him against you. You reached for his arms, your hands grasping above his elbows to pull him down and press yourself closer.

He was so soft.

The moment your lips brushed over him, you felt him bending, moving. His glasses bumped into your nose as he adjusted and then his hands were on your waist, spreading over your back and how had you never noticed how big his hands were? They felt huge, and his chest was strong and warm as he pulled you into him.

You could smell his shampoo, something earthy and sweet, and it was intoxicating how pure it was. He didn’t feel pure. He felt hot, kissing you back with an urgency that stole your breath away. Bob kissed you with certainty, with earnestness, and you were obsessed.

You pulled back, staying in the cradle of his arms, needing to be this close when you answered the question he’d asked. Long lashes fluttered against the tops of his cheeks as you broke the kiss, and Bob pulled in a long breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes, the blue of them was so bright, cutting. You didn’t know how he held it all, his sharpness and softness, gentleness and intention.

“Can I show you?” you asked.

He blinked, the motion slow, as he looked between your eyes, trying to focus with you so close. You saw the corner of his mouth turn up in that bashful smile, and his arms around you tightened slightly.

“Show me,” he said, your question but now a command, and your mouth went dry.

His voice sent a flush of heat over your skin, and whatever he wanted, you’d say yes, for this man who was your friend and your fantasy, and asking you so nicely.

It amazed you how you didn’t feel nervous.

This was arguably the most intimate situation you’d found yourself in in a hot minute, but instead of nerves or anxiety, you could only think of how much you wanted Bob to see how much he affected you. From that first moment you’d met him, to the crush you’d packed away, to the voice that haunted your dreams, you wanted him. And you wanted to see how that would affect him.

You walked over to the sink, grabbing the vibrator from where you’d left it after you cleaned it this morning. Bob walked back over to the bed, taking up his original post at the foot of it, but his eyes never left you. He toed off his sneakers, and you slipped out of your pajama shorts, leaning over to arranging pillows against the headboard.

You climbed into the bed and rested your back against the pillows, nudging Bob’s thigh with your toes before you bent your knees. He turned himself to face you, his long legs unfolding outside of yours. It was like he was being careful not to touch you, and you liked that this was how it was going to start– just his voice and your pleasure. You hoped once he saw what a tight string was tied between the two, maybe he’d get a little more involved. A part of you wished that you’d deepened the kiss earlier, but it was just as well to have the anticipation of it.

It was ridiculous that you were already turned on.

You’d had eight hours to come to terms with the fact that Bob was Rhett, but as he sat across from you, it was like his gaze was scorching you. His bright eyes ran over you hungrily, and you rolled your neck, enjoying being the object of his gaze.

You’d been bold when you suggested it, but now the silence of the room seemed to stretch. You wondered if you should ask Bob to talk, or if that would be weird. Bob looked at you, his damp hair falling in front of his glasses again, and he brushed it aside absently.

“Is this where you lay, when you listen to me?” he asked, his eyes tracing over the simple bed, the regulation bedding, the pillows you’d brought in to spruce it up. His voice was low, curious, and now that you were listening for it, you could hear the traces of a drawl, hanging on the edges of it.

You nodded, unable to look away from him, and his nose flared slightly at the confirmation.

“You’re so pretty,” he said, and it washed over you. It was such a simple compliment, but the truth of how he said it, like every fiber of his being meant it, warmed you.

“God, thinking about you…” he trailed off, “just lying here, looking like this…getting off to my voice…do you touch yourself first? Pet that pussy before you use your toy?”

Your mouth actually fell open hearing Bob Floyd say ‘pussy’ so casually.

And he said it sitting in your bed, his eyes on you, his voice dropping into a deep drawl and yeah, you were going to do whatever he asked.

You shifted slightly, a hand falling between your thighs to press over your clothed cunt. You cupped yourself, loving the way Bob’s eyes followed your hand with rapt attention. The kiss, his words, his eyes…you weren’t wet yet, but you could feel your body warming, turning towards Bob.

“Love that you take your time with your pussy, warm her up, slow. ‘s not a thing you have to rush, not when the building feels so good. And I bet you feel so good, don’t you, so soft and warm…”

It didn’t feel slow, not with how hot Bob’s voice was. How good it felt to have him in the room with you, not just an empty echoing in your ears but physically here. You continued to tease yourself over your panties and you felt when they grew damp, when your arousal slowed your fingers, made the fabric slick.

“Fuck,” Bob breathed, and you whimpered.

The sound was involuntary, a reaction to seeing sweet, wholesome, Bob swearing over the sight of you. It made you feel regal, and if you had to guess, pulling sounds out of you made him feel the same. At the sound of your whimper, Bob’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and you watched the tip of his tongue push through his lips, as he wet them.

“Ah, you sound so good, too, I can’t believe–” he broke off, laughing quietly. “Can’t believe I’m jealous of my own damn self. How many times have I made you cum, and I’ve never gotten to see it?”

It was your turn to laugh, not quite willing to reveal how much you listened to BullRiderRhett.

“That many, huh?” Bob’s voice was smug, and it was such a good sound on him. You ground your wrist over your clit, pressing into the hard bone, craving the friction.

“Take your panties off,” he said, “touch yourself, not the vibrator yet.”

You followed his instruction, pulling up your legs to peel off your panties and resettling. You extended a leg down the bed, pressing inside of Bob’s long leg, as you trailed your hand between your thighs. At the first brush of skin against your sensitive folds, your head tipped back against the headboard.

It was just your hand, but with Bob here, it felt like it was almost his. It was his bidding at least, and you explored yourself leisurely, dragging your fingers through your wetness.

“Yeah, that’s right, bet you feel so good,” Bob said, his voice so low. “Feel yourself, sweet girl, tell me how it feels.”

You gasped, your hips rising in a pavlovian response to the endearment. It was somehow even more overwhelming when it was Bob who spoke it over you, here, in the flesh. When he could see that your skin prickled, that your breath caught, in response to him.

“Say it again,” you whispered, hoping he’d understand, and when you looked back at him, the expression on his face was one of adoration and hunger, awe and need.

“Sweet girl?” he asked gently, but his eyes were so dark. “You like being that for me, don’t you? My sweet, sweet girl.”

You nodded weakly, your fingers suddenly not enough. You rubbed over your clit, trying to stop the truth from spilling out of you as heat fanned out through your body from your touch.

“Yours,” you corrected weakly, and you scrambled for the vibrator and switched it on, using the intense humming of the toy as an excuse to hide from Bob’s reaction to your admission.

You felt one of his hands wrap around your ankle, and his long thumb stroked from your heel up to the joint. It was the perfect touch, and just grounding enough to keep you from being overwhelmed by the vibrations.

“You sound so pretty,” Bob murmured, “those little whimpers you make, fuck.”

Were you whimpering?

You felt like you noticed everything a bit too late, too loud. You realized you were pulling the vibrator over your cunt in a mimicry of the strumming motion Bob’s thumb was tracing on your ankle, and your hips canted up. Pleasure swirled in you, hot and tingling, but you felt something missing.

“Bob,” you panted, god, how were you already panting, “I need–”

You turned the toy higher and broke off, writhing.

“Darlin’, love you saying my name like this,” Bob drawled, and it was a proper drawl now, and how he said darlin’ made you feel like you might combust. “Can’t believe I get to see you like this, you look so good…knowing this isn’t your first time working yourself to my voice, makes me so damn jealous.”

You whined, pressing the vibrator more firmly against your skin, your hips starting to grind into it.

“Tell me,” you asked, your voice reedy, and Bob huffed a laugh, like you didn’t even have to ask. He ran a hand over his thigh, coming to rest at the seat of his sweatpants and you bit your lip as he adjusted himself through the thin fabric.

“So damn jealous,” he repeated, “thinking how many orgasms I’ve missed. How many times you came when I asked, how those thighs would tremble as you fucked yourself thinking of taking me…fuck, honey, you’ve heard me cum, and I’ve never–”

A moan pushed its way past your lips, as you realized that the groans and grunts and needy noises that you got off to weren’t incorporeal: they belonged to Bob.

You looked down at the foot of the bed where Bob was watching you greedily. His eyes roamed over your spread legs, the twitches in your thighs, the slackness in your jaw, and you looked at him too. His pale skin was flushed, color in pink splotches high on his cheeks, and his lips were parted. His chest rose and fell as he drew in deep breaths, and when he shifted slightly, you moaned again.

“Can you touch yourself?” you asked, almost shy, wanting to see him. You felt good, so insanely good, but the thing you’d always loved about the Rhett audios was how much pleasure it sounded like he was getting too. There was something so hot about knowing you were the root of someone else’s desire and pleasure, and you wanted so badly to be that for Bob.

“You’re gonna have to wait just a little longer, sweet girl,” Bob said, but he ran a hand over the thigh of his sweatpants, adjusting himself again, and your hips bucked up of their own volition. You guessed he was wearing underwear under his sweatpants because you couldn’t see an outline, but the idea of his dick hanging that far down his thigh had your mouth watering.

“Wanna see you,” you protested, hearing a sound like a pout in your voice and Bob’s hand on your ankle tightened. He looked at you hard, and you knew he was gambling, trying to decide if he wanted to play a card.

“I know, sweet girl,” he said, licking his lips, “but you have to earn my cock.”

Your eyes rolled back and your core clenched at those words. How many times had you heard Rhett tease you with that? But it was different now, because Bob was here. Because he was real, and his cock was real, and however many times you’d wondered about Rhett, your curiosity could be sated in Bob.

When you lifted your head to look back at Bob, he was slackjawed, watching you writhe. You were practically humping the toy, chasing an orgasm that suddenly felt so much closer. The vibrator felt stronger than normal, or maybe you were more sensitive, but you felt your climax building, and your thighs started shaking.

“I wanna see you,” you repeated, and it sounded pathetic, but it was true, you did. In a moment, this had switched from getting off in front of your friend to needing your friend’s dick, and you didn’t know how Bob knew it but he did.

He readjusted his grip on your ankle and before you could react he pulled.

You slid down the bed, your thighs parting around where he now kneeled; he braced himself over you, and you whined, needing his touch. He kissed you, his mouth wide and plundering, slanting his lips over yours. You moaned into his kiss, so different from the soft gentleness of your first embrace. This was Bob kissing you, and his tongue delved into your mouth and you opened for him.

“I’m too greedy for that, sweet girl,” he whispered, his lips against yours. “I know if I get between these thighs I’m going to lose myself, and I want to see how much you want it. I wanna be here, fully here, the first time I get to see you cum.”

He reached down, and you felt his hand trace over yours. You’d nearly dropped the vibrator when he pulled you down the bed, but now Bob tightened your grip, and guided it back to your cunt. You keened as the vibrator pushed between your folds, and Bob followed your lead, wanting to see how you fucked yourself for him.

It was better with him.

His strong hand bracketing yours, his other at the back of your neck, holding you steady. His hand was on yours but he brought his face close to yours again, and you drank in the reality that he was here, this close, holding you. His breath was hot against your skin, and his glasses were fogging up from how hard you were breathing.

“So are you gonna let me see it, darlin’?” he asked against your skin, and that voice, coupled with his touch, nearly had you there. “You gonna come for me, let me see what it looks like when my sweet girl gets off with just my voice and the toy we’re using on her? You’re almost there, honey, I can see it, come for me come on now–”

He sounded so good.

His voice was perfect and soothing and it felt like a dream but it wasn’t, it was real. He was holding you, feeling you, breathing the same air and working you. You’d never been so aware of your body and how it was tuned towards someone else. You cried out his name as you came, your back arching and your free hand fisting in Bob’s tshirt, reminding yourself he was there, he was there, he was there.

You felt like you were floating.

Pleasure coursed through your body and you could feel it pulsing in your fingertips, beating in your heart. You became slowly aware of the room around you. The air felt cold against your sweat-dampened skin, the hum of the refrigerator was the only noise other than your hard breathing. Bob was still over you, and he’d pulled the vibrator away from you, switching it off without really looking, running a soothing hand over your hip. The hand at the back of your neck was firm, holding you tightly so you could feel him.

“How’re ya doing, sweet girl?” he asked softly, and you felt him press a kiss to your cheek. “Did that feel good?“

You hummed in agreement, words still beyond you. His voice was so gentle, but had a raspy edge, like he was thinking over the last several minutes, holding them in his mind.

“You did such a good job for me,” he murmured, and you turned into his touch.

He was like sunshine, wasn’t he?

Just warm, and good, and you wanted to bask in him and his light like a dryad. His eyes darted away once he realized you were looking at him, and it made your heart skip a beat, that he could somehow be shy after coaxing you through one of the hottest orgasms of your life.

You were trying to think of how to say “your turn” in a way that wasn’t corny or cringey, but what you came up with was, “Can we keep going?”

Bob’s eyes snapped back to yours, and the world seemed to pause for a moment, hovering. Waiting, hoping, and Bob’s chin dipped, just slightly, and all was right.

“Baby,” he said, in the low, perfect, voice, “I’d like nothing more.”

When he kissed you, you were both smiling, somewhat giddy, and any nerves that had gathered during that pause dissipated, as you kissed his smile-thinned lips.

You shifted slightly, pushing yourself back up the bed and pulling Bob with you.

He moved easily, his long body spanning over yours, pressing you back into the mattress with the most delicious pressure. His hands were wandering, then, delicate fingers tracing over your sweatshirt, and when he lingered at the hem of it, you pushed him off. You didn’t want to be patient, didn’t want his chivalry, and so you pulled your sweatshirt over your head before you had time to second guess yourself.

The way Bob looked at you, you wished you’d done it sooner.

His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip as he stared at your chest and you pushed yourself off the bed by your shoulders, so you could reach behind you and undo your bra. The moment the garment fell off, Bob’s hands were on you, his wide palms cupping your breasts. Your eyes fluttered shut at his touch, humming in the back of your throat as his fingers explored you. You felt the bed shift as he moved, and you gasped when a warm breath ghosted over your bared skin.

Bob kissed down from your sternum, wet kisses over you, and by the time he reached your nipples, he was practically lapping at your skin. You whimpered as his mouth closed over your nipples, his tongue swirling over you as his hand teased your other breast. When he hummed, you felt it all over, the soft vibration over your skin.

“Bob,” you gasped, and he moaned.

“Ya sound so pretty,” he whispered into your skin, “somehow better than I imagined.”

Your breath caught as his mouth moved to the valley between your breasts, and he laved the same attention to the other. He couldn’t have meant that how it sounded. As incomprehensible that this was happening, it was wilder still to think that he had imagined this, as you had.

“You thought of me?” you asked, your own voice sounding nearly breathless.

“Honey,” teeth grazed over your nipple, and Bob chuckled, that beautiful low laugh. “Who do you think I’m talkin’ to when I make those audios?”

His lips closed over you again, but the swirling of his tongue wasn’t enough to distract from the words he’d just uttered.

He wasn’t done, either.

“Y’know how many nights I’d wondered about the taste of your skin,” he murmured into it, “or what your tits would feel like in my hands? What sounds you’d make when I kissed you, how soft you’d be, everywhere? If you’d cry, or moan, or laugh when you came, or how you’d say my name…”

Your hand wound back into his hair and you pulled him back up to your mouth. This kiss was desperate, so much unsaid between the both of you. So much longing, so much wondering and now it was here. You couldn’t explore each other fast enough, and you were clawing at his clothing, trying to feel as much of his skin as possible. Bob was just as eager as you were, pulling off of you to shuck off his tshirt and sweatpants, and you reached for his glasses.

He blinked at you slowly as you pulled them off of him.

This sweet man.

He was so focused on you, his eyes so intent even as he struggled to focus, and you couldn’t believe how lucky you were. You leaned over to place them carefully on your nightstand, and when you came back to the bed, Bob’s arms settled around you in the most comforting embrace.

You loved the feeling of his skin.

He was so soft, pale skin covering deceptively strong muscles, and you were obsessed with the dichotomy. Your hands greedily traversed over his broad shoulders, thick biceps, taut stomach, and when you got to the hem of his boxers, you felt his breath catch as he shifted over you.

Fuck.

You’d thought it might’ve been a trick of the light, or a trick of sweatpants, some kind of trick, but under your hand, Bob felt hung. Your fingers rubbed over the bulge in his boxers, and Bob’s head dropped to your shoulders.

“We don’t have to–” he started, and broke off when your touch reached the end of him. You were just tracing the shape of him, but your breath caught when you felt his fat head, the cleft at his tip, even through the thin fabric.

“We do,” you said, swallowing quickly, not even trying to hide the way your thoughts were racing, “I really hope you have a condom, Floyd, because we really, really have to.”

He huffed, and then he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pushing himself off you and reaching down to feel around the ground for his sweatpants. You loved that he had a condom on him – not because it meant that he was expecting this, but because it just confirmed for you that Bob was the type to look at birth control as shared responsibility, not just a matter of whether a gal took the pill or felt like risking going without. He fumbled for a moment, and you couldn’t help yourself.

While he was distracted (admittedly, this was probably a task you could have thought of while he still had his glasses on) you leaned over and traced your tongue over his collarbone. He smelled so good, and you could just taste the salt of his sweat. Bob’s breath grew ragged, and you loved the sound of it, kissing up his neck and finding that tempting spot where you could feel his pulse. You loved how frantic it was, loved the steadiness of him.

He found the condom.

You shifted back to your elbow, watching with blatant interest as he shoved his boxers down his thighs, tore the wrapper open and rolled the condom onto his dick.

Holy. Shit.

He looked like a work of art.

A beautiful flush had worked its way across his chest and throat, the tendons on his arms and hands stood out in stark contrast, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his cock. He really was that big.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, and your eyes darted back up to his face to find his brows furrowing slightly, since he couldn’t read your silence or your expression.

You pushed yourself up to kneeling on the edge of the bed, Bob still standing beside it, and reached for him. He stepped into your embrace easily, mollified by the shared warmth between your bodies, as you reassured him with soft kisses wherever you could reach.

“I thought it was a line,” you admitted, somewhat embarrassed at how wantonly you’d just been staring at him. “Just a cliche ‘oh, you want to choke on this big dick’, but…but you’re actually, you know…”

Bob smiled, somehow bashful, as you pitched your voice lower in an approximation of Rhett’s drawl.

“Is that an offer?” he asked, and oh you liked this side of him– teasing, relaxed, a little cocky.

And the thought of choking on him…it was a really great fantasy. He’d hurt your jaw something fierce, but you wanted to see if you could draw those breathy whimpers out of him. Figure out what your tongue could do to him, see how much he could take, push him a little further, and make him cum down your throat.

“Honestly,” you said, and yeah, your throat was dry just from the thought of it, “I really want to try that, sometime.”

At your tone or your words, you couldn’t be sure, Bob’s hips pushed forward slightly. With the height difference of you kneeling and him standing, his cock brushed against your ribs. You were both suddenly so aware of him, his thick cock resting between you, and Bob’s hips pushed forward again.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, and his hips slid back, slowly. His hands were on your waist, holding you still as he ground against you. Your mouth fell open at the heavy motion, the promise of it, and the duration of it.

“You’re so big,” you whispered, another truth that should’ve sounded like a cliche, but instead was just a fact.

“You’ll fit me,” Bob said, with such confidence and certainty that suddenly you didn’t care if it was in your mouth or between your legs, you needed him in you.

“Please,” you asked, and Bob groaned, actually groaned, like you asking was the best thing he’d ever heard. His hands were so tight on your waist, like he needed that control and you knew how you wanted him.

You leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips, and then turned back to the bed, your hand sliding up towards the headboard, your ass lifting like an invitation. Bob wasted no time, climbing back over the bed and shifting you so you were lengthwise on the bed again, and then draping his long body over yours. Your head rolled between your shoulders; he felt so good. Warm and strong, and all around you, and then you felt his big hand between your thighs. He opened your thighs gently, and then a thick finger traced between them.

“So wet,” he murmured, so close to your ear, and you shivered. “You’re gonna feel so good around me, aren’t you?”

You nodded, words failing you in your anticipation. But Bob wasn’t in a rush. His calloused finger teased through your folds, smearing the remnants of your orgasm up over your clit, playing with your cunt, until you were shaking.

You whimpered, your arms trembling as you braced yourself on the bed. You pushed your hips back into his touch, and you felt Bob’s breath shutter from his chest pressed to your back, but he didn’t move any faster.

“Don’t rush me, honey,” Bob said, his voice low, and you tried to hold still, you did, but his teasing was too much.

He alternated between spreading your folds, circling your clit, dipping his finger into you just enough to tease you, then pulling back entirely. You felt like you were aching, desperate for him, needing him. Bob spread you open with one hand, and you felt his thick head at your entrance, seeking. You saw the hand that wasn’t playing with your clit drop down to the bed beside yours as he braced himself, and you pushed your hips back, weakly.

“Ask me nicely, sweet girl,” he said, his voice so low, and you swear you nearly came on the spot.

“Please,” you managed, your voice sounding entirely too weak, “please, please, I need to feel you–”

You broke off when he pushed into you.

A steady, overwhelming pressure as that beautiful, enormous cock pushed into you. Your back arched and you gripped the sheets as he stretched you out, the gentle, even pressure nearly blinding. He was so thick, you felt like you could feel his heartbeat, like you’d been lit on fire, and the only thing you knew you needed was more, more.

Your head dropped to the sheets, even as your hips worked weakly back into his, welcoming him despite the burn.

Bob’s hand covered yours, his thick fingers tangling with yours on the bedsheets, and you felt cherished, you felt wrecked, you felt perfect.

Fuck, he felt so good.

You were full to the point of overwhelmed, and you realized he’d stopped pushing, was fully seated inside you. You felt so connected, so whole, even though you were heaving like you’d run a marathon.

Bob‘s nose traced your cheek, his soft lips kissed your jaw as his breath tickled your ear. “Does that feel good, darlin?” he asked.

You nodded, wordless, it felt like a dream come true. You felt every inch of him in you, every inch of him over you, and it was perfect.

“So,” Bob whispered, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear, “what do you say?”

“Thank you,” you moaned, you’d never been so grateful for anything in your life. “Feels so good, fuck, thank you–”

Bob groaned, and his hips pulled back before he slammed back into you. His thrust would’ve pushed you up the bed, except for his body over yours, holding you steady.

“Sweet girl, it’s like you don’t want this to last long,” he said, almost angry, and the sound of his voice had your eyes rolling back in your head. He sounded so good, he felt so good, he was so perfect, you were so full… “Like you’re trying to drive me mad with this tight cunt, with those sweet little whimpers, you feel so good, baby.”

You couldn’t do anything.

You were a molten mess of heat and driving need, your body aching and craving and sated by the thick cock pressing inside of you. Bob was thrusting so deep into you, his fat cock head prodding against a spot you distantly registered wasn’t made up, but might’ve been, for how perfectly he was hitting it. You weren’t aware if you were making sounds or just lying there, all you knew was how fucking good he felt in you, how you needed him to never stop.

“Feel so full,” you gasped, and Bob pushed into you again.

“Damn right,” Bob muttered, his voice dark, “full of my dick, like you’re fucking meant to be. Gorgeous girl, bent over, taking my cock like you need it.”

You whimpered, clenching around him. “I do, I do,” you babbled, “need you.”

Bob moaned, and it might’ve been the prettiest sound you’d ever heard. How was he real? How could he be this good, this kind, this fucking hot??

The sounds in the room were dizzying.

Bob’s hips slapping into your ass, the squelching sounds where you were joined, your gasps and his breathy grunts. It was perfect, and you felt the heat around you condensing in your core.

He knew, somehow.

The fingers that had been spreading you for his cock, moved to the top of your cunt, teasing over your clit. Your legs jerked, your mouth dropping open as Bob circled your clit, his fingers tracing over it, gently pinching it and coaxing you higher.

“I’m gonna cum,” you panted, heat and need rising.

“Christ, please,” Bob said, his voice so earnest, so dear, as you pushed back into him. “Let me feel it, sweet girl, let me feel this pussy I’ve been dreaming about. Want to feel you milking my cock, so damn good, you can do it, come on…”

He pumped into you once, twice, and you shattered. Your legs gave out, shaking, and then Bob’s hands were on your waist again, holding you up. You moaned his name, trembling and lost, and he held you, ever steady. He kept working into you, his thick cock pressing into you, like he was the only thing tethering you to this pane, and you felt drunk off of him.

“There it was, that was beautiful…fuck, you’re so hot, that feels so damn good. You sounded so gorgeous, sweet girl, you did so well…”

You moaned as his words coaxed you back.

He was still pumping into you, that steady, punishing pace and you were so sensitive but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. He felt so strong, so hot, so close to you and you needed it. Needed him. His thick arms cording around you, his strong grip digging into your hips, his fat cock stuffing you, you never wanted it to stop.

“You’re so good,” you whispered, needing him to know. Not just how he felt, or how he sounded, but who he was. How he was, and how much he meant.

Bob’s hips stuttered.

You were aching, you were spent, but you tightened your core and clenched around him.

“Baby,” he groaned, “I’m close you can’t–”

You rolled your hips.

Bob grunted, and then he was moving, faster than lightning. He swept your hands out, pushing you down by your shoulders into the mattress, his body draping over yours. You turned your head to the side, and like he knew, he was there, kissing you.

It was sloppy, it was messy, but your lips and tongue tangled together, like you both needed the sweetness of a kiss to balance the savage way Bob’s hips were fucking into you.

Each press of his hips ground your pussy into the mattress and the pressure was so fucking unreal. You moaned into him, and Bob seemed drunk off the sound, off of you. You were so overstimulated, so out of your body that pleasure was the only thing that made sense. Only the way his hips rubbed your clit into the mattress, only the way his cock was stroking into the deep part of you, only the way he was panting against your lips.

“You’re everything,” Bob whispered, just a breath away. “So much better, so much – fuck, you feel too good. Will you come for me again, sweet girl? I want to feel it so bad, need another one from you, can you do that for me?”

You shook your head, wrung out, but you felt it building anyways. Fuck, how was that possible? But Bob’s thrusts, the pressure on your clit, the weight of his warm body, the need in his eyes, it was driving you higher.

And then.

And then he got close.

He broke off from the kiss, his thrusts growing almost frantic. Each breath he drew ended on a gasp, a soft whine that reached deep into your gut and set off something primal. He was fucking into you but he was whimpering, and you knew he needed it, needed you, like he said. He moaned, a needy, beautiful sound, and before you could feel his orgasm, yours broke over you.

You collapsed into the mattress, Bob covering you, and you distantly heard him getting louder as your thighs shook. He sounded so pretty, those sweet moans and the desperate gasps driving you mad. The world was just molten heat, desperate thrusts, echoes of whimpers and you faded into the vacuity of it.

When you came back, you were on your side.

You were drenched in sweat, you both were, and a sheet was covering you from the cool room. Bob had taken off the condom, you noticed absently, and had pulled your sheet up over both of you, tucking you into his chest. His arms were warm around you, and when you exhaled, you watched the blond hairs on his forearms blow back and forth.

“How’re you doing?” Bob asked softly, and you could weep. It was him, so familiar, so gentle, and so much better than any recording, any fantasy, anything. Your arm swung halfheartedly in his direction.

“You jerk,” you sighed, “you’ve ruined my subscription.” Bob chuckled, the bed shaking with his deep laugh. “Think you can content yourself with the real thing?”

You shifted, turning to face him. In the dim light of the room, he somehow still managed to look like an angel. His soft eyes were unfocused, his mussed hair was snarled from your fingers, and he was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

You leaned over to kiss him, Bob’s lips already thinning on a smile. “I think I can manage,” you said.

tagging: @withahappyrefrain @cheekymcgrath @mxgyver @lewmagoo @sebsxphia @callsign-fangirl @callsignspark @sometimesanalice @daggerspare-standingby @rhettabbotts @teacupsandtopgun @attapullman @yuckosworld @skteaiy @yanna-banana @briseisgone @gigisimsonmars @milesmillergf @katiedid-3 @hangmandruigandmav @3tabbiesandalab @marchingicenotes7 @callsignmedusa @ryebecca @tgmavericklover @cottagecori @becks-things @sorchathered @mulletmcghee @straightforwardly @high-speed-r @rcmupout @purelyfiction @fairyheart @sunsetsimpsblog @angelbabyyy99 @cremebruleequeen @marvel-djarin @sgt-barnesveins @supernaturaldawning @echo-ethe @sunlitide @alilstressyandlotdepressy @hughesvolpe @aczhang777 @saltsicklover

chances are high i'll do a part 2/followup with both of them recording an 'overheard' audio...let me know! comments and reblogs are the surest way to make that happen 💙

#bob floyd #top gun #top gun maverick #nsfw #smut

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dxndjxrin · 2 months ago

Text

Solid Ground

Summary: Benny likes you a lot, you like Benny a lot. Both of you are determined not to get that.

Pairing: Ben "Benny" Miller x Reader

Word Count: ~13.2k

Warnings: idiots in love, pining, canon level violence, PTSD, mental health issues, panic attacks, mild harassment and threats of violence

A/N: Thank you for reading! Again, I am so very aware I’m writing in what is probably a dead fandom for a meh movie. That being said, please let me know what you think!

The afternoon is slow, hot.

Like most afternoons at the bar.

The Florida air is so heavy and thick with humidity, it feels like something you could swim through if you really tried. There’s a lethargic weight in the air, like you’re slowly sinking into the mire of your own life, the dreariness of the mundane and the everyday.

All the folding doors are open onto the deck that overlooks the lake, umbrellas open over the tables to keep the sun at bay. But the only patrons, a group of older men that come in at the same time everyday to drink together, currently sit inside beneath the lazily rotating ceiling fans.

The only balm against the pain of manning a tiny bar in a small town that hardly saw any customers during the endless afternoon shift, is that the owner doesn’t mind you reading on the clock if there are no customers that need your attention.

John likes you well enough and knows you’re competent. He also knows how slow things can get, but refuses to close up shop during the afternoons. He’s ran the bar the same way for forty years, and he’d be damned if he started doing things differently just because the town’s population and tourist traffic had shrunk a little.

So, once your regulars are taken care of, happy with beers and lowball glasses of whiskey straight, you take a seat on the barstool behind the counter and prop open your book against a bottle of tequila.

Sweat drips down your spine as a warm, heavy breeze drifts through the bar, bringing you the scent of lake water and sunshine. A local rock station plays lowly from the overhead speakers, and a peace settles between your bones. The low conversation and sudden loud chuckles from the regulars, along with the buzz of crickets and cicadas, the lap of water against the wooden poles of the deck, make for good background noise.

The front door opens and you glance up, trying not to look too excited, too giddy. But a smile pulls at your lips despite your best efforts.

And Benny Miller smiles openly at you, unabashedly happy to see you. He beelines toward you, waving at the regulars who all know him by name in this small town.

They know Ben Miller the MMA fighter, Ben Miller the soldier.

But they also know him as Benny Miller the troublemaker, as Will Miller’s little brother Benny.

“Hey, Ben,” they call and he glances over his shoulder to flash that famous Benny grin, hyena wide and begging for trouble.

The breeze carries the scent of Benny’s soap and cologne to you. Though he’s in jeans and a t-shirt, you can tell he’s just finished up at the gym, the edges of his hair still damp beneath his usual backwards ratty cap.

“Hey babe,” he coos at you, dropping a battered copy of the last book you’d loaned him onto the counter before rounding the bar to envelope you in a hug that nearly knocks you out of your seat.

“Easy,” you remind him even as you fold one arm tightly around him, smoothing your fingers down his spine, that clean soap and earthy smell that’s distinctly Benny wrapping around you. “Hey, pretty boy.”

He clings onto you, his nose pressed against your temple, for just a tad too long. And you have to tap his back with a laugh when your lungs feel like they might collapse.

He skims his lips across your forehead before releasing you, grinning big and wide at you as you snap your own book closed to give him the attention you know he's about to demand. “Miss me?” he asks as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the counter.

“You don’t give me much of a chance to miss you, Miller,” you say, raising a brow at him. “We see each other almost every day.”

“And ya miss me every single day,” he confirms to himself with a nod, nudging the book he deposited on the counter closer to you. “I liked this one.”

“Really? I’m a little bit surprised,” you pick the book up and flick through your worn copy of Stephen King’s Carrie. “Why’d you like it?”

“Big fan of goin’ out with a bang,” he grins, leaning over the counter to brace his forearms against the bar and drop his head. You can hear his leg shaking where he bounces it against the floor on the other side of the bar.

You shake your head and take the book to stack on top of your own. “You want another one or are you good for now?”

“Sure, what d’ya got for me?”

“Why don’t you come over to my place and you can pick something yourself?” You offer. “And you know you don’t have to get something else right away? You can take a break.”

In the months you’d known Benny, he’d never struck you as a reader. But a couple of weeks ago he’d suddenly asked for a recommendation. Benny, you’re almost positive, has undiagnosed ADHD, so his sudden interest in something like reading had surprised you, though you'd been happy to recommend something to him. You were more than happy to have an excuse to invite him over to your place, if only to look through your book collection.

Benny preferred motion and action to something like sitting down with a book - MMA, fishing, running - literally anything but sitting down for hours on end. Stillness and silence did not suit Benny and you almost wonder how it was that he was getting through your books so quickly.

Whatever the reason for his foray into reading, you're glad for it, glad to have someone to talk with about books.

“Nah, I’m good,” he laughs. “I got you to keep up with now.”

You roll your eyes, “Do you have to be competitive about everything?”

“Yeah.”

“You want anything today? Or are you just bored again?”

“No,” his eyes flick over you, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Just knew you’d be missin’ my company.”

Benny never orders anything, not since the day you met him and not unless he hung around long enough for the dinner crew to start drifting in. He mostly just came in to keep you company - as he put it, or annoy you - as you’d put it.

“That so?” You can’t help but grin, shifting in your seat to cross your arms over your chest, “And who told you that, huh?”

He smiles wider at you. “You always gotta be so mean to me?” He jokes, lifting his gaze and peering at you from beneath his lashes, eyes wide and open and so pretty it makes your breath stall.

You glance away from him, skimming your thumb over the pages of your book instead, to avoid meeting his eyes, a gaze that hid absolutely nothing from you. “Any other thoughts about Carrie?”

“Not about her, no.”

“What about then?”

“Thinkin’ about how I’m so smokin’ hot you can’t even look at me.”

You flash your eyes back up at him, “Careful, Ben, I might think you’re flirting with me.”

“Oh, honey, trust me, I’m trying.”

You reach out and touch a yellowing bruise at the edge of his temple. He winces against your touch. “Maybe. Good thing I think you’re pretty when you’re a little rough around the edges, huh?” You try not to think about how he leans into your hand, reaches up and holds your hand to his face, even when you press your thumb harder into the bruise.

Benny Miller had stormed into your life for the first time a few months ago. It had been raining, a temperamental, torrential rain that had the bar’s parking lot flooded in minutes.

He’d swung through the door mad as hell, his lip split, his cheek cut and bruised, soaked to the bone. His t-shirt had clung to him in all the right places, ridges of muscle and padding visible beneath. Cerulean blue eyes had been nearly eaten up by the black of his pupils.

A bandage had been wrapped around his upper arm, partially undone and spooling down his bicep, boots thumping against the worn floorboards as he closed in on you at the bar.

You had wondered for a half a second if you should be afraid of him, alone in the bar as you were, even the regulars kept away by the horrible weather.

But he’d only sat at the counter and brusquely ordered a beer. Those blown out pupils - so easily mistaken for fury, had held something deeper.

Fear.

He had been terrified of something, fingers drumming nervously on the bar, a shake in his hand.

“Little early for that, isn't it?” You’d asked, watching his brows tilt up as he ran a hand through locks dampened and darkened by the rain. “Rough day?”

“Sweetheart,” he’d said, his voice low and graveled with just a hint of a twang. It was a voice that had made you melt, that softened everything inside you into mush. “You have no fuckin’ idea.” He sounded exhausted, breathing hard and fast like he’d just got done running a race.

You’d raised a brow at that and handed him the beer you poured from the tap. For a few long minutes, you only watched him sip his beer.

Veteran, you’d marked him out easy.

And he needed a distraction - so you chatted at him, telling him about how you’d rewatched Top Gun recently, mindlessly talking as the tension slowly rolled out of his shoulders and his grip on the glass loosened until his fingers weren’t quite so white with pressure.

You still wouldn't be sure, even months later, if he’d heard a word you said that day. But your voice alone had seemed to be enough to ground him.

“I got a first aid kit here. Want me to take care of that for you?” You had eventually offered when his breathing stabilized, nodding at his busted cheek. “So you don’t go home with an infection. Gangrene or something.”

He’d barked out an unexpected laugh at that. “Don’t think I’m at risk for gangrene,” he snorted.

You shrugged. “Want me to or not?” His only answer had been a sheepish nod, an offering of his face to you with a jut of his chin.

He hadn’t told you what happened and you hadn’t asked. You had only moved around the counter, cleaned the cut and stuck a butterfly bandage over it, dabbed the blood from his split lip where he'd worried a wound open with his teeth. You had changed and rewrapped the bandage on his arm. The gauze was old and clearly hadn’t been changed in awhile.

And while it looked like he’d been shot, you hadn’t mentioned it.

“What’s your name, honey?” he’d asked you when you finished, his voice saccharine to your ears, slow and sweet and so low, like gravel wrapped in sunshine.

And, oh, you’d liked that. Liked how he sounded when he called you honey. Liked the slow, sweet drip of it.

You gave him your name, and he’d repeated it back to you, like it was something vital that needed to be committed to memory, your hand still on the curve of his bicep, your body still very close to his. “Ben,” he’d informed you, even though you hadn’t asked for his name in return. “Benny Miller. You knew around here?”

“Been in town just a couple months. But just started workin’ here.”

“And you always patch up customers like this?” He’d asked, the last dregs of anger and fear lingering around him dissipating fast, a smile that you would come to know as his signature look spreading over his face.

“Only the pretty ones, Miller.” Without realizing it, you’d gravitated so very close to him, his thighs bracketing your body but not touching you as you worked on his face. Something warm had bloomed between you then, that made you step back and look away, that made you take your hand off his arm where his skin was so warm it burned.

Something bloomed between you that would make Benny hang around for the rest of your shift, that made him walk you to your car, and come back the next day and the next day and the next…

“Not pretty,” he'd disagreed. “Handsome? Yeah. Hot? Fuck yeah.”

You laughed, watched him beam with pride at the sound. “With eyes like those? Ben, you’re pretty.”

And ever since that day, he’s made a point to stop in the bar during the afternoon. He claims he has time with the way his training schedule works out and you can’t really complain. Benny makes good company. He’s a good storyteller, loud and energetic and fun, and always interested in whatever you have to say even if he doesn’t always remember what exactly you say.

He’s become a constant presence in your life, a fast friend that stuck. And soon enough, it became hard to imagine your life without him, without his regular appearances at the bar.

More often than not he hangs around until your shift ends, walks you to your car, still talking, before asking you to take a drive with him.

And you always find yourself saying yes.

Benny can talk. He chats constantly about anything and everything - MMA, baseball, anecdotes from his time in the military, his little family of friends. Lately, he talks with you about the books he borrows, movies you watch and rewatch together.

The military thing comes up suddenly and without preamble, like it's something everyone already knew about him, ingrained into his identity. And although he openly tells you about his service, there’s a pain that lies beneath, something that he’s not yet come to terms with, a crinkle in his brow that concerns you.

Some days, his hands shake a little.

Some days, his breathing isn’t ever quite even.

Benny is going through something, and you think he hasn’t told a soul about it.

You quickly felt at home in his passenger seat, going too fast down country roads, listening to him talk, radio all the way up, windows all the way down.

Sometimes you go to the lake, sometimes to an empty, open field that Benny seems to know well - sitting in the back of the jeep with the seats down until the stars come out.

You’ve spent almost all your free time with Benny over the last few months. You go to baseball games together on the Fridays he doesn’t have an MMA match, and spend most Saturday mornings fishing together. His face is usually stained yellow and green from the previous night, broken blood vessels blooming purple and red, a cut to the cheek and above his brow. You always call him pretty and he always pretends to hate it.

You’ve gone to Topgolf together more than once and been kicked out each time for being too loud and rowdy and drunk. He’s taken you to the shooting range and taught you how to handle a weapon though you insist it's not knowledge you want or need, while Benny insists that it is.

He somehow becomes your best friend, worms his way inside your heart, in such a short period of time that you can’t imagine your life without him, especially not in this town.

Now, Ben leans back when you pull your hand away from his face, flexing not so subtly. You can tell by the way he sits, the bunched coil of muscle in his forearms twisting as he settles more fully in his chair, chest puffed out.

You roll your eyes at the display. Ben’s flirting is about as subtle as a hammer to the head.

“Well, actually, babe, I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Invited you to my fight and you didn’t show. You’re making a bad impression with my buddies. They’re starting to think I made you up.”

He says it so casually, almost like it’s a joke, a megawatt smile still on his face, but you can tell Benny is hurt. Your heart gives a painful thump and you cast him a small smile in return. “I told you I wouldn’t be able to make it, didn’t I?”

“Sure ya did,” he whines, leaning forward again, “But I thought you meant it in a faking me out kinda way so I’d be surprised.” Before you can respond, he continues, fidgeting with a loose bit of wood on the counter. “What was so important anyways? You have a date or somethin’?”

You slap his hand away from the wood before he can damage the scarred bar more than it already is. Benny never stops moving, fidgeting, usually destroying napkins and paper drink coasters and straw papers in droves as he talks to you. “Yeah, actually. And what happened to that fidget thing I got you? The pop-it?”

And the stress ball, you think. To help with whatever he was bottling up inside, waiting for the emotions to shake up and erupt in a bout of anger instead of dealing with them beforehand.

Benny ignores your question and goes deadly still, the vibrations echoing through the floor from his bouncing leg ceasing. “You serious?”

You feign nonchalance, twisting the liquor bottles in front of you so their labels face out. “Yep. So serious. We fucked in the parking lot and he bought me Taco Bell after,” you deadpan.

Ben laughs, the sound loud and unapologetic, so very Benny it makes something in you ache. But there’s something else in that laugh too - relief. “Really, though.”

“For real,” you say.

You had gone on a date, but it had been a bad one. One in which you had been bored out of your mind. One in which your date talked at you and not with you. He had been so low energy - or maybe he hadn’t been. Maybe you’d just been comparing him to Benny, who made everyone seem low energy.

You’d had dinner and left. There hadn’t been any random detours to the batting cages or a race against time down back roads, no here, honey, lemme show you this ice cream joint by the water-

It had been a date where you thought of a different guy the entire time, wondering if Benny was looking for you at his fight, wondering if he was getting his ass handed to him or making some money with a win.

The truth is - Benny terrifies you.

You’re terrified of him, you’re terrified of the way he makes you feel, of the heart pounding, blood warming way he looks at you.

And you know that he wants something from you.

And it's something you aren’t really willing to give.

Benny is a flirt, a curl of energy that bounced from thing to thing with surprising ease. The only constants in his life were his family and the military and fighting - and you do not fit into any of those spaces.

Benny loses interest in things at a rapid rate, and you’re sure you’re just another stepping stone, something that would only hold his attention briefly.

And you do not want to become just another thing that Benny Miller lost interest in.

You don’t want a night with him, especially if it meant losing him after, of losing these conversations, these moments, all the things you’d done together and shared. You don’t want to lose his friendship.

Friendship for Benny is made of much sturdier stuff, long lasting and fierce.

And if Benny wanted more than that, he’d just tell you. He’s one to take the things he wants, or at least ask, instead of letting them fall into his lap.

So you keep him at arm's length, knocking him back a step or two each time he hints at something besides this thing you have with him now. And meeting his friends, going to one of his matches, feels too close for comfort, feels too personal and raw and vulnerable.

You would lose Benny and the things truly closest to his heart if you were to let that happen.

Besides, you’ve been left alone before and you aren’t keen on it happening again.

He rolls his eyes at you, “Uh huh, sure.” Benny drums his fingers against the bar, though he doesn’t sound particularly convinced. “Listen, I get it's intimidating -,” he starts when you scoff at his assumption, “Hold on! Let me finish! I know it's intimidating but I’m always fine. And it would mean a lot to me. And the guys.”

You soften. That he thinks you don’t want to go because you don’t want to see him hurt, makes your chest ache.

“Oh believe me, Ben, I’d love to watch you get your ass kicked.”

He flashes a smile at you, yanking the ball cap off his head to toss onto the counter. You lift a brow at him as he laces his fingers together against the back of his head, arms wide. “Oh yeah? Perfect opportunity right in front of you then,” he says with a shit-eating grin. “But I’m usually the ass-kicker.”

You’re always surprised at just how much room Benny takes up, the space he occupies without a care in the world, summer gold skin washed out in the low lighting of the bar. You also really don’t mind the pull of the band of muscle in his arms, or the way his shirt rides up so you can see the flat of his belly, the dark trail of hair. “Of course you are,” you roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus only on his face.

Benny’s expression splinters, his smile fading for just a second, brows tilting down. “Is it something else? Why don’t you -,”

He’s interrupted when the front door blows open and your name is called. You cringe, John’s horrible son Victor violently thrusting into you and Benny’s safe little world. You'd hated Victor before you met Benny, for the way he looked at you, the slimy innuendos he made, but you hated him even more after.

He and Benny had gone to high school together, hated each other then too. And Victor never lets Benny forget that he thinks he’s trash.

“Oh, and Miller is here too. How wonderful,” he snaps, the smile he’d been directing at you turning to a scowl when his gaze lands on Ben.

Benny bristles immediately, standing up and knocking his stool back but not over. “What the fuck is your problem?” He asks loudly. “You always got some shit to say to me.”

“Just wondering how you can get drunk in the middle of the day, everyday. Don’t you have a job?” Victor’s eyes flit over Benny’s broken face, the bruises that never quite faded. “Oh. Right. You get the shit kicked out of you for a living.”

“Better watch your fuckin’ mouth,” he snarls, the converstaion of the regulars in the corner coming to an abrupt halt. Benny’s never afraid to defend himself, and he certainly wasn't afraid to make a scene while doing so. “I don’t lose much.”

You hold out a hand when Benny starts around the counter. “Benny,” you say gently, “C’mon. Stop it.”

Victor stops next to you, his hand going to your hip and you force yourself not to jerk away from his touch, as he intentionally tries riling Benny up. “Yeah, Miller. Stand down. We all know how good you are at following orders and not using your brain.”

Benny’s chin tilts down, eyes on Victor’s possessive hand against your waist. Something goes dark in his gaze and this time he does come around the bar.

You move quickly, grabbing Benny’s hat off the counter and both your books before shoving Victor’s stupid ass behind you as he laughs. “Fuckin’ idiot, it's like you want to get the shit kicked out of you,” you mutter at him as as you step in front of Benny. He's fuming, leaning against you, pushing with a gentle strength, unwilling to hurt you to get to Victor.

Benny would never hurt you, but he looks like he’s considering shoving you out of the way. His eyes go cold as he watches Victor over your shoulder and you don’t turn because you don’t want to know what gesture he’s doing behind you. You press into Ben, leaning hard against his solid frame, laying one hand flat against his sternum. “He’s not worth it. Let it go. For me, Benny?” You plead with a calm you don’t feel, “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. Leave this asshole to man the bar.”

He smirks at that, sliding an arm around your shoulders, holding you hot and tight and close against his chest. You swear you can feel his heartbeat. “Anything for you, sweetheart,” he says, the lilt of fury still lingering in his voice. You pull out of his arms and he follows you out of the bar easily when you tug him after you.

“You always do everything you’re told, Miller?” Victor calls after your retreating backs.

“Fuck you,” Benny snarls over his shoulder. “Only when she’s the one asking.” And he sounds almost proud.

Proud that you chose him, proud that you commanded him.

Something in you shakes, that this hot headed man listens to you.

You keep one hand behind you, tucked into Benny’s elbow so that he doesn’t get any ideas about bolting back to give Victor the beating he very much deserved.

“I hate that fucker,” he says when you finally pull him outside to cross the parking lot towards his jeep, his hand trailing down your arm to lace his fingers with yours. “Always have. Made all the girls uncomfortable in school. And the way he fuckin’ talks about you-,”

“I hate him too, Benny,” you interrupt. “But he’s my boss’s son, what am I supposed to do?” You pause by the driver’s side door and reach up to tuck Benny’s hat back onto his head, cradling your books against your chest as you stroke some stray hair back from his forehead. “Go easy, darlin’. He shouldn’t fuckin’ talk about you that way either. Fucking snob.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, breaking your heart just a little bit. “But you don’t hear the shit he says when you aren’t around. I should have knocked his teeth down his throat weeks ago.”

You close your eyes briefly, hearing every horrible thing Victor has ever said to you about Benny. Namely that he was stupid and mean and not worth the time you spent on him. “Yeah, well, ditto,” you say bitterly, blinking up at him, the last argument fresh in your mind.

“He’s a loser and he always has been. He’s lucky he has Will for a brother and feels like he needs to play catch up and get out of his shadow or he wouldn’t have made it out of high school.”

Benny watches you, eyes darting between the bar’s door and you, his expression souring by the second as he monitors you. “Don’t,” you warn.

“Not gonna,” he says innocently.

“Liar.”

“Why don’t ya wanna come to my matches?” He asks abruptly, remembering what you’d been talking about before you were interrupted.

You sigh, “It's not that I don’t want to. I’m just-,” you fidget on the spot, trying to decide how to put it, wiggling your fingers at him. “-I just worry about you.”

It isn’t untrue, just not exactly the reason you didn’t want to go.

“Bullshit,” he says, calling you out.

“Benny,” you say gently, ducking your head to avoid his eyes. “I-,”

He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it. I got you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. I got it. You don’t want to,” he yanks open the door and you’re forced to stumble back a few steps as he climbs in. The engine roars to life and Benny rolls the window down to look at you. “Forgot. Got this for you. Meant to bring it in with me,” he says, handing out something rectangular, wrapped in pink paper.

You take it from him, peering up at him before you abruptly tear the paper and he groans, “Don’t open it now.”

But you just keep shredding the wrapping paper until a book is revealed to you, a limited edition of one of your favorites. “Oh,” you say, running a finger down the cover. You’d been looking for this particular edition for over a year. “Oh, my God! Benny, how’d you find this?”

He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it. You like it?”

You clutch it to your chest. “Fuck. Yes. Thank you.” You stare at Benny, and he stares back at you, the sweltering heat pinching at your skin. Since when did Benny go hunting for obscure books? Since when did he read in his limited free time?

“Fuck, Benny. Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I just don’t know how to explain it right. Can I ride along? Lemme go tell Victor to fuck off and we can go to my place for your book. Dinner on me?”

You know John won’t mind, not if you leave a note that you needed to leave an hour early and that his useless son came in before he was supposed to.

The grin that cracks open Ben’s face could end wars. “Never gonna say no to that.”

Benny really isn’t sure what it is about you that drew him in, like a moth to a flame, that first time he met you - dripping wet and mad as hell when he stormed into the first bar he came to.

He’d just freaked out in a gas station convenience store - panicked and panicked and couldn’t fucking breathe for a full minute before he was able to leave - all because someone was too close to him and he was trying not to put his hand through a freezer door or through the guy’s fucking head.

He hadn’t.

He hadn’t and had been proud of that fact until he was back in his jeep and that tightness in his chest still wouldn’t go away, even though he was safe, even though he’d never not been.

Benny had had half a mind to call Will, to ask him to come pick him up because he didn’t think he could drive, felt like maybe he was having a fucking heart attack.

But then the anger set in, the irritation that now, after everything - this was happening to him.

It was just another thing to add onto the shit that just kept stacking up. He’d heard about guys going through this when they came home. Fuck, he’d seen Will go through it.

But why him?

Why now?

After all these years? After he’d been home for so long?

Just because of the Colombia trip? It wasn’t even close to being the worst thing he’s been through.

Just because one of his closest friends, a man who was like his brother, had been killed in front of him?

Fuck off.

It’s not the first time - it hadn’t been that bad -

For a while he hadn’t realized what was happening to him - why his chest would go tight and the air in the room felt like it had suddenly evaporated.

Fuck, he doesn’t want to be having panic attacks, doesn’t want to think about what he went through, doesn’t want to think about why this was suddenly happening.

And if he doesn't look at it, it can't hurt him. If he doesn't look at it, it would go away.

So he ignored that it was happening at all. Even though it was happening more and more frequently.

Still, that day, his chest was tight, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might explode.

The anger suddenly burned up the tightness, made him so pissed off at himself for being so weak, that he knew he’d be no good in training, and decided to go for a drink instead.

No, he hadn’t punched anyone that day.

And that was good, something to be proud of.

Everything else? Shit.

The cut on his cheek was from an unregulated fight in some fucking parking lot the day before, the bandage around his arm unchanged since he got home from Colombia two weeks before.

Nothing had felt right since they got home. It was worse than before, worse than when he was discharged from service.

Fighting in parking lots? He hadn’t done that shit since high school. Everything felt like it was twisting down and away, the tentative grip he held on his life slipping away with every second.

His first instinct was to do something stupid, to go find a fight or break a speed limit.

But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

And so the bar it was.

And you had been there - an unsuspecting buoy in a restless storm, so calm and rock steady, his exact opposite in so many ways.

The immediate sharp burn of your presence, the steady way you’d looked at him, unfazed by the roll of anger that he tried to keep a lid on, how you’d not asked him a damn thing about what happened to him - why he was so torn up and spaced out and mad.

He probably wouldn’t have been able to answer you anyways.

You talked to him as he nursed that beer, told him about a movie you’d rewatched recently - something old and he wishes he could remember now what it was - Top Gun? Back to the Future?

No idea.

Then you’d asked if you could help him out - one nonsensical, calm brow raised.

He’d known in that moment, that he’d never be able to quit you, so suddenly and quick, like a flash of lightning - something inside him locked into place.

But Benny had always been that way with his loyalty, a gut instinct that he trusted implicitly.

He knew you were a person he should keep.

It was like when he’d known that his life would never be the same five seconds into his first day of basic training, like he’d known fighting was what he wanted to do the second he stepped into the ring that first time.

He knew.

Benny knew you were for keeps, that you were going to stick inside him like a burr, something that would be painful to rip out - just like fighting, just like the military, just like Delta.

You’re something he can’t quit.

You’re something unchangeable and steady in his life. You become one of his constants only hours after meeting you.

And he doesn't want you to quit him. Benny wants you to want him too. He wants you to hold on tight, to claw your way into him and make a home there.

But fuck, do you make it difficult.

You are adverse to him making a move, knocking him back again and again. If you hinted that you wanted more he’d shoot his shot but you don’t indicate that.

And that’s fine, it really is.

He’ll be friends with you and nothing else if that’s what you really want.

But that thing you lodged in his heart? It has sharp edges and its starting to fucking hurt, to ache, to bleed.

He spends all his time with you - you’re like a drug he doesn’t want to quit.

And when he’s with you? That’s when he finally breathes normally again, when his blood settles down and he feels like Benny again - he can forget about what happened in Colombia, he doesn’t have to think about the spray of Tom’s blood when he was shot.

He starts spending all his time with you, you become his best friend so suddenly it's almost shocking.

He stops fighting in back alleys and parking lots, and he can tell Will is relieved by the set of his shoulders when the bruising on his face actually gets a chance to fade. He can tell that you are relieved, because you note how his hands aren’t as shaky, you note that the bruises fade and that he doesn’t space out as much, breathing like he’s run a fucking race completely out of the blue.

That fucks him up so bad too, that you’ve noticed the panic.

Still, you don’t come to his matches, you don’t meet Will or Santi or Frankie.

Maybe he’s just something temporary to you even though you have become a constant to him.

And that’s never happened before, and it terrifies him.

He’s always been the one to call the shots in his own life - he’s never had to wait for someone to decide on him. Benny has always been the temporary thing, jumping from relationship to relationship with ease.

And fuck if he isn’t trying to tell you, to light the path so he can shoot his fucking shot. He started reading, and even though he’s coming to enjoy it a little - just because you light up like the goddamned sun when you get to talk about books - it's not easy for him. It takes concentration and frustrated brain power. He thinks for a while maybe you don't get it - but fuck if him taking up reading isn't a flashing neon sign of attraction, of trying to impress you and relate to you, he doesn't know what is.

He looked for a fucking book for you with an intensity he reserved for fighting, for missions, hunting and bidding and cajoling until he got it. Until he felt like he won a fight when he found it.

For you.

Now, he watches you unlock the front door of your apartment. He holds the screen door open for you as you fiddle with your keys, eyes locked on the curve of your jaw as you talk, intoxicated by the scent of you, the movement of your mouth, the flash of your teeth.

He’s pressed close to you, the heat of your body radiating into his as he leans into you.

One thing he really appreciates about you? You’re good with how he expresses himself - the too loud way in which he lives his life, the way he likes to touch.

Too many relationships had soured early - not that he was planning for the long haul but still - because he was too much.

Too loud, too brash, too quick to temper.

You’ve never told him he’s too much, never told him not to be the way he is. You say gentle things like easy to remind him not to squeeze you too tightly in a hug but that’s it and sometimes he needs the reminder, forgets his own strength.

But you never tell him to stop, you never say that he’s too much.

“Jesus, Benny,” you say now when the door finally swings open and you lurch inside. “You’re heavy.”

He grins and toes his shoes off by the door as you do the same. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all, tucking himself behind you as he follows you to the kitchen.

He loves your little studio, loves that he can see everything about you in one room, your bookshelves and your pink sheets patterned with tiny little strawberries, your vintage coffee table saved from someone’s trash and the stickers you’ve pressed into your kitchen cabinets.

“I’m going to cook something.”

“We can definitely just get takeout though,” he says, throwing himself down onto your couch with a groan.

He doesn’t need to look at you to know that you’re rolling your eyes. “Ben, one day you’re going to be old and all that shit is going to catch up to you.” He hears you shuffle closer, and then you lean over the back of the couch, peering down at him, “And then you’re going to come to me and complain that I didn’t warn you and feed you better.”

“You still gonna be hounding me when you’re old and gray?”

For a second, your face cracks, an unreadable expression crossing your face before you smile again, some of the light gone from your eyes. “Sure,” you say, voice careful, “Someone’s gonna haveta.”

“We can order pizza,” he says, trying to decide why the look on your face, that flash of uncertainty, made his chest tight, why panic is starting its slow unpredictable crawl up the back of his throat.

Maybe because it reminds him that you’re temporary. Maybe that’s why it's hard to breathe, why Tom’s face and the flash of blood imprints into his mind, why Will’s face stark white while blood drips down his side darts behind his eyes.

Maybe you wouldn't be around to remind him, maybe you aren't planning to be.

Benny relies on very few permanent things, always moving, going, tracking forward and leaving most things behind.

But there are essentials - fighting, Delta, the military - and now, you.

He wants to ask why you’re looking at him like that but the tightness in his chest is rising and he can’t speak.

You place a hand on his chest, and it's heavy and good and it steadies him. His breathing stabilizes. “No pizza. I’ll make spaghetti.” You nod at your bookshelf, “Anything you want is yours, okay? When you’re ready.”

And you walk away, back to the kitchen counter, searching through the fridge for ingredients.

He’s glad you leave him, struggling to find the right rhythm in his breathing even though the breaths come easily.

Since when did people leaving scare him so fucking bad? Since when did anything scare him this fucking bad?

He wonders why you hold him at arm’s length, keeping yourself away from the most important parts of his life, of himself.

Maybe you know you’re too good for him.

He hears what that fucker Victor says about him, that you’re too good to be keeping company like Benny, that he’s an idiot and always has been.

Benny isn’t sure how much of it you believe.

When the pain eases, he stands and pulls himself to your bookshelf, scanning for the most battered copies.

You abuse your books, but only the ones you like, the ones you read again and again, filled with notes and tabs and folded pages, covers shredded to bits. That’s how he knows you love roughly and hard, and it makes picking something out so easy.

The cover of Carrie had been picked apart.

He thumbs out one of the more ruined books and glances at the title - Howl’s Moving Castle. Something clearly for kids. Even better - it’ll be easy to get through.

When he shows you, you smile - “There’s a movie too! We can watch it when you’re done.” You turn back to the stove, “You always have a way of reading my favorites.”

God, the things you don’t realize.

Hours later, when you’ve eaten and cleaned up the kitchen, settled onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn, he decides to try to ask you again about why you didn’t want anything to do with the things that were really important to him.

“Be straight with me for a minute,” he says, turning onto his back so he can look up at you, his head pillowed on your thigh. “Why don’t you wanna come to my matches? Why aren’t you keen on meeting the guys? You don’t have to but I want a reason. It’s important to me. They’re important to me. You're important to me.”

You look startled at his admission but quickly recover, shaking your head as you press your fingers down the center of his chest, tracing slowly back up to his shoulder, across his collarbone. He bites down the urge to say something about just how much you liked to touch him.

“Can you try?” He pleads.

You pause, and Benny waits, even though he’s never really been a patient person. But for you, he'll try.

“I’ve just never been good at being close to people, Ben. It’s hard for me not to feel like the rug is going to be ripped out from under me,” you card your hands through his hair. “I moved here alone. I’m always alone. It’s easier not to be so attached.”

“You think I’m gonna cut and run?”

You don’t answer for a moment and the only sound is that of the movie playing quietly on the TV that neither of you have paid attention to in a while. “No,” you say eventually, carefully. “You aren’t one to abandon your friends.”

Benny, he tries to understand, what that meant you thought about him, that you don't want to come any closer than you already are.

Friends.

He would have to be okay with that.

But it’s late and he’s tired and your hands feel nice when they thread through his hair. “I kept the pop-it,” he says suddenly. “I know I ribbed you about it but I kept it and it helps. It’s actually starting to fuckin’ fall apart because I use it all the time.”

He uses it when he reads your books, so his hands are busy.

“I’ll get you a new one,” you say, like the fact you would means nothing.

You barrel through the front door of the bar, the crash of music and laughter and pool balls clacking together assaulting your already delicate ears, a headache lingering from the day you’ve had.

Benny hadn’t come in during your afternoon shift and you’d been stuck alone with Victor for a majority of that time, your pleas for help via texts to Benny going unanswered.

“Thanks for coming back in,” John says when you meet him at the bar. “Some fucking fight just let out and Sal’s is closed tonight so we got their usual folks too. Promise this is a one time thing,” he adds.

“No problem,” you say with a smile, swinging through the office door to drop your stuff and clock in. You catch sight of Victor as you pass back through the kitchen but avoid his gaze. “Hey, where d’you want me? Bar? Floor?” You ask John when you meet him back by the bar, tying your apron around your waist.

“I need you to take those tables over there,” he points to the far corner. “They haven’t been served yet.”

You nod and cross the bar, trying not to think about Benny, about how goddamned much you’d missed him and how any effort you’d made not to let him worm too closely into your heart had been severely thwarted.

Your Benny hangover coupled with the amount of time you’d been forced to spend with Victor alone has you on edge, tired and unhappy.

You take care of the couple sitting quietly together and a group of chatty girls before you move on to your last table, a group of guys. One of them, a blond with close cropped hair and a beard, looks strangely familiar. He tilts his head at you, like he knows you too and can’t place you.

Ignoring the feeling, you plaster a smile to your face, the pounding at the base of your skull increasing in intensity.

“Hey, sorry for the wait,” you start, laying down some napkins. “We’re a little bit understaffed tonight. What can I get for you?”

One of them, a man with fathomless, dark eyes and gray streaked brown curls, opens his mouth when a familiar voice says your name.

You start to turn just as Benny slams into you from behind, knocking the breath out of you. You jolt into the table as he wraps an arm across your chest, one of your hands coming up to hook at his elbow, to steady yourself. “Benny? What are you doing here?” You turn your head to find him grinning widely down at you, beaming at you like a ray of sunshine, happy to see you beyond what is reasonable.

“Could ask you the same thing, honey. Weren’t you here all afternoon?”

“I was but we’re understaffed so I got pulled back in. What are you doing here?” You ask again.

Benny’s face is a masterpiece of pain. He’s bruised up again, a scarlet cut above his cheek and near the line of his jaw, violent violet bruises starting to turn a painful shade of black and green. “Celebrating. I fuckin’ won tonight! Knockout within a minute,” he crows, looking proud. “And our usual place was closed.”

And John’s words come back to you - some fucking fight just let out and Sal’s is closed tonight so we got their usual folks too. “Congratulations,” you say softly, realizing who the people at the table must be, realizing why Benny had been absent that afternoon.

Normally he told you when you had a fight but you don’t remember him saying anything about this one. He always made a point to invite you, even if he knew you’d say no.

Embarrassment pools in your belly, realizing how long you’ve been letting him hold you, how you’ve only looked into his eyes, his grip so comfortable to you that you hadn’t noticed.

You frown as Benny finally releases you to sit down beside the man who looked familiar to you before. You suppose he looks familiar because he is. He can be no one else but Benny’s brother, Will. “I take it you’re who Benny’s been spending every minute with.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you try to joke, trying not to bolt away from the lot of them, as the careful separation in your mind between your Benny and Benny’s real life crashes down. “Ben’s got so many friends.”

“Not friends like you though,” says the man with those dark eyes, something unreadable brewing in his expression, his voice like ice. Benny shoots him a look that says fuck off.

Ben introduces you by name and then says, “My brother, Will.” He slaps the blond man he’d slid into the booth next to on the back. “Santiago,” he points to the salt and pepper haired man and then the man with the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, “and Frankie. Better known as Pope and Fish.”

“Nice to meet you,” you manage to say. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“So have we,” Santiago says, his tone still crisp. “Nice to know Ben hasn’t been hallucinating you these past few months.”

You suddenly feel like a mouse caught in a trap as you glance at each of them, the hardness in their gazes as they look back at you.

Of course they wouldn’t be keen on you. Benny is like their little brother and you’ve been avoiding what is essentially his family for months, for no good reason at all, at least not in a way that made sense to anyone but you, though Benny had tried to understand.

Your throat tightens and you open your mouth to respond when Benny cuts in, loud and gruff as he always is, “Fuck off, Pope. Leave her alone. Tell her what you want so she can get back to it.”

You glance at them apologetically, avoiding looking at Ben, ignoring his outburst. “Beers? First round is on me.”

“You don’t haveta do that, sweetheart-,” Benny starts, his voice infinitely gentler when he addresses you.

“Yeah, I do,” you interrupt him. “Anything else?”

A chorus of no’s resound and you nod without looking at any of them before briskly walking away. Your hands are shaking as you pour the beers, deciding at the last second to put in for a plate of nachos too. You’d hoped to avoid them, but you should have known better, that in a town so small you’d be bound to run into them at one point or another.

You just don’t want it to hurt when Benny moves on, or for it to at least be as painless as possible.

But that’s not what it looked like to them, not what it looked like to Benny.

Fuck, he must think you don’t give a shit about him, not really.

It wasn't like it fucking mattered anyways, the hurt is coming for you whether you let the closest parts of his life sink into yours or not.

Benny has charmed his way inside you, his friendship like the serrated edge of a knife, cutting deeper and deeper until removing it would be to sentence you to death.

You swipe at your eyes though you aren't in danger of tears and shuffle the beers over on your tray for the nachos before starting back across the bar. You’ve halfway there, paused near one of the wooden support beams so a large group can pass you on the crowded floor when Victor stops by you, awkwardly leaning against the pole and blocking your way. When the group has passed, drunkenly shouting their way out of the bar you grit out, “What do you want?” You're irritated that you’ve had to spend so much time with him today, and that he’s still bothering you.

“Miller’s here,” he says, an accusation in his voice, like you personally invited Benny just to piss him off. Jealousy drips off him. “And you got his table.” Like you'd plotted that too.

“Yep. Won his match. They’re here to celebrate,” you start to move away when Victor leans into your free arm and forces your shoulder back against the beam.

Your breath flutters in your chest as you look up to meet his eyes. “What’s your problem, huh? Why do you hate me so much?”

“You know why. You talk shit about my best friend,” you snarl up at him, something feral rising up in you and chasing away the calm you were known for.

But Victor has pushed you to your limit over the last couple months and you can see the glee in his eyes at getting a rise out of you. You were rapidly approaching your breaking point with him.

He barks out a loud laugh, and it's not pleasant the way Benny’s is. A couple of people turn to look at you but quickly go back to their own conversations. You squirm, trying to get your shoulder out from under his weight. An ache has started to creep up your arm.

“Best friend. Right. Like Miller wants anything but to fuck you. You’re just a conquest, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you,” you say lowly, not willing to admit how that bites at you, how that is exactly what you’re afraid of.

Victor clocks it though, sees the break in your expression that confirms his accusation. “Haven’t put out yet have you? He’ll get bored eventually,” he says, finally pulling his weight off of yours, an ache twisting down to your wrist. “He’s always been that way. I know you’re new to this town but trust me, he tricks everyone with the golden retriever act. Hell, just fucking look at him. Military, Special Ops, can’t stop fighting to save his life. Always in trouble and looks to his brother to tell him up from down.”

You can’t help it, you glance over at their table, Victor’s breath hot on your cheek when he leans in to whisper. “Not exactly stable. Never has been. How long til he does something like that to you?”

Benny and his friends are staring at you across the dark bar. Will has a hand on Benny’s arm, keeping him in place, his fingers white with the effort.

“See, even now he’s itching for blood.”

You wrinkle your nose and turn your face into his, refusing to look away from Victor’s beady eyes. You’re so close your noses almost touch, but you refuse to back down. You bare your teeth at him and grit out, “Another word. One more word against him, and Ben will be the least of your problems. You think Benny’s temper is bad? You’ve been fuckin' trying me all day and I got nothin’ to lose.”

You step closer and grip your tray in both hands to shove into his stomach hard. The glasses rattle but don’t fall. He makes a soft oof sound but doesn't look away, doesn’t back down.

It takes a minute but his eyes drop and he steps back. “You’ll find out the hard way what kind of fucking people they are. All of them.”

The fucker can’t even look you in the eyes as he says it.

You roll your eyes and move away. “Fuck you, coward.”

Your hands are shaking again, but for a completely different reason as you approach the table.

Victor’s starting to get bold, and it's starting to worry you. How long until his obsession with you and your relationship to Benny becomes unhinged? It already kind of is, the way he follows you and watches you, the way he’s been trying to turn you against Ben for months now, the touches and the passing remarks - it's all headed to something unsafe.

For all Victor’s talk, Benny has never made your shoulder ache, has never crowded you or tried to intimidate you or made you uncomfortable.

No, it's not Benny you have to worry about.

You pass the beers out, the plate of nachos, when you stop at the boy’s table. “All on me,” you say more cheerfully than you feel, unconsciously stepping closer to Benny where he sits at the end of the booth, pressing the back of your hand into his bicep, reassuring yourself that he’s there and real. “Yell if you need something else, okay?”

“Hey,” It's Will’s voice that stops you from pulling away. “You okay?”

You glance around as Benny covers your hand with one of his and squeezes your fingers reassuringly, gaze turned toward the bar, eyes tracking something.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “What, Victor? He’s a piece of shit but he’s harmless,” you say with more conviction than you feel.

“Hell of a stare you got,” Santiago says, sounding impressed.

Frankie chuckles and meets your eyes, “Yeah, wouldn’t want you lookin’ at me like that.”

And fuck, you wonder if they heard. If Victor’s voice could have traveled that far. You pull away from Benny’s hand when he tries to tangle your fingers together and say, “Well, I just get protective sometimes.”

You tuck your tray under your arm and turn to walk away when Benny tugs you back, “Sure you’re okay?”

“Golden,” you answer with a smile but he doesn’t look convinced.

And when you glance at the others, you know they overheard you and Victor, because all hostility is gone. They watched you go toe to toe with an asshole for Benny, and now they know they’re missing some vital piece of the picture as to why you hadn't been around, the thing that really kept you away from them and Benny’s matches.

And they’re too skilled, too observant, not to pinpoint exactly what it is.

Benny might not know you’re in love with him, but his buddies suddenly do.

Victor continues to bother you throughout the night but you try not to let it affect you, you try to stay calm despite your earlier threat, if only so there won’t be a scene and Benny can enjoy his win.

The boys, when you stop by their table, have warmed to you entirely. They joke with you, rib you just like Benny does, and the fold you’ve been trying to avoid being dragged into has engulfed you in seconds.

So when the bar finally clears out and their table is the only one left, Frankie gestures you in. “Sit down here for a minute, you’ve been workin' your ass off.”

“Wasn’t too bad,” you say, slipping into the booth next to Benny and Will. “But it's definitely the busiest this place has ever been.”

“So how come you don’t come to the fights?” Santiago asks.

“Pope-,”

“Maybe you guys intimidate me,” you say with a shrug of your shoulder. “I know how important you are to Benny.” You nudge an elbow into Ben’s ribs, “I’m just some waitress.”

They laugh and you feel better, like maybe they might even like you. Benny scoffs loudly at your declaration, and you kick yourself for never meeting them before. Even if you lost Benny, you don’t want to hurt him now. “Just some waitress?” Benny rolls his eyes. “Honey, fuck off,” he says fondly.

“So tell us how you ended up in this shithole town,” Will says. “And how you got this one so whipped,” he locks an arm around Benny’s shoulders.

Benny doesn’t try to deny it, looks a little bit smug, almost happy at the accusation.

“I’m from a small town, different one, did the big city thing, fucking hated it. Ended up here.” You ignore the other question, not really sure how to answer it anyways, but you don’t comment when Ben drapes his arm across the top of the booth behind you.

“Not back home?” Frankie asks you.

“No one at home to go back to,” you say, revealing more than maybe you should. “Found I liked the company here anyways.”

The conversation rolls along easily from there. They’re funny and loud and affectionate with each other in a way that makes your heart hurt. There’s a closeness there that makes you happy, and jealous that you're witnessing so rare a love and bond.

And it makes you feel stupid, because they’re so welcoming to you, they tug you into the center of them and it feels like you’ve always belonged.

Eventually, John calls you away from the boys, wiping his hands on a dish towel - the exact opposite of his son, cordial and funny and kind.

You aren’t sure what happened to Victor to make him so bitter, if he really just has a problem with you and Benny in particular.

“We should be heading out anyways,” Frankie says, laboring to his feet after Santi stands.

You get hugs from all of them, a kiss to your brow from Benny. “We still on for tomorrow?”

Saturday morning fishing, you would never miss it. “‘Course, always.”

“And we aren’t invited?”

“How about beers at Sal’s tomorrow instead?” you offer, not willing to give away your morning alone with Benny.

Santi and Will share a look that Ben doesn’t see, too busy examining the ridge of your shoulder where a bruise is forming from being locked against the beam.

“Sure, we can get you back for the beers tonight,” Will says, one big hand pressing between your shoulder blades briefly.

“No-,”

“Yeah, we are,” Santi says. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

You watch them file out, Benny turning to hug you hard, breath pressed out of your lungs at the intensity. “Fuck. Thank you,” he says. “For putting up with them.”

“They’re nice.”

“Glad you met ‘em? They’re meatheads but they mean well.”

“They do and I am.”

Benny is almost to his jeep when he decides to wait for you. He wants to be with you, to ride along to your place and sleep on your couch like he has so many times before - so he can see you grouchy and soft in the morning sunshine before you get ready, drink coffee with you at your kitchen table.

God, he’s going fucking soft.

Domestic.

It feels weird but right.

He waits along the side of the building where the back deck of the bar wraps around to the front stairs, the lights that normally line the walkway already out.

He watches John leave, entrusting closing to you and Victor.

Quiet descends, the chirp of the crickets loud and sweet, the sounds of safety and home, when he hears a crash.

Then -

“-fucking stupid. What do you see in him?”

“Why the fuck do you care, Vic? It’s not like I would want you, if I didn’t want Ben.”

His brain statics, not sure he heard right. You want him? Is that what you implied?

“And what’s so fucking wrong with me, huh?”

You snarl back, “Fuck. Really? You’re an asshole and judgemental.”

“It’s not judgement if it's right. Call it like I see it. Ben Miller is -,”

He doesn’t get to hear what he is. “You’re crazy,” he hears you shriek. “Fucking crazy! Even if he was everything you claim, I still wouldn’t want you!”

A rage builds in Benny, and he’s about to move, to come to your aid, when Victor starts muttering lowly again - the conversation seems to peter out into something civil.

Then - the sound of something slamming, a rattling of drink glasses, and low talking. “Fuck off,” you growl suddenly. “You know how fucking brilliant you have to be to make it to where he did? Where all of them did?”

“Luck. And brawn and brother that would do anything for him.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, “I quit. You can finish closing alone. If your dad asks why I fucking quit, you can explain it to him.”

The front door flies open, smacking back into the wood paneled wall as you go trudging down the steps and across the gravel of the lot.

Victor follows you, catches up to you and jerks you to a halt. “Just give me a chance,” he pleads with you. “One chance. I can make you forget about him. You’ll see what you’re missing.”

“No,” you say. “You couldn’t. No one can.”

Benny’s vision goes red as the hand around your arm tightens, but he freezes when Victor continues, speaking something that Benny is afraid is almost uncomfortably close to the truth of his life.

“He’s a fuck up and a loser and would have been in jail for something stupid years ago if he didn’t have his brother trailing him around and forcing him to make something of himself. It’s a good thing that kid got shoved into the military because he never would have made it otherwise. You’re just going to let him drag you down too.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious, you’re pining away after someone that’s never gonna measure up to you. You’re brilliant. He could barely fucking read in high school.”

You jerk out of Victor’s grip, shaking your head and stalking across the parking lot, but he follows you.

Under normal circumstances, Benny would have been across the lot and in that motherfucker’s face in 5 seconds flat, but he can’t move, he’s frozen, watching the tension in your shoulders knot up.

God, he’s waiting for you to agree, to turn and say that he’s right.

But you don’t, you keep moving. And when Victor touches you again, snags at your elbow, every bit of restraint he has dries up.

He lurches away from the wall and stalks after the pair of you. He saw the bruise on your shoulder, he knows that Victor is the worst kind of dangerous to you - that and you’re his fucking girl.

No one is gonna do fuckin’ shit to you without reprecussions.

He’s nearly reached you when -

You turn and land an elbow into Victor’s stomach, he crumbles, curves at the waist and you bring a knee up to crack into his face. He goes sprawling backwards onto his ass as you tower over him with your shoulders thrown back.

God, that was fucking hot.

He’s so proud of you, impressed with the absolute fury contorting your features.

His girl, a fighter.

Of course you fucking are. You’re his.

And he likes this mean streak in you, likes the feral protectiveness that bubbled up.

“Fuck you,” you say and he’s never heard such venom in your voice, such protective laced violence. You glance at him suddenly, looking startled to find him standing there before you lean over Victor’s crumpled, prone form. “I warned you Ben’s temper wasn’t the one you had to worry about, didn’t I? You don’t know a goddamn thing about him. Or me. And if you ever say another word against him in my presence, you’ll get much worse than a bloody nose. Understand?”

“What’s your fuckin’ problem, bitch?” Victor’s back is still to Benny, has no idea that he’s there.

Benny reaches down and hauls him up by the back of his shirt, gets the satisfaction of seeing him go white with fear, of hearing a squeak pass his lips in surprise. “Just makin’ sure you’re listening to the lady,” he says, jerking him roughly into place before smoothing Victor’s shirt out carefully. He gestures to you and crosses his arms, “Go on, sweetheart. Tell him.”

You grit your teeth at him, and Benny decides yeah, he really likes you mean. “I'm a bitch, huh? Because I won’t fuck you? Fuck off. I asked you a question - do you fuckin’ understand or don’t you?”

“Yeah, shit, I got it. You want to be Miller’s special girl so bad it makes you look stupid. He’s not the settling type, babe.” He snaps at you, refusing to acknowledge Benny.

“Damn, so much fucking confidence for someone who’s about to have his ass handed to him,” Benny growls.

“Fuck you, Miller, like you even need the excuse. You aren’t gonna do shit. Neutered after all these years, huh? Contained to a cage.”

Victor yanks out of his grasp and spits at your feet before turning to walk away. But he couldn’t have really expected to do something like that and get away with it.

Running on autopilot and adrenaline and rage - Benny yanks him back by the collar of his shirt and breaks his knuckles against his teeth, breaks the nose that you weakened with your knee. Victor falls again and Benny picks him up by the front of his shirt, slams him into the nearest car.

He brings his mouth to Victor’s ear, feels the tremble and shake of fear. “Ever touch her again, speak to her again - hell, even look at her - I’ll fucking kill you. Got it?” And then lowly, barely a whisper, "She's mine."

He drops Vic to the ground, watches him stumble back and skitter away.

As soon as he’s rounded the corner to the back deck of the bar, Benny turns and wraps his arms around you in a crushing hug, and doesn’t let go even when you tap your fingers against his spine.

“Benny, easy,” you breathe out but you cling onto him harder, and Benny realizes how shaken you are, how scary it must have been to have a man follow you across a dark parking lot. “What are you still doing here?”

“Waitin’ on you, honey. Good thing too, though I think you had it handled. Hell of a swing you got.”

He finally lets you go, your eyes going to his bloody hand and you sigh. “God, we’re both gonna have assault charges," you murmur, tracing your thumb over the broken skin.

“He ain’t gonna say shit. He’s gonna tell everybody he fucked you and went toe to toe with me over it. He’s a liar and little bitch,” Benny says, curling his arm around your waist, his blood settling when you lean into him, hand against his chest. “He’s not going to fuck with you anymore.”

You peer up at him, your gaze still holding a lingering fear, “Thanks for having my back. You coming home with me?”

He nods and you gesture him around the side of your SUV.

When you’re both settled, you turn your keys in the ignition and the engine rumbles to life, but you don’t pull out. You turn and stare at him through the dark, the AC wafting his hair gently. “What?”

“Did you mean that?”

“What?”

“You said - you said she’s mine. Was that just some macho bullshit or did you mean it?”

Fuck.

He licks his lips, thinks about lying, when he shakes his head, looks down, and sniffs. He’s tired of pretending. “Yeah. I meant it.”

It immediately feels like a mistake to say it, and the now familiar icy clutch of panic closes a fist over his lungs, like he can’t breathe, like you are going to tell him to fuck right off.

Like you’re going to yank the rug right out from under him.

He’s done losing constants. He’s done losing the world around him for nothing.

His lungs seize and he feels that familiar stupidity, what a stupid fucking thing to panic over - not killing, not gun shots, not fighting - but losing people.

“Hey,” you say, pressing a steadying hand to his arm. “It’s okay. What’s got you bothered?”

He reminds himself that you already know about the panic even if it’s never been directly addressed, and it hasn’t been too much for you yet.

“You’ve -,” it comes out in a gasp and so he stops, takes a minute to breathe, to ground himself against your fingers when they tangle with his. “You keep batting me back, honey. It’s okay. Just don’t leave. I meant it but it doesn't have to mean anything to you.”

“You think I’m gonna leave?” You ask quietly, “Why? I’m always thinkin’ the same thing about you, Benny.”

His head thumps back against the headrest. “Something’s wrong with me,” he says. “Don’t know what.” One hand rubbing at his chest like it might help the ache ease.

You give Benny a moment to collect himself, for his breathing to even out, for the shake in his hands that he normally tries not to let you see to stop.

“When did it start?”

“We - fucked up mission in - we lost someone. Ever since it's like - I start thinkin’ I’m gonna lose everyone, everything. Got better since I met you.” He glances at you, shakes his head. “Comes and goes, I guess. But anytime it feels like something’s changing or someone is pulling back it’s like - fuck - it’s like I can’t stop seeing blood.”

“You think you’re gonna lose me?”

Benny laughs, his hyena-like wild laugh that you’ve come to love more than anything, “Yeah. Yeah, all the time,” he says. “You have a way of just - you keep knocking me back. You don’t want anything to do with what’s important to me - like you don’t really want anything to do with me and -,”

“Benny you aren’t exactly…you aren’t someone who stays. But you stay with your friends.” You squeeze his fingers, “I would rather be your friend - so I can keep you.”

He stares at you, wide blue eyes tracking your every minute move, adding up what you just said in his mind. You look away from his eyes. “You have a couple things you keep close - I don’t fit into that. And I’ve lost people before. I’m alone and I don’t want to keep being that way. I would rather keep you like this.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says. “And what if that’s bullshit? You fit in just fine. Too well maybe. You never said shit because you thought what? I’m feeling casual about you?” He huffs out a sigh. “I spend every goddamn free second I have with you, or thinking about you. Not just anyone I’d start reading for. You know what it took for me to find that fucking book for you? God it was worse than chasing down fugitives.”

You scoff dismissively, not willing to believe yourself special. You’ve heard that one before. “Yeah, I know how guys like you are, hon. I know.”

“The fuck’s that mean?” He says, not really a question, turning fully to you, pushing you back into your seat, hands lifting to frame your face, large and hot and calloused against your skin. “Lemme tell you something, honey, it only took me a couple hours to know you weren’t something I’d be able to forget.” His eyes flick over your face, “Nah. Never. You are one of my constants.”

“Oh yeah? And what makes me so special?” You say with a roll of your eyes.

“Well for one you just punched the shit out of someone for me,” he says. “And just about everything else. Everything we get up to. We compliment each other. You understand me. We have fun together and you never tell me to be quiet even when I probably fuckin’ should be. You’re my best friend too.”

You reach up and hook one hand against his wrist, trace your thumb over the veins there, softening a bit. “Serious?”

“Yeah. Fuck, yes.”

You nod and move your other hand to his chest. “You punched the shit out of someone for me too.”

“Shoulda happened a long time ago.”

You smile at that and then frown. “You should talk to Will. About the panic attacks. It’s okay that you’re going through something. We’re here for you. But no one’s going anywhere. Not me, not anyone.”

“I’m not either,” he says, ignoring your suggestion for the moment, clearly not wanting to think about the panic attacks or his brother. “I’m not going anywhere either. Trust that.”

And you do.

Benny’s never lied to you and he certainly isn’t cruel. You tug him closer, press your forehead to his and breathe him in until he seems like he’s back to himself.

The closeness is familiar. It doesn’t feel strange to be wrapped up in him like this, you and Benny are this close all the time and it’s always felt right, natural.

“You want me, babe,” he says suddenly, only ruining the moment slightly, and you hear the grin in his voice.

“Fuck off.”

“I heard you. I know you do. S’okay, I want you too.”

When his breath ghosts over your lips and your breathing hitches hard, he surges forward to kiss you roughly.

Its a desperate kiss, one that sears into you, that lights your veins on fire. You push your hands into silky wheat hair, tugging at the strands until Benny shoves back the center console and drags you into his lap, presses you close and tight, his heartbeat matching yours. It’s a little awkward, your jaw smacking into his nose, Benny grunting before you find a good position, giggling the whole time before he’s kissing you again, the heat of him so good around you.

Broad hands splay over your back, trace the line of your spine as you push your hand inside the collar of his worn shirt.

But just as quickly it softens and Benny Miller is smiling into you so hard he can’t really kiss you properly.

“Been waitin’ for this so long,” he says, his mouth brushing yours with every word. You jerk him forward by the back of his neck, pressing him as close as you can, laughing into him.

“Have ya?”

“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, hissing when you press your thumb into one of his bruises, a bad habit you don't want to quit. “Yeah, shit, I have been. Stupid gorgeous and puts up with my shit.”

You grin, “Sure do, pretty boy.”

He doesn’t correct you, just fastens those cornflower blue eyes on you and asks, “So you’ll be at my next match?”

“‘Course. Can’t wait to see you get your ass handed to you.” You pull back to stroke his cheek, trace a thumb over his bottom lip.

He kisses you again and this time it’s deep and controlled and so good, familiar and unexpected rolled into one.

Feels like home, like there’s solid ground beneath you for once.

#this was so good I’ve been thinking about it for like a solid day and a half now #Ben miller #triple frontier

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dxndjxrin · 2 months ago

Text

for you i'd wait forever

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader

summary: bradley breaks things off with you before a deployment because he doesn't want you to worry about him (4.2k)

warnings: some swearing, bradley's commitment issues, happy ending i promise!

a/n: okay so from what i gathered from my googling is that tapping out is typically for new military graduates (i think?) but this idea was so cute so pls forgive the inaccuracies i have no idea what i'm doing at all <3 and also pls forgive me for the utter lack of writing since the beginning of the year, these last few months have been brutal (creatively and otherwise) but i am hopefully back!!! xx

Bradley thought he knew the tolls of being in the Navy. It was tough on not only him, but the people in his life. For the most part, he’d always put his career first. His life had always been on a set track, and although there were plenty of setbacks, he forged ahead until he got where he was today.

And then he met you. Fell in love with you. Finally knew what it meant to have someone in his corner who was just his. Who knew him for him only, not as Goose’s kid, or Mav’s protege.

For the first time in his life, he could actually see himself spending the rest of it with you. Marriage, house, kids, grandkids—the whole shebang.

That was his first mistake. The more he thought about what life could look like with you, the more he thought about what your life could look like without him. What would happen if something happened to him and he didn’t make it back from this next mission coming up in a few weeks.

He thought about his mom and how she lost his dad—her husband. The man she thought she’d be spending the rest of her life with.

Bradley’s thoughts grew quite grim after that. Countless what if’s and thinking about every possible outcome and he eventually made up his mind. He had to break up with you.

He didn’t want to. Not by a long shot. You were probably the best thing that ever happened to him in his thirty plus years of life. But deep down, he knew that it was the right thing to do. He was about to leave for six, seven months, with little to no contact with anyone who wasn’t Navy. That would definitely take a toll on your relationship. You’d never been through something like this before, and there really was no way to prepare you for what it would be like.

You would worry about him every single hour of every single day, he knew that for a fact. Bradley barely remembered what it was like when his dad was away because he was so young, but he did remember how worried his mom was all the time.

Looking back, he understood now. He didn’t want that for you. The worry would hold you back from other things you wanted to do in life, things that brought you joy and gave you purpose.

With the mission creeping up on him faster than he would’ve liked, he knew he had to do it sooner rather than later.

That was how Bradley found himself on your doorstep right now, pushing down his guilt by telling himself over and over that breaking up with you was in your best interest. He hadn’t called beforehand to tell you he was coming by, so when you answered the door and beamed brighter than the stars when your eyes landed on him, he almost wanted to chicken out.

“Hi!” You exclaimed, immediately pulling him into a warm hug. His arms closed around you out of instinct, thumb rubbing over the sliver of exposed skin at your waist, nose nudging its way against your neck the way he always did when you embraced him.

He inhaled the scent of the lotion you loved to use, that flowery one that sometimes made him sneeze. You always said you’d buy a different one the next time you went to the store, but you always forgot. He didn’t mind it at all though. A small bout of allergies was nothing compared to the inevitable smattering of apology kisses you pressed to his face when you realized you’d forgotten.

Fuck, this was going to be way harder than he thought.

Your hands made their way up his biceps to cup his cheeks, eyes darting around his face. “What’re you doing here? Oh my god, did we have something planned? I’m so—”

“No.” He gave his head a shake, offering you a smile. “No, we didn’t have anything planned. I just…wanted to see you. To talk to you.”

“Come in, come in, I was just about to start dinner,” You hummed, escaping his embrace with an arm hooked through his to tug him over the threshold. “Trying a new recipe I found the other day, not sure if it’ll turn out good or end up being a shitshow, but—well, you can help me be the judge of that, I guess!”

“Is it okay if we talk first?”

If you were confused, you didn’t show it, just changed direction seamlessly, making your way to the couch instead of the kitchen. You sat down, patting the cushion next to you for him to settle on and he did, rubbing his clammy palms against his thighs.

“Is everything okay?”

Everything was far from okay, he wanted to say. Instead he inhaled a deep breath before his next words.

“I wanted to tell you I’m shipping out in a few weeks.”

Your face fell a little, but you nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. What do we do? Is there anything you can tell me? Like, what’s the best way to get in touch with you, when’s the best time, that kind of stuff? Or is sending letters better? Sorry, I feel like I’m asking a lot of questions. I don’t—I’ve never really done anything like this before, so—”

“I think we should break up.” He blurted.

You hesitated before answering, blinking at him like you’d somehow heard him wrong. “What?”

“It’s hard having someone overseas for a long time, even more so when it’s a partner. It was really hard on my mom, and hard for me having to watch her worry like that for months, and I—I don’t want that for you.” He said quietly, not daring to meet your eyes until he gave his poor excuse for an explanation on why he was doing the one thing he swore he wouldn’t do to you.

The moment he’d realized he’d fallen in love with you, he’d promised himself he would never abandon you, never break your heart or your trust, and here he was, doing that exact thing. It was tearing him apart inside.

“I don’t want you to have to go through all that, so it’s just better if we—that we break up now. Before I go.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry. It’s for the best.”

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice broke just after the last word, swallowed up by a hitched inhale of a breath that had his resolve wavering just the slightest bit. He could barely look you in the eyes the whole time, and now…he didn’t think he could stand the sadness and hurt flooding every single one of your beautiful features.

“All the worrying and the uncertainty of not knowing what’s happening, I don’t—it wouldn’t be fair to you. I care about you too much to put you through all of that.”

You were silent for the longest time, eyes glued to the floor as you processed the information. He thought you were about to start crying with the way your brow creased, but when you finally looked back up at him, your gaze had hardened. “Did these last six months mean nothing to you? You’re just gonna throw everything away because what—you don’t think I can handle it?”

They meant everything to me, he wanted to say. You mean everything to me.

If he was really being honest with himself, it was him who couldn’t handle it. Still, he forged on, thinking it best to just rip off the bandaid. He could live with being the asshole if it meant sparing you from the terrible experience of him being god knows how many miles away for months.

“I’m sorry. I wish you nothing but happiness, Y/N. You deserve better than anything I could ever give you.”

“You wish me nothing but happiness?” You chuckled humorlessly, shaking your head. Bradley’s eyes tracked you across the room as you paced back and forth, guilt ridden expression on full display. All he wanted to do was take all of it back; to kiss you senseless and tell you everything was going to work out, but he couldn’t. He’d burned the bridge, cut the rope. Broke your heart. He felt like the biggest asshole in the world. He probably was. “Screw you, Bradley. I mean it.”

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was all he could say.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Y/N, I—”

You rushed at him, pushing, shoving, sending him stumbling step by step towards the front door until he almost crashed into it had he not managed to pull it open a split second before you shoved him outside. He’d never forget the look of betrayal in your eyes right before you slammed the door in his face.

Bradley forced his feet to take him back to his car, then to drive away before he could have a chance to even try and make things better. He’d most likely end up making things much, much worse. Though he didn’t think it could get any worse with the way he was feeling about himself right now. You were angry at him, and you had every right to be.

But had he lingered at your door only moments after, he would’ve heard the thump against the wood that was you sliding down to the floor and the sob that escaped your mouth.

All because of him.

-------

Bradley was happy to finally be coming back home after ages away, but then he realized it—he didn’t have anyone to tap him out this time. His mind jumped to you first, but there was no chance in hell you’d be there for him. You’d probably moved on months ago. Forgotten about him. And with Mav away on another deployment, he really had no one.

His chest ached the longer he stood at attention, jaw clenched tighter than he meant it to be as he watched the rest of his squad get tapped out by their loved ones. Coyote’s parents, Fanboy’s sisters, Hangman’s nieces and nephews, Phoenix’s girlfriend. They were all emotional reunions, and Bradley was happy for them, he really was. But it sucked being the one with nobody there for him.

He wasn’t expecting the soft tap on his arm when it came. He thought it was a mistake at first; someone else’s family bumping into him accidentally, so he didn’t move. But when the hand didn’t leave its place wrapped loosely around his bicep, Bradley knew it really was for him. He turned around, squinting against the blinding sunlight to see who’d come for him.

“Hi.” You said softly, hand dropping back down to your side. He couldn’t help but let himself take you in, eyes drinking in every single achingly familiar detail of you until you shifted nervously under his intense gaze. You looked so beautiful he almost felt dizzy, just like he remembered but at the same time somehow even better.

“You came.” He said, disbelieving. He could still hardly believe you were actually here.

“I promised you I would.”

“But that—that was before…everything happened. Why are you—what’re you doing here?” The last thing he wanted to sound like was ungrateful, because he was quite literally the opposite, but his mind just couldn’t wrap around the fact that despite him breaking your heart seven months ago, you still remembered what you’d promised him in the very beginning of your relationship.

“What does it mean to tap someone out?” You asked quietly, tracing a finger along the planes of Bradley’s bare chest. Your legs were tangled under the covers, both of you still basking in the aftermath of getting reacquainted with each other again after Bradley had been out of town attending a weeklong training exercise.

His skin was still damp with sweat, but you didn’t mind one bit, too busy exploring the expanse of muscle shifting under his bronzed skin again. “In military terms, I mean.”

He chuckled, hiding a content smile into the hair at the crown of your head. “That’s a weird question.”

“Humor me, Bradshaw.”

“Yes ma’am.” Bradley stroked a rough palm down the smooth skin of your arm, taking a few beats to come up with an answer that would make sense. “Tapping out is a super long standing tradition in pretty much all military units, I think. It comes at the end of a mission, when we’ve come back to base.”

His arm repositioned itself under your head as he scooted closer to the warmth radiating from your body, nose nuzzling deeper against you just so he could engrain the smell of your lingering fruity scented shampoo into his memory forever.

How you still smelled so good even after your…physical activities just before this was beyond him, but he loved it.

“An aviator’s loved ones are usually the ones to do it. Friends, family, those kinds of people. When you tap out your aviator, literally you’re releasing them from formation. But I guess it’s kind of a gesture that means…you’re home.”

Your wandering fingers stilled against his skin, lingering right above his heart. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it.”

“Who usually taps you out?”

Bradley remained silent. It was an innocent question, he knew that. He’d told you a little bit about his parents, and you were just curious. Still, it sent a pang of sadness through his chest whenever he thought about what it would’ve been like if they were still around today.

He cleared his throat, sniffing once. “Usually Mav. Or sometimes one of my squad’s family. If no one can, I just gotta wait til everyone else is done.”

“I wanna do it.”

“What?”

“I’m gonna be there next time you come back from a mission. To tap you out.”

“I appreciate it, honey, I do. But you don’t need to.”

“I want to.” You said firmly, pulling away from him to prop yourself up on your elbow and look him in the eye. You looked damn serious too. He raised a quizzical brow. “You said that to tap someone out means to tell them they’re home. I want to be the one to tell you you’re home. Here. With me.”

Bradley opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then snapped shut when no words came out. He really was at a loss for words. No one had ever done that before. Sure, Mav’s offer was always a good one to fall back on, but Bradley had never had someone he cared about as much as he did about you telling him they were going to be there for him.

The next best thing he could think of instead of saying anything at all was to kiss you. So he did.

He pushed himself up towards you, sliding a hand around the nape of your neck and pressing his lips against yours. Not bruisingly hard, but enough to let you know he was all in. The other hand curled around your shoulder, splaying across your back to bring you back in closer to him, until your chests were flush and you could feel his heartbeat thundering under your palm.

He was home. You were his home.

“I told you I’d be here to tap you out, and I meant it.” You said simply, holding his gaze. “I keep my promises, Bradshaw. Even after the way you left things.”

Red hot guilt crept its way through his chest like vines, bringing all the memories of the last time you saw each other right back up to the surface, even after how hard he’d tried to shove them all down. If there was one thing he regretted in life, it was how he left you that night. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself for that one.

“I don’t even know what to say, Y/N, I—”

“Then let me say something.” You blurted, wringing your hands. Bradley nodded instantly, still too dumbfounded to reply. “I’ve been thinking about what I wanted to say to you today for months. I don’t even know if I should.”

“You should.” He encouraged, nodding quickly. He’d always wanted you to be able to speak your mind with him. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear it.”

“Okay. Okay, well first of all, you’re an asshole, Bradley.”

He nodded again. He deserved at least that much. “I am. Absolute asshole, I know.”

“But I never stopped loving you. Even though I was angry and sad and confused as fuck as to why you would do that to me, I still loved you. And eventually, I realized that it wasn’t anything I did wrong. You were scared. Of losing me, of me losing you. So you decided it was your responsibility to pull the ripcord before you crashed and burned.” Bradley winced slightly at the comparison and you grimaced at your own poor choice in words. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s okay. You’re right. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You said you didn’t want me to worry while you were gone, well, I did that anyways.” You chuckled, like you were remembering a fond memory instead of the constant state of anxiety you’d been in. “But instead of worrying that the man I love might not make it home, I was terrified that if you didn’t come home, I’d spend my whole life replaying our last conversation in my head. Wondering if there was something I could’ve said or done so you wouldn’t have given up on us so easily.”

“You think that was easy for me? Sweetheart, walking away from you was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in my whole life.”

“Sure seemed pretty easy.” You scoffed lightly, only a tad spiteful. A low blow, you realized, when Bradley stiffened for a split second, but you held steady.

“It wasn’t.” His reply was immediate and firm as could be, but somehow, that didn’t make you feel any better. “You have to understand, breaking things off was the last thing I wanted to do. But I couldn’t—I thought that if I didn’t, you’d wait for me.”

“I would’ve waited, Bradley! I did wait for you! For you, I'd wait forever because I love you, but you didn’t even give me that choice. You made the decision on your own instead of talking to me about it. That was what hurt the most.”

“I’m sorry.” Bradley said quietly, reaching out to take your hand. His fingers laced through yours almost tentatively, feeling so familiar but so foreign at the same time. There was a point in your life where you never thought that concept would apply to Bradley. “I never should’ve left like that, I wish I could take it all back.”

“I think I understand now why you did it. I understand that fear that comes with the experience of losing a loved one like that. But Bradley, you’re not responsible for my feelings. And I don’t care how scared you get, I’m not going anywhere. From now on, we work things out together, no matter what you think is best.”

“From now on? Does that mean…?”

“You’re my home, Bradley Bradshaw.”

Bradley took your face in his hands and he kissed you, long and hard, pouring every ounce of pent up feelings he’d been bottling up for the past seven months into it. Pain, fear, love, hope—all of it. You were never one to believe in such emotion being able to convey itself through a simple physical action, but now you could honestly say you understood it.

Your hands spread across the broadness of his back, fingers pressing into the crisp starch of his uniform like you were afraid of letting him go , even though he was home and everything was okay now. Losing him the first time made you angry. You didn’t even want to imagine possibly losing him a second time.

He drew back, only far enough to press his lips to your forehead, hands still holding you close as could be. “Thank you for coming.”

“I don’t make a habit of breaking my promises.”

“C’mon, I wanna introduce you to the squad.” He said softly, lacing his fingers through yours. The way he all but bounded over to the group of aviators a little ways away was almost boyish, as was the excitement in his voice when he approached them. “Hey everyone, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Bradley announced, sliding a hand around to the small of your back.

Everyone’s eyes turned on you, conversations petering to a gradual stop as they looked between you and Bradley. You shifted nervously, suddenly feeling unsure with all the attention on you, but Bradley’s thumb rubbed along your skin, soothing you just a bit. “This is Y/N. My girlfriend.”

The tall blond reacted the quickest, snapping loudly before aiming a finger in your direction, along with a shiny smile. “Wait, I know you! You’re the one in that photo Rooster keeps tucked in his helmet. Lemme tell you, he looked at that picture every damn day, it was like—”

Bradley let out a very forced laugh, aiming a not-so-subtle daggered glare at the other man. “Okay, Hangman! That’s okay, I really don’t think—”

“You’re a real saint, taking this one back. If I ever pulled the shit he did, my car would’ve been keyed to all hell when I came home.” Hangman chuckled, giving his head a shake.

“Hangman. Shut. Up.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, you shut up!”

“You’re the only one talking!”

“Alright, alright, you’re both grown men here,” The dark haired woman sighed, turning towards you. “At least, I hope so.”

You chuckled at that, casting a glance over at Bradley to find him already looking back at you, the back and forth with Hangman already long forgotten given the way he was smiling at you, like you were the force that made the world go round. Taking you in under his arm, he dotted a kiss to your hairline as your fingers came up to intertwine with his again, watching you interact with his squad like you’d known them for years.

It was everything he ever wanted. And now that he had it, he’d never be dumb enough to let it go again.

His mind drifted back to his parents’ fate— how they never got to live out their life together. How there was no guarantee about anything when it came to Bradley’s own fate with you.

And sure, it was scary to be so uncertain about the future, but you’d both climb that hill together when the time came. For now, Bradley could let himself be content. This second chance at a life with you wasn’t one he was planning on taking lightly, not by a long shot.

“Let’s get off this damn carrier and hit the town! Drinks at the Hard Deck, last one there buys the first round!” Hangman’s drawling voice drew Bradley out of his thoughts, just in time to let the words sink in.

You, on the other hand, stifled a giggle at the sight of seeing a group of full grown adults scatter as fast as Bradley’s friends did. Watching Hangman nearly shove Coyote to the ground upon seeing their cars were parked next to each other was something you’d never not get a kick out of.

But Bradley, he didn’t seem as worried about it all. In fact, he walked leisurely with your hand firmly in his, swinging both of them between the two of you as you made your way to your own car.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll be the last one there?”

“I’ll buy the round, I don’t care.” He shrugged. “I wanna spend some time with my girl.”

“Your girl.” You hummed, giving his hand a squeeze. “Gotta say, I’ve missed hearing that.”

“I’ve missed saying it. We’ve got a lot to catch up on, honey. Starting with, do you or do you not have a voodoo doll made in my image that you stabbed with pins when I was away because I broke your heart?”

You scoffed, letting out a not so attractive snort. “Bradley, I mean this in the most respectful way possible—what the hell are you talking about? Where would you even get that idea?”

“I—uh, I had a dream about it? A few weeks into deployment.” He admitted sheepishly, cheeks burning red in embarrassment. You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “You don’t, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You replied, giving his chest a firm pat. You didn’t have a voodoo doll of him, of course, but playing along was worth it just to see Bradley squirm.

“Wait, wait, wait, but you didn’t say no.”

“I didn’t.”

“So you do?”

“I didn’t say that either. But if you’re not sure, I’d watch yourself the next couple weeks.”

His brows furrowed in confusion and a bit of fear as he watched you walk away from him with some bounce to your step. “I…really don’t like the sound of that. Hang on, get back here. Explain, please!”

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#bradley bradshaw #rooster #top gun #top gun maverick

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dxndjxrin · 2 months ago

Text

‘cause you’re so smooth

summary: phoenix invites the boys to her salsa class, big mistake.

pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader

word count: 3k+

warnings: swearing, alcohol mentions, suggestive nature lols, me not knowing anything about salsa

my return to writing with a fic i teased over a year ago!! i hope you all enjoy

ps requests r open :p

“Nix, if you think I want to spend my Sunday evening learning to salsa dance with a bunch of soccer moms then I think your concussion hasn’t healed properly.” Jake sasses in response to Nat’s invitation.

“Yeah, I’m sorry Nat but Sunday is my chill out day, when else am I gonna beat Fitch’s ass on cod?” Fanboy reasons.

Natasha knew it was a stretch asking the boys to join her salsa dancing class, but she thought it was important for them to get out more. At the moment, seemingly all they did was trudge from work to the Hard Deck over and over again.

She sighs, “it would be good for you guys to get out more, y’know?”

“I’ll go, Nat,” Bob smiles, nodding to her from where he is perched on a stool behind her.

“Thank you, Bob.” Nat nods back to him, “the rest of you can suck it.”

“Hey!” Bradley yells as he appears back from the bar, beers in tow, “what did we say about using that type of language?”

“Shut up Dadley,” Nat rolls her eyes as Bradley flicks his tongue out before handing her a beer.

“As much as I’d truly love to attend that class ‘Nix, I’m already a salsa pro and I wouldn’t want you to feel embarrassed about your skills,” Bradley declares, before taking an obnoxious sip of his beer.

“Yeah fuckin’ right, and my dad is prima ballerina,” Jake snorts.

“Let’s not discredit Papa Seresin, I saw him tear Boogie Wonderland up at your sister’s wedding.” Coyote nods.

“Yeah and even that shit was better than what Rooster could pull off,” Jake decides.

Bradley only shrugs at the jibe, a lazy smirk plastered onto his face, which serves only to piss Jake off more.

“Dance off?” Fanboy proposes, standing to head to the jukebox.

“No?” Jake frowns.

Fanboy drops back to his seat with a sigh, “was worth a shot.”

Nat shakes her head with a snort and brings the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“Look it’s fine, I’m just saying I think you guys would enjoy it!” She reasons.

“I’m sure it’ll be fun!” Bob adds happily.

Nat can only sigh at the lack of response.

Bob is already waiting outside the community centre when Nat arrives, looking down and nervously picking at a thread on the bottom of his gym shorts.

“You ready?” Nat questions, trying to alleviate his nerves.

When Bob looks up his brows unfurl and he lets a small smile sip onto his face.

“Yeah, sure, let’s do this!” He pumps his fist a little awkwardly.

Nat can only chuckle in response as she makes her way to the room at the left of the reception where the class is held. You’re stood by the door chatting with one of the older women in your class when Nat comes into your view.

“Natasha! How’s my best student?” You tease, stepping towards her.

“I’m great, thanks!” Nat blushes before gesturing to Bob, “I hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend.”

Bob sucks in a breath as you finally lock eyes with him. Shit. You were beautiful and those leggings were doing you an undoubted amount of favours.

Sadly, Bob had an incredibly annoying habit he was unable to shake. It was known as “embarrassing himself in front of beautiful women” and that seemed to strike him just as you stuck your manicured hand out to shake his own.

The breath that Bob had sucked in caught in his throat which was drying up increasingly as he took you in, leading to an unprecedented coughing fit doubling him over. What seemed to make it worse was your shocked gasp and immediate move to lean over him and pay his back gently. Bob tried not to focus on your cleavage directly next to his face and instead on regulating his breathing. It was proving difficult, especially when he could hear Nat cackling at his misfortune from behind him.

Once almost fully back to normal, you squeeze his bicep and chuckle,

“I don’t think I’ve ever quite literally taken someone’s breath away!” You giggle, voice oh so sweet.

Bob can’t even let himself feel embarrassed with the way your soft hand feels on his arm.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he cringes.

“Don’t worry about it,” you smile reassuringly.

Nat is growing seemingly agitated by Bob’s lingering near the door so she steers him forwards away from you.

“Best get set up!” She announces, dragging him into the room.

The classroom is spacious, a high ceiling and large windows on the left wall. The wall facing the door is covered in mirrors that amplify the light in the area.

Before Bob can speak up again, two men who look to be in their late 40s rush over towards Natasha. They’re the complete opposite of one another, the first who reaches for Natasha is tanned and has dark curling hair with flecks of grey throughout.

“Natasha! Darling it is so great to see you!” He exclaims with a slight accent, holding her hand in his.

The other has embraced the grey in his hair, he’s relatively pale but has clearly kept his physique, he nods towards Bob with a glint of something in his eye, “I thought he wasn’t your type?”

Nat snorts, clueing Bob in finally on what the two men were hinting at.

“My best friend, boys don’t worry,” she teases.

“Thank God, I’ve been trying to set you up with my niece for how long now?” The dark haired man smiles.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m always busy at the moment,” she shrugs apologetically before turning back to Bob, “Bob this is Marco and Luke.”

They both shake his hand and size him up as they do so, the grey haired one (Luke) declares.

“He’s cute, Nat, where have you been hiding him?” He prods.

Bob exhales at the approval and watches as Nat breaks out into laughter. “Away from you!”

Marco and Luke break into laughter alongside Nat and Bob can’t help himself but join. Just as they’re all catching their breath, Bob jumps out of his skin again as he feels his hand on his shoulder.

“Boys, we’re being welcoming to our newcomer aren’t we?” You hum.

Your hip is touching Bob’s and the soft skin of your hand on his shoulder has him malfunctioning, luckily he isn’t forced into replying (or choking) this time.

“Of course we are beautiful, what do you think of us?” Marco gasps in faux shock.

“I think that I know what you two are like,” you roll your eyes before making your way to the front of the room.

You send Bob a sly wink before finally beginning, “It’s so great to see you all again!”

Everyone in the room blurts out greetings at you as you begin, “We’ll continue on from last week,” you strut over to the stereo in the corner and a latin pop track floats out into the room and Bob vaguely recognises the tune.

Marco and Luke are quick to start fluidly moving around the floor space and Bob notices that others in the room are doing the same. You make your way quickly over to him and place your hand on the small of his back, straightening his posture.

“I don’t expect you to get it immediately,” you smile into his ear, “we’ll start off with some basics and turn variations.”

Bob hopes you can’t see the nervous perspiration already forming on the back of his neck and nods a little too eagerly at your words. He looks back to Nat for some encouragement but she’s already dancing and chatting with a group of women next to the tall windows.

“I don’t bite,” You giggle, shocking Bob who looks back to see you holding your hand out for him to grab onto.

“Sorry, I’m not the best dancer-” Bob’s self depreciation is swiftly disrupted by you placing his hand on your waist and the other in your own.

“All the more for me to work with,” you smile, and Bob feels himself smiling back.

Although a tad clunky, Bob manages not to step on your toes and has some surprisingly fluid hip movement which intrigues you ever so slightly.

By the last ten minutes of the class, Bob is twirling Marco around as Luke and Nat chat to you about technique.

“What were you nervous about?” Marco probes Bob, “you’re a natural!”

Bob can only chuckle shyly in response and he glances over at your frame. Marco seems to notice Bob’s longing glances and slowly stops their dance.

“Go for it.”

“What?” Bob splutters.

“She’s been making googoo eyes at you the whole time mister, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

Bob reels for a moment at Marcos admission before straightening up. “You think?”

Marco rolls his eyes. “I know.”

Before Bob can reach you you’re already strutting back towards the stereo to lower the volume of the music and gather everyone’s attention.

“Thank you so much everyone! You’ve all been brilliant today and I can’t wait to see you next week!” You beam at everyone.

People begin to gather to chat and start to disperse and you begin to gather your own belongings, stopping to make conversation with others as you do so. Luke and Nat join Bob and Marco with sly smirks on their faces.

“So…” Nat begins, “You’ll be coming back next week I presume?”

Bob flushes at Nat’s knowing look. “Yeah,” he looks to you, “definitely.”

Bob didn’t mean to let it slip. Like seriously, his lips were so sealed. Air tight.

“But HOW hot are we talking?” Mickey slurs over the nth shot he’d done with Bob at the Hard Deck’s happy hour.

So maybe not air tight.

It was Thursday evening and the rest of the daggers had politely declined drinks with Fanboy, but Bob (the ever dutiful friend) had accepted, hoping to be in and out within the hour. But alas, here they were.

“Fuckin’ smoking,” Bob mimes an explosion with his hands as Mickey nods enthusiastically to his answer.

“I choked on air when I saw her and almost popped a boner during a Justin Timberlake song,” Bob continues to ramble, once given the chance to talk about you he clearly wasn’t going to stop.

“And when is this class?” Mickey slumps closer to Bob, tequila breath hot on his neck.

“Ummmm, Sunday evening at 6 I think?” Bob nods, remembering the details Nat had sent him in a text the week previous.

“Good to know,” Mickey hums, reaching his hand forward to signal for another round, knocking someone’s drink over in the process. “Oops.”

Bob is quick to drag Mickey away from the bar top after that, realising they’d probably overdone it a tad for a weekday evening.

As the cool sea breeze hits Bob’s flushed face whilst him and Mickey wait outside the Hard Deck for their uber, he can’t help but let his mind drift to you, what you were potentially up to, do you teach other classes during the week? Do you dance professionally? God, you definitely could, the way your hips moved-

Bob shook his head, as if to get the image of you stuck in his mind out. He looked to Mickey hanging off of his arm, he was looking to the ground and shaking as if to stave off the imminent vomit that was about to leave his mouth any second now.

“Let’s get you home man,” Bob pats Mickey on the head, dragging him towards their Uber pulling up.

“Hey, Bob!” Nat yells across the parking lot, catching the back of her friend’s tall frame leant against a pillar near the front of the community center.

When Bob turns around, Nat notices two people next to him who she was not expecting to see.

“Fitch? Fanboy?” Nat cocks her head to the side. “I thought you guys were too busy to come?”

Nat’s accusatory eyes meet Bob’s sheepish expression as he awkwardly clears his throat.

“We heard the teacher was hot as fuck.” Payback shrugs.

Fanboy giggles next to him in excitement, “I’ve been practicing-”

“Bob I swear-” Natasha begins, finger pointing right into Bob’s chest.

“Sup, biatches!” Jake yells, alerting everyone of his and Javy’s presence. “Who’s ready to get their salsa on?”

Nat spins around on her heel, eyes shooting daggers into Jake and Javy.

“Bob, I’m going to kill you.” She states, eerily calm.

“Oh come on Phe! You wanted us here just last week!” Jake exclaims, walking round to slap Bob on the shoulder and greet Payback and Fanboy behind him.

“Yeah! When I wanted you guys to get out and do something productive! Not fuck my lovely salsa teacher, who by the way, was not socialised by wolves! So will absolutely not be charmed by any of you fools!”

With that, Nat turns and walks into the community center, leaving the boys to sprint in after her.

“At least this can’t get any worse,” Nat mutters to herself, pulling the door to your studio open.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nat stills in the doorway, the rest of the boys behind her peeking their heads in.

“What now?” Bob asks guiltily.

Nat opens the door fully and allows the men behind her to file into the studio, where her fellow classmates are stood in a semi circle whooping and hollering at you dancing in the middle with none other than Bradley Bradshaw.

“Fucking Bradshaw,” Jake scoffs, pushing his way ahead whilst checking himself out in the full length mirrors that line the opposite wall of the room.

“Chicken never told us he could dance!” Jake yells over the latin music filling the room, successfully interrupting your dance with Bradley.

Bradley’s head whips to the side at the sound of that familiar ear grating voice. He gives you an apologetic look as he walks over to begin squabbling with a man you presume he knows. The commotion between the boys alerts you to the presence of Natasha and Bob as well as three other unfamiliar men. When Bradley had introduced himself with a smirk and a drawling voice as a friend of Natasha’s you had to wonder whether all of her colleagues were so handsome and by the looks of it, they were.

Nat is quick to walk over to you with an apologetic smile. “I want to apologise in advance for the next hour. They are insufferable.”

You look behind her to where the gaggle of men she calls her close friends are stood, you can see Marco and Luke itching to get their claws in and you have to giggle. This should be interesting.

After instructing the rest of your class to continue practicing the routine you had been working on, you figure it was only fair to come and personally consult your newest joiners.

As the boys (and Nat) notice you wandering towards them, they all begin to elbow each other like school boys giggling amongst themselves. Bob and Nat can only keep their embarrassment internal for so long.

When you come to a stop in front of them, the man you’ve come to learn as Jake smiles dazzlingly and stretches his arms above his head,

“God it is hot in here!” He begins to reach for the bottom of his shirt, aiming to impress you with his toned stomach.

“The A/C is on full blast dumbass.” Nat swats at the back of Jake’s head, causing him to drop his shirt again and rub at his temple. “Ow!”

Snickers fall from Javy and Mickey, who quickly straighten themselves up when they see you casting your eyes over them.

“As I said to Bob last week, with all my new starters I’ll begin with some basics for you guys and then we can ease into a routine,” you smile, heading towards Bradley and Nat.

“Since you two already have some experience you can help me teach!”

Bradley preens under your praise, already assuming the role of teacher’s pet, whilst Nat looks mildly irritated at having to teach her imbecilic friends how to dance.

“Alright guys! let’s partner up!” you shout at them, giggling as they all rush towards you, you note how Bob lingers back behind his more extroverted friends and grin.

“I should clarify, I meant with each other.” You shoo them backwards and watch as they couple up.

Mickey and Reuben clap each other on the back and Javy and Jake nod at one another leaving Bob, stood on his own. You saunter towards him and grab at arm, dragging him to the front with you.

“Looks like you’re with me,” you tease.

“Uh, who do you want me to partner up with?” Bradley scratches at his head obliviously.

You cock your head to the side with a confused laugh.

“I hate you so much right now,” Nat spews, gripping Bradley’s arm and pulling him into position with her.

“Oh, yeah. Right, sorry Nat.” Bradley chuckles.

Your lessons continues with explaining how someone will have to take the lead and the other will follow, and you wander around positioning their hands and postures correctly.

“Javy, you are like a brother to me, but your hands are too fucking low right now.” Jake grits through this teeth.

“Right! Ha, sorry man,” Javy’s hands shoots back up towards the middle of Jake’s back.

Bob is still apprehensive when he places his hands on your waist, but you’re quick to affirm him in his position. Leaning towards him you whisper, “don’t worry you’re still my favourite.”

A smile graces his face at that and he relaxes in your grip.

“Right guys! We’re gonna start with some turns and variations now!”

You quickly learn that trying to wrangle these men is proving difficult, as Payback almost spins Fanboy into a wall after zoning out stating at how your hips moved.

“I’m good bro, don’t worry,” Mickey is quick to readjust himself, hoping the room stops spinning soon.

You can’t help but laugh when Javy attempts to dip Jake to the floor in a move he thought would impress you, but it seems he forgot to account for how tall and heavy Jake is, as he goes toppling down with him.

“Fuck dude! You’re heavy!” Javy groans, rubbing his knee. Jake clearly didn’t take kindly to his words as he shoves back at Javy childishly.

“Boys! Come on get up!” You snap, trying to sound stern but still fighting off giggles.

Jake and Javy are quick to get back on their feet, but you catch them in your peripheral poking and pinching each other when they think you aren’t looking.

Even Bradley who was so light on his feet when he was showing you his moves earlier, is clearly distracted, constantly stepping on Nat’s feet as they practice variations.

“If you step on my toe one more time, Rooster I swear to God, you will not see daylight again,” Nat threatens.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! She’s just so…” Bradley trails off as he watches you dance slowly with Bob, stopping every now and then to correct him kindly or answer questions from others in your class.

“I know! And you guys are scaring her off by acting crazy.” Nat sighs, moving back as she senses Bradley’s feet heading for her toes again.

“I mean I wouldn’t say crazy…” Bradley scratches the back of his neck.

“Well I walked in to see you spinning her around like you’re a pro on dancing with the stars so maybe you should reevaluate.”

“You think I’m that good?” Bradley smirks to himself.

“Oh shut up,” Nat rolls her eyes and looks back to the rest of her friends around the room.

Payback and Fanboy were continually stumbling around in circles as they each try to catch your eye, pissing off everyone else in the room as they bumped and knocked into others. She caught Marco and Luke’s judgy eyes flicking back and forth between her and her friends and groaned.

Jake and Javy looked either one wrong move away from fucking or fighting, Nat couldn’t really tell.

God this was embarrassing.

Luckily, your voice rings out across the room, interrupting her moping.

“Thank you guys for today! And Thank you to my newcomers!” you gesture to the group of men stumbling over each other and stifle a laugh.

“I’ll see you all next week!”

Your regular attenders start filing out slowly, some coming over to chat and collect their things. You can see Nat trying to drag her friends away out they seem intent on lingering long enough to catch some time alone with you.

“You guys might as well go, she clearly wants me.” Jake shrugs, pulling the front of his shirt up to wipe his face.

Mickey is quick to dispute, “Are you kidding me? I twirled like a ballerina, I’m so in.”

Nat is moments away from body slamming her friends who she once loved when it goes silent around her. She figures you finally made you way over.

“Hey guys, thanks so much for joining today! I’m really sorry I’ve got to get going but um- ”

You pause and sense eyes on you.

“Bob, I was just wondering if I could get your number?” you smile, walking towards him and squeezing his arm. “You know, to talk about how we can improve your technique,” your reasoning clear as day even with your coverup

“Yeah! Yes, of course I mean,” Bob composes himself, taking your phone with shaking hands and typing in his number.

“Great,” you wink, retrieving your phone, “I’ll text you.”

You end with that, sauntering past the group and waving goodbye to Nat with a knowing look.

Everyone seems stunned by your words, but mostly Bob who blinks slowly, seemingly still in shock by your acknowledgement.

Nat finally breaks into laughter, doubling over at the confused faces of her other friends.

“Man!” She shouts through her giggles, “you just cannot make that shit up!”

The grumbles around her don’t even phase her as she goes to pick up her bag and head for the door, a group of downtrodden looking men following her and Bob with a newfound pep in his step.

“By the way Rooster, how come you actually are so good?” Nat asks as they make their way into the parking lot.

Bradley stills, silent as he contemplates answering.

“If I tell you, you have to promise to not go searching for anything.” He looks around at his friends.

Following their nods he continues, “I used to compete professionally, when I was like 13, my mom forced me to.” Bradley cringes at the memory of his tween self in sparkly shirts his mom always hand picked out for him in the most hideous colours.

Bradley looks back up to see Jake grinning mischievously at his phone, and his stomach drops.

“Is this you?” Jake smirks, turning his phone around to show everyone an old video on youtube titled.

SALSA NATIONALS 1999 - BRADSHAW / DONNA SUMMER HOT STUFF

Bob suddenly felt as though his coughing fit over you wasn’t the most embarrassing thing he had to witness anymore.

a/n: it is great to be back gang xx i’ve missed writing and ofc i had to bring back the bob agenda!! it’s what i stand for :) i’m thinking mayhaps a part 2 where i explore the dynamic between sexy salsa teacher and bob bc atm this was just a chance for me to make fun of the daggers 😣

i hope you enjoyed reading and tysm!!

pls reblog, comment or drop me an ask and tell me what you thought!! feedback means sm to me considering i’m a lil rusty

anyways thank u again for reading!!!!

- honey xoxo

#adorable okay!!!#top gun #top gun maverick #bob floyd

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dxndjxrin · 2 months ago

Text

Soft Cries

Pairing: Benny Miller x f!reader Word Count: 4.3k Warnings: Blood. Fighting. PTSD. Death. Crumbs of smut but nothing explicit I don't think? Author's Note: I've been sitting on this idea for a really long time. I hope I did it justice. I also think this is the longest one shot I've ever written. A huge thank you is in order to @lovebarefootblonde who has listened to me gripe about this all day and to everybody who has helped me build my Benny headcanons over the last week or so. Love you as ever.

MASTERLIST | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

Benny’s got a mean streak.

Nasty. Dirty. Always itching for a fight.

His face is a gradient of greens and yellows and purples; broken blood vessels scattered beneath his skin in an instant.

There’s something about the pain he likes. Something about the copper taste of blood filling his mouth and the ache in his ribs with every breath. He likes the sweat and stale stench of near death in enclosed spaces of hot air and broken hearts.

Anger evidenced in bruises to cover his vulnerability, he swings first and asks questions later; usually leaning against the sink while you tend to the broken skin but occasionally a hospital bed or a police station. He’ll tell you he’s never lost a fight but that’s a goddamn lie. That’s a lie with every ragged breath and gasp of pain as he fights for air through a tight chest. That’s a lie with every moment he spends hiding from the ghosts inside his own head.

“I fucking won that fight,” he'd spit, “I don’t see the problem.”

It never was one with you, in the confines of your home; the four walls of your bedroom; your bodies between the sheets. He melted beneath your touch as you patched him up and stroked his hair and told him you loved him despite the bloodstain on another brand new shirt.

You encouraged him not to go out, gentle suggestions of movie nights in and cuddles on the couch, but it wasn’t like the bar was the only place he broke. He doesn’t see the problem because it’s never really clear how it starts or where it comes from; the grocery store, the dog park, the drive thru line of the coffee shop you’re too embarrassed to ever go to again.

The problem this time was a fractured orbital bone—not his—and a fist full of broken knuckles that go untreated, yet again, as they shake in his lap in the police station.

“You're a fucking idiot, Benjamin Miller,” you shoot at him, “why do you do this to me? Why do you do this to yourself?”

“I've never hurt you.”

“Is it not hurting me?” You ask him, arms crossed and looking down into those bloodshot blues, “I can’t take you anywhere, my life shouldn’t become housebound because you can’t control yourself. And how long, if that’s what we do, does that last for me?”

“I'd never hurt you,” he says again, looking down to pick at the skin of his nails, “I never meant to hurt anybody.”

There’s an itch in your hand to reach out and card through the overgrown locks of wheat and barley blond but you suppress it. He feels it though, the way you want to touch him and the way you won’t let yourself; he feels the hurt and the worry you’re swallowing down and looks back up with a promise poised on his lips.

“Don't you dare tell me it won’t happen again, Benny,” you pull away when he reaches for you, “stop making promises you can’t keep and get some fucking help because I can’t be it anymore.”

Shaking, he follows you through the station in an almost well worn path. This is the third time you’ve posted bail in as many months and all you wanted was dinner and a movie.

“You owe me so much fucking money, Benny,” you snap at him as soon as you’re tucked away into the car, “a thousand each for the last two times and two thousand this time—and now you have a court date. I’m not bailing you out anymore, you can sleep here next time.”

A smile spreads across his face, a hint of arrogance in his lips as he licks out and smooths a hand down the rough scruff that covers his cheek.

“You said that last time.”

He thinks he’s so clever.

“Get out.”

His face falls.

“What?”

“You heard me,” you turn the ignition, “get the fuck out and call your brother. I can’t do this tonight.”

He thinks he’s so charming as he wraps his hand around yours as he says, “hey, baby,” in the softest voice, "I'm sorry, okay? I’m sorry, let’s just go home.”

He thinks he’s so endearing with those little mouth sounds of love that talk you down from that ledge and he’s right. You only wish he’d talk himself down too instead of letting you both get to this point.

“Come on, baby.” He pulls at the waistline of your pants, taking your attention away from pulling the day—the sweat, the frustration, the sadness—off of your body. “C’mere.” He whispers from his spot perched on the edge of the bed, pulling you between his legs and running his large hands up your back.

“I'm sorry.” He looks to your hands hanging limp at your side, the ones that are usually buried in his hair—especially on nights like this—to run along his scalp and disarm him.

“Baby, please,” he begs, laying his head into your soft, bare stomach; kissing the skin he finds there. “Baby, I’m sorry, it really won’t happen again. I promise.”

You break when he looks back up at you, wiping the tears from his eyes and framing his face with your soft touch, as that splash of angry red dots grows larger across his fair skin.

“I'll get help, okay?” He wraps his fingers around your wrist, turning his face into the skin of your arm to drag his lips along it, “I promise, I’ll be a better man for you. I’ll be a better man for myself.”

Kissing up your arm, he rests his hands back on your hips, sliding them up your sides as he presses his lips into your stomach again; into your waist and ribs as his fingers pluck at the clasp of your bra.

His mouth is insistent, hot and moist across your heated chest as he pulls the fabric away and lifts himself to you with his hand caging you tight to his body.

“Benny…”

“Baby,” he grabs hold at the base of your skull, the whiskers of overgrown facial hair tickling the sensitive skin of your lips as he whispers into you, “I promise.”

He kisses like a man possessed, crushing every whimper into his own mouth and it’s all so incredibly tender the way you trade gasps back and forth. Soft when when he’s gripping hard enough to leave bruises because this is what he does.

That unregulated anger that breaks everybody and himself slips away inside you—his body resetting, exhaling, finding peace in the curves and valleys of your skin. You let him take it, let him grab desperately with split and swollen hands; let him heal himself against your body if that’s what he needs.

He’s still there after he finishes, head laid gently against your chest as quiet tears slip down his nose and drop into the sheen of sweat that still clothes you.

“Benny…” Your hands are caught up in his hair again, that overgrown barley blond wrapping like silk around your fingers.

“Yeah, baby?”

“You mean it this time, right?”

He lifts his head, rough palm smoothing down the expanse of your bare body, “yeah,” he nods, “I mean it.”

“I mean it, Ben,” you cinch at the waist, propping yourself up on your elbow as his face falls, “you can’t keep burying your problems inside my pussy, it’s not good for either of us.”

“I don’t bury my pro—“

“You do.”

He glances down to where your bodies are still joined, inhaling sharply as he gently grabs the base of his cock and pulls away from you and exhales just as hard as he stands and turns away.

“Benny, baby…”

His head shakes as he retreats across the threshold to the bathroom, mumbling under his breath—likely just to himself—and you feel it deep down inside you; the kind of pain within him that only those closest can stroke.

The faucet turns in the dark beneath his touch and you watch as he shuffles through the little room attached out of habit. Two washcloths thrown into the basin to soak as he splashes the not-yet-warm water on his face. He wrings one between his fingers and runs it along himself, tossing it in the laundry pile and grabbing for the other. This one he holds in his hands, wrung out and ready as he turns the water off again and pads back towards you with that same wrecked expression.

“Baby, I’m sor—“

“No,” he cuts you off, “don't you dare.”

His fingers wrap around your ankle and he lifts your slightly, mattress dipping beneath his weight as he seats himself between them. There’s a deep midwest twang that comes out in moments of hurt and it’s thick on his voice now as he cleans himself from you.

“I didn’t realize you felt like I was using you,” he whispers, “I’m the one who should be fucking sorry, that’s not ever how I wanted you to feel.”

He tosses the towel back towards the bathroom and winces as the shot doesn’t quite land, “I’ll clean that up, don’t worry.”

“Baby,” you reach for him, “that's not what I’m worried about.”

He wipes across his cheeks again, thumbing the edge of his sniffling nose as his other hand falls beneath your breast; flattened against the rapid beating of your heart.

“I mean it this time.”

He didn’t touch you for a while after that night, when he’d broken down and taken your words to mean you felt he was using you. He kissed you, hugged you tightly, but he left the touching up to you with gentle encouragement; swallowing the soft cries you gave him beneath in the still quiet of your bedroom.

“That's my good girl,” he told you, lips ghosting across yours.

Everything became more intimate, more tender, in those few weeks with nothing but praises in your ear until one day he couldn’t take it anymore. He kissed you gently and asked permission, hands falling low on your hips.

“I won’t lie to you,” he told you, “I have had a shit day and maybe I do bury my problems in you but that’s not how I mean it.”

“I know, baby.”

“I'm not using you,” every part of him was so warm, “I never would I just—“

He stops and inhales a sharp breath, hands sliding up beneath your shirt, “sometimes I just need a little extra comfort, I never realized that was coinciding with my episodes.”

He barely left the apartment either, home to work to home again. He didn’t have a perfect record there either but they mainly let him work alone. Can’t have a problem with anybody if nobody’s there to have a problem with. He was on his best behavior, cold turkey from the outside world until he started with the therapist Will connected him to; somebody down at the VA licensed to help him work through the scrambled thoughts of his brain.

He looked more like the full picture of Benjamin Miller—the man you fell in love with—than the glimpses the mere glimpses you’d been given since he came home.

A few weeks after that, Benny got off lucky with a sympathetic judge who listened to the character witnesses vouching for the kind of man he truly is.

The other man dropped the charges.

Even with a half broken face, hearing the words veteran and PTSD and special ops go a long way. Especially when the well-respected and widely loved William Miller stands up to speak. Takes responsibility and apologizes for not working harder to keep his baby brother under control.

Nobody blamed him, nobody was mad. Benny had the combination of boyish features and tragic backstory that made you want to bend over backwards for him.

“Don't let me see your name cross my sight again, son,” the much older man in robes seated above them stared down at the end of it all, “your record will be cleared with the completion of anger management.”

Between that and therapy, he gained coping strategies and tips on calming down. Everybody emphasized to him the importance of attendance and a consistent routine, pointing out that losing his strict schedule with honorable discharge was what started this spiral to begin with.

Nothing changes overnight but part of you thinks he did, that soldier’s resolve and discipline coming back at the mere mention of routine and consequences. He was better, genuinely better and not just acting. When met with a stressful situation, he’d excuse himself out to the car or just to the bathroom. He looked for breathing room instead of others forcing him to find it.

“Dad used to say you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink,” he told you one night as he brushed his fingers across your forehead.

Your nose wrinkled as he trailed down to the tip of it.

“Actually, I think that saying pre-dates your daddy by a few centuries,” you’d told him, “gone through a few translations too most likely.”

His hand dropped to cradle your head, pulling you up slightly to press his lips to yours, “you sound like Fish.”

“Fish is a smart man,” you told him, “you should listen to him more.”

That’s when the fighting started; the real fighting, the legitimate fighting. Fish got him in the gym and then he got him against other men. Men who wanted to be hit and did so for money.

“I'll pay you back, baby,” he’d told you, showing up with flyer for a competitive match, “I’m fucking good, I’m gonna win that fight and make so much of this right again, baby.”

“I don’t know, Benny,” he had you pinned against the counter, confidence and excitement buzzing from him, “I was just mad at you when I said you owe me so much money, baby, you don’t have to do this to make good on that.”

“Then I’ll use the money to help us buy a house,” he said; that crooked, cocksure smile you haven’t seen since well before retirement spreading across his face.

“Ben…”

“Come on,” he insisted, “don’t tell me you don’t wanna get out of apartment life. Huh? Don’t you wanna have a big ass kitchen to make those cakes you like? And a room for all your books?”

He wasn’t giving up so you gave in.

You wrapped his knuckles before every fight; putting extra care into the hands you love that have already seen so much hurt. Kissed his palms and wrists and fingertips before helping him into his gloves.

He got shit at first, for having his girl in the locker room with him. They said there was no way he could fight like a man if he couldn’t even get ready like one.

He went unbeaten for eight straight match ups, always looking towards you at the end of a fight and making grabby hands as soon they dropped his arm. They couldn’t contain him, always having to let him through the door and back out into the crowd as soon as possible so he could get to you.

Nobody said shit to him then.

Then Santiago came home and, suddenly, he was undone again.

You stayed back the night of the ninth fight, insisting he’d be fine with Frankie wrapping him up. He begged you to come, said he couldn’t win without you there.

“I'm sure Frankie would be happy to give you kisses on your palms, baby.”

“Yeah,” he shot back, a grin overtaking him, “but he’s not as gentle as you.”

Taking his hands in yours, you kissed palms and then his wrists and then his finger tips before standing on your tiptoes to kiss his lips.

“There,” you told him, “tradition done, you’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t.

He lost the fight, walking in way later than his boy’s nights tend to run with Santiago supporting him around the waist. It was the crashing that woke you up as they both tried to kick their shoes off in the dark.

“What the fuck?”

You turn the light on and stand there, arms crossed over your chest, “I’ve been calling for a while.”

“Baby,” he looks up at you now, letting go of Santi and making his way to you, “baby, I lost.”

“I know, Frankie texted.”

“You weren’t there, that’s why,” he says, large hands framing your face, “promise me you’ll be at the next one, I can’t lose like that again.”

Leaning to the side, you look at Santiago, "how much did you give him to drink?”

“Not a lot but it was tequila,” he says, hands shoved into his pockets, “I think he has a slight concussion.”

“Baby,” Benny grabs your attention back, “I’m gonna go with Santiago to Colombia for the weekend.”

You look back at the dark haired man, “is that so?”

“Yeah,” Benny continues, “getting seventeen grand to help with a recon and then I’ll be home.”

He crushes you against him, bending slightly to lift with his knees as he pulls you off the ground; stumbling as your added weight throws off his balance. Your eyes stay on Santiago the entire time, sheepish and looking anywhere but at you.

“You better start looking for houses, baby,” he says excitedly, “that’s our down payment right there.”

He explained his thinking in detail, the logic behind his decision to follow Santiago’s dumb ass into what you assured him would be another mess.

"But have I died yet?” He asked you back, “I'm doing this for us, for our future.”

“No you’re not.”

Another conversation had in the dark of the bathroom as Santiago slept off the spins on the couch in just one room over, no way to really see him.

“I am,” he said, “I am and then I’m done, it’s just three days and then I’m home and we’ll buy a house, baby. We’ll start an actual life.”

“We have an actual life, Benjamin.”

Voicemail inboxes ran full on the third day after the third day.

You’d called them all when he hadn’t come back on the plane he promised he’d be on. When he didn’t show up at the airport, that’s when you’d called every goddamn burner phone number they’d given you.

You told him it wasn’t just recon and information gathering. You told him burner phones were fucking out of the ordinary. You told him he was making a mistake.

“You're not going for us, Ben,” you’d told him, “don’t sit here and say that to me, be honest. You’re going because Fish and Will are going and you feel some sort of need to keep up. Haven’t you ever thought about why they’re so protective over you?”

“Fuck off, they treat me like a kid.”

“They don’t want you to get hurt, Ben,” you said, “you’re trying so hard to keep up with them and get on their level and they are trying so hard to keep you from getting as fucked up as they are. Especially with your inability to compartmentalize.”

“You're saying a lot of really hurtful shit,” he pushed past you and back into the bedroom, “I’ll sleep on the floor tonight, take the couch when Santiago’s not here tomorrow night.”

You followed him, pulling his arm back when he reached for his pillow and turning him towards you.

“No, you will not sleep on the floor or the couch, Ben,” you tell him, “I just want you to be honest with yourself if you won’t at least be honest with me.”

He kept up with the story that he was doing this for you, for the both of you. Pleaded with you to understand his thought process.

“It's just a couple of days,” he promised as you kissed him goodbye, “I'll be back before you know it.”

Three weeks passed as you called every number every day. Benny. Then Will. Then Frankie. Even Tom too. A steady rotation as you prayed that one of them would pick up and you would hear his voice on the other end or in the background.

Three weeks of watching videos just to hear his voice and lying to his mom about where he really was. Telling her you weren’t worried, that sometimes these little boy’s trips just last longer than they say they will.

Three weeks of hoping you weren’t rifling through the closet of a dead man; of hoping you weren’t sleeping in a corpse’s bed.

The very idea of Benny being nothing but a body broke you, bringing nothing but silent tears to the surface as you willed yourself to keep believing in the best. You hadn’t cried this whole time, you certainly weren’t going to mourn before a reason was given.

When he was in the service, he told you not to worry about him. He told you that not hearing from him for a while was normal and as long as you heard nothing from anybody else then that meant he was safe. But there wasn’t protocol for this sort of thing. No higher ups, no dog tags shoved in boots to be given back to you upon receipt of a coffin and a folded up flag.

Not hearing when he said you’d hear from him again was as good as a notice of death.

And not just him but Will and Frankie too.

You laid there then, listening to the automated voice tell you the mailbox was full yet again, and closed your eyes hoping sleep or your own death might find you to still the way you felt your entire life caving in.

Gentle lips find you in your dreams, the rough texture of facial hair tickling the sensitive skin of your cheek as he presses against your eyelid and down your face.

“Hey, baby,” gun calloused fingertips run down the length of your nose, “god, you’re pretty when you sleep.”

Every time you think of him, every imagination of his voice, it’s with that twang nestled comfortably in his mouth. It’s not sadness that brings it out of him, you learned a long time ago that it’s vulnerability. That’s why it’s almost exclusively reserved for you and this room.

“I know you can hear me,” he says, his timbre dropping low as he whispers into your ear, “trying really hard not to scare you here but,” he sucks in a breath, “judging by the way my shit’s all over the floor, I think I already have.”

He tickles that sensitive spot just beneath the hinge of your jaw, fingers sliding back until his hand cradles the base of your skull and he presses his mouth to yours.

Your eyes shoot open as your breathing stops, caught wholly off guard by both the dream Benny and the very real one that kneels beside your bed.

“Did I scare you?”

Your heartbeat rushes through your ears as you fight to push yourself up, his hands helping you along the way.

“I fucking scared you,” he stands before sitting beside you on the bed, “I’m sorry.”

His clothes are new; crisp jeans and an olive green jacket. His eyelashes are darker than you’ve ever seen, like tears have been on the little blond strands so long they’re now forever dark.

“You look like shit,” you say, “where the fuck have you been?”

He laughs, “there's my girl, I missed that smart ass mouth. You find us any houses?”

“I stopped looking two weeks ago, too afraid there wasn’t gonna be anybody to put in that house.”

“And here I was,” he shakes his head, “trying so hard to baby trap you, if I had my way we’d have eight to fill a house with by now.”

He leans back into you, propping himself on his elbow, “but I can’t even manage to pick up the phone and tell my girl where I am so it’s probably for the best I haven't even given you one,” his eyebrows raise, “not for lack of trying, mind you, I did say I’ve been trying to baby trap you.”

He smiles when you do, melting into you as you push him back into the mattress. His hands lay heavy on your hips, guiding your body onto his as you talk and breathe between frenzied kisses and feral touches.

“I was so worried about you—“

The sound of his jacket zipper being pushed down permeates the space.

“—I know, I was worried about you too.”

His fingers meet yours as you fumble with the clasp of his pants.

“I thought the worst, Benny.”

He lifts his hips and pushes the material down his legs, his half hard cock springing free.

“I know.”

He pushes your panties to the side, fingers pushing in slightly as a less than half assed attempt to get you ready.

“I tried not to for so long, but then you didn’—“

He cuts you off as he guides you down on top of him, mouth opening up against yours to swallow the half-pained moan you give him.

Seating you onto him fully, he pulls away to lay flat on his back, arms above his head as you both breathe through the sensitivity.

“You weren’t at the airport,” you tell him on the wave of a sob, “you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I know, baby, I’m sorry.”

You catch his tears as you lean forward to kiss him again, thumb rubbing across the swell of his rough and sunburnt cheek.

His chest heaves gently as he repeats himself again.

“I know,” he cries softly into your open mouth, “I’m sorry.”

#okay…okay slay #triple frontier #ben miller

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dxndjxrin · 2 months ago

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#ateez #wallpapers

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dxndjxrin · 2 months ago

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Old Beginnings | Benny Miller

Ship: Benny Miller x Reader Summary: Some conversations are easier than others, and some are a unnecessarily messy disaster, brewing in the darkness in a way that only Benny could create Word Count: 2.8k+ Warnings: Miscommunication, idiocy, emotions, Benny deserves his own warning because honestly… he is the only warning you need for this omg Author’s Note: This is for the utterly incredible @daffodin for my Secret Santa gift event! I’m sorry it took so long, and thank you for your patience. On top of that, and far more importantly, thank you for your friendship. Getting to know you this past year and counting you as a friend has been a true treasure and I am so so grateful to know you. I’ve loved all of our ridiculous talks, our insane brainstorming, and our eerily similar musical tastes. I hope you have the BEST new year, and I can’t say how much love is being sent with this utterly ridiculous fic. All the hugs and love 💕

Looking back, you couldn’t exactly pinpoint when you had fallen into a relationship with Benny Miller. Years of friendship blurred into something you never could have expected, something that was both heavy and light, almost tangible to your exhausted mind, as if you could reach out into the darkness and feel the magnitude of what sat between you.

You couldn’t say it was a surprise the first time he kissed you, moving achingly slowly as he tried to restrain his excitement. All the signs were there, and yet… When had you come to expect it? To anticipate the way he would draw you in, forever the moth to his flame.

Frankie argued it had begun at the fights, all those times Benny refused to be patched up, only to inevitably yield when you would push past his complaints with a roll of your eyes, and bandage the suddenly silent boxer after every fight. It had become tradition now, so much so that Benny never fought you or complained, merely handed you the first aid kit with a grateful smile and a promise that next time he’d make sure there was less for you to patch up.

That was when Frankie started counting you as a couple.

Santi disagreed.

Keep reading

#okay ate #benny miller #triple frontier

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dxndjxrin · 3 months ago

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Dove

Part 2 of 2 of The Locked Door Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 19.7K i apologize for NOTHING

Warnings: DUBCON ELEMENTS, SMUUUUUUT, religion kink, virgin kink, authority kink, degradation kink, praise kink, age gap, ohhhhh the list goes on y’all been here long enough

A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time im sorry

***

Obi-Wan feels like he’s going to be sick.

Dinner in the grand hall was difficult enough, forking down mouthfuls of expensive food he’s sure was absolutely marvelous, if he could’ve tasted it. The s’Ziscari clearly splurged on the celebrations—expensive food, expensive decor, expensive everything, down to the silk napkin he studied and fiddled with under the table as he awkwardly waited for you to finish your plate.

He felt uncomfortable, absolutely. He’s felt uncomfortable ever since he shuffled into this blasted, Maker forsaken robe not long after he left your quarters earlier.

Not black, no. Not like yours. Not like what appears to be an overwhelmingly vast majority of the people he’s encountered so far this dreadful evening.

No, his robes are blue.

Keep reading

#reread this after forever #genuinely a masterpiece #what would we do without you #obi wan kenobi #Star Wars #smut #nsfw #fav

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dxndjxrin · 3 months ago

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Bloodhound Part II | chs x f!reader

Vernon finally gets to taste you, just not in the way he wants.

Part I

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~2.8k

Pairing: chs x f!reader | Genre: romance, vampire au, smut

Warnings: blood drinking, male masturbation, pervy/horny/feral vernon, dubious consent (read AN at end for details), phone sex

Reader Notes: has breasts and a vagina, she/her pronouns used

Vernon’s knee bounces in a blur as he sits in the stark waiting room on a dreary Monday, breathing through his mouth to escape the sting of antiseptic solution. He’s been to blood banks before, but never this one.

It’s close to the cafe he ran from you met you at, and he bites back a smile when he remembers how you looked at him with bright eyes and an even brighter grin, like you were genuinely ecstatic to see him. Now that he knows you’re not leaving, he can think back on that night without shame grabbing him by the throat, can even reminisce on the few seconds you got together before his appetite for you made itself known.

If he’s not careful, he starts thinking about other details, like how your shirt was cut just low enough for him to see the rise of your breasts, or how you smelled like every dream he’s ever had, like every dessert he’s ever been denied. As soon as he realizes he’s thinking about you like a fucking animal, he veers away from that dangerous train of thought. Some times are harder (pun unfortunately intended) than others, but he’ll never not fight to keep you safe, even from himself.

Especially from himself.

Before he can spiral into thoughts of all the ways he could hurt you, his name is called. He looks up from the space he was staring into, finding a vampire in scrubs waiting with a smile. The chair knocks against the wall as he rises and zips over, still unused to the way his body moves faster than his brain.

“Do you have a carrier?” They ask, looking around for a cooler of some sort.

“Insulated backpack,” he points over his shoulder, following them down a hallway to the distribution center.

This place reeks of cleaning solution too but there’s an undertone of copper, and if he concentrates enough, he can even find notes of you. Smelling you again, even just in traces, has his body thrumming with nervous energy, has him biting the inside of his cheek to keep his fangs from extending.

“Carmen will check you out,” the vampire says as they lead him to a counter with another vamp behind it. He nods in thanks, unable to speak with your scent at the forefront of his mind. Maybe two days wasn’t enough, he thinks, before admitting to himself that he’ll be disappointed if he returns and can’t find you on the air again.

“I would go straight home with this donation, it’s quite potent,” Carmen instructs kindly, bringing up a large styrofoam container and setting it on the counter between them and Vernon. He doesn’t know how he feels about the knowledge that your blood calls to others too.

On one hand, it makes him feel more normal, feel better about his lack of control when it comes to you. On the other, he hates the idea of other vampires thirsting after you, both because he's oddly possessive already and because it means you're less safe in this world than he thought.

“I will, for sure,” Vernon forces out as he signs on the digital pad, his eyes caught on all the ruby red waiting for him. He carefully loads the bags into his backpack, shouldering it quickly and thanking Carmen before spinning on his heel and zipping out of the room. He tries to slow his steps as he walks through the lobby, but he’s starving, desperate, half rabid with the idea of having your taste on his tongue.

He races home, his form a blur on the streets of New York as he weaves in and out of pedestrians and leaps over moving taxis to get to his apartment. Darting up the stairs and bursting through the door, Vernon drops his backpack and digs through his kitchen drawers for a straw, exclaiming triumphantly when he gets his hands on one.

The zipper of his backpack is nearly torn with how quickly he pulls it open, his hand plunging inside and pulling out a single bag of blood. There’s a small covered opening for a straw and while he’s sure some vampires are classier than him and like to put it in a glass, he's happy to drink right from the bag.

He’d be happiest drinking it right from the source, his brain supplies rather unhelpfully as he brings the straw to his lips and takes his first sip, his mind suspiciously absent of the cognitive dissonance he usually feels at drinking blood.

The flavor bursts on his tongue, bright and sparkling like champagne but heady like dark chocolate, with something laced throughout that makes his dick throb.

That something could only be you, the same something that makes you so fucking alluring to him, that makes him want to bite you all over, sink his teeth into your neck and your breasts and your thighs and-

His eyes roll back at the second sip, which is somehow better than the first, and before he knows it, he’s sinking to his knees and sucking mindlessly at the liquid gold. The bag empties and his stomach fills, and still, he wants more. More of your blood, more of you, just more.

He needs to pace himself though, needs to make it last through the week before you can donate again, and going through half the bags in one sitting just because it tastes so fucking good is not the way to do that.

So after just one, he stands on unsteady knees and brings his backpack to the kitchen, reluctantly loading the bags into his minifridge. He closes the door and waits for your scent to go away, except it never does.

Not a few hours later, when he’s working on music and answering your texts.

Not the next day either, giving him nebulous dreams of you as he rests the daylight away, dreams that glow red, dreams of wandering hands and teeth, dreams that taste like you.

When Friday rolls around and his apartment is still flooded with your fragrance, he gives up hope that it’ll ever go away. And if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t want it to go away. He can’t be close to you right now, maybe for the foreseeable future, and if this and your blood are all he can get, he’ll take it.

It would be nice if he could stop jerking off all the time, though.

He just can’t help it. It starts when he gets his first taste of you, the twitching and pulsing and thickening of his dick distracting when all he wants is to focus on his meal. Of course, it doesn’t go away when he finishes the bag, so he has no choice but to take himself in hand and try to suppress the ravenous thoughts that always intrude.

This blood was inside her, don’t you want to be inside of her too?

If her blood tastes this good, what does her pussy taste like?

If you get your hands on her and eat her right, fuck her well, maybe she’ll stay.

He feels bad, guilty, thinking of you when he touches himself. You’re his friend, his only friend, and here he is, dreaming of taking you and keeping you. It would be different if it was just once, but it’s been every night since he first tasted you, and it’s nearly routine by now.

Wake up, let the taste of you fill his mouth, rub one out.

Work on his music, think of you, rub one out.

Do some reading, get a whiff of you on the air, rub one out.

Have synthetic for dinner, think of how much better you taste, rub one out.

As a human, there’s no way he could have sustained cumming four times a day, but as a vampire, he has all the time and fluids in the world. It’s almost a curse, as he has literally no reason not to do it beyond, of course, the guilt. Even that isn’t enough to deter him, it almost makes him feel hotter, dirtier, needier, knowing he’s thinking things he shouldn’t be.

It’s around two AM when the opportunity to stop presents itself.

Vernon is half gone already, his hand slick with lube on his aching dick, when your name lights up on his phone.

You haven't been able to stay up late for him in a few days because standardized testing season has begun, and he scrambles to answer your call with his free hand, the other still wrapped around his cock.

“Hey!” Vernon doesn’t even try to hide his excitement at getting to speak with you, the voice notes you send him not nearly comparable to actually talking with you in real time.

“Hi, Vernon,” your voice is a bit raspy, your words heavy with sleep, and now is the time for him to take his hand off his dick, to devote his attention to you.

Now is the time, but for the life (death?) of him, he can’t.

“What are you doing up so late?” He asks, both out of curiosity and out of the desire to get you to talk more as he slides his hand down to the base of his cock.

“Woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, just wanted to hear your voice,” you whisper, a rustling following your words as you readjust in bed. He tries to picture you, wonders if you’re laying on your back or your side or your stomach as you speak. Wonders even more what you’re wearing, his mind conjuring images of you in pajamas, all comfy and cozy and safe in bed.

You ask him about his music and he manages to answer, though he doesn’t know what words cross his lips, just that you respond with enthusiasm and excitement. It’s easy enough to keep you talking, he just has to ask about your class or how your brothers are doing, and then he doesn’t even have to focus on what you’re saying, just how you’re saying it.

The guilt sits heavily in his stomach, claws its way up his throat until all he can manage are hums and grunts and vaguely questioning noises as you speak. His release builds with every word from you, every stroke of his hand, every flash of shameful passion, and just when he’s on the brink, he hears you say his name.

“Vernon, are you- are you… touching yourself?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

His hand freezes on his cock, orgasm out of sight and alarm bells blaring in his head as he waits for the disgust, the anger, the hurt. He deserves it all, and-

“Keep going.”

Your voice is hushed and breathy but urgent, and before his mind can catch up to what this means, his hand moves. There’s a slick sound when it reaches the root of his cock, and he realizes he must have been so entranced by you, he didn’t even notice how noisy he was being.

He hears a gasp on the other end of the line, visualizes you on your back with your fingers between your thighs, and instantly, he’s on the edge again. But before he can cum, he needs to know, “Are you touching yourself too?”

“Yes,” you say, though it sounds more like a sigh.

He lets his eyes fall closed and there you are, phone pressed to your ear in the dark, your hands busy at work on your body as you listen to him jerk off. In his mind, one of your hands is clutching your breast, rolling your nipple, squeezing to test the give of your own flesh. The other is under the sheets, rubbing your swollen clit or filling your little cunt with your fingers.

“Are you wet?” He gasps, his hand a blur on his length as he starts to spiral.

“So wet, Vernon. Just for you.”

And fuck if that isn’t the best thing he’s heard in his all his years on this earth. It’s enough to make his balls draw up tight, to make his cock twitch against his palm, to make it leak like a broken faucet.

It’s enough to make him cum.

He throws his head back, barely holding onto the phone, groans and whimpers escaping his parted lips as cold cum shoots out of his dick to cover his stomach and hand. He lays there, panting just for the sensation of it, until he hears a sharp keen, one that has his cock twitching back to life against his belly. It’s followed by whines and gasps, and Vernon can only assume what they are, what they mean.

“Did you cum?” He asks with desperation, needing to know you found your pleasure like he did.

“Yeah… It was so nice,” you sound sleepy again, but your words are sugar coated, sweet in his ears.

“Was that okay? I mean I didn’t ask you before,” he’s nervous now, knowing that he was jerking off to you, with you, without your consent.

“So many questions, Vernon.” Fuck, he loves his name on your tongue. “You probably shouldn’t do that with anyone else, but it was okay with me, obviously.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” he says instantly, thoughtlessly. He’d be blushing if he could, embarrassed at confessing so quickly, but he doesn’t regret it. Especially when he hears you say, “Good, I don’t want anyone else either.”

There’s a smile in your voice, tired as it is, and he knows he should tell you to sleep but he’s just not ready to let you go yet. So he doesn’t, leading you into another conversation and listening attentively as you give him the details of your newly overhauled skincare routine. He doesn’t need to worry about his skin, and he didn’t when he was human, but he likes talking about it with you anyway.

You’re so passionate about the products you use and their effects, and he can’t help but smile as you rave about the new retinol you added. The conversation evolves naturally, meandering back to his music and the new singer he’s working with, a faerie (which exist apparently) named Seungkwan.

He’s halfway into a story about how he and Seungkwan have a whole song finished bar the last note, something they just can’t seem to agree on, when he notices your breathing slowing, growing deeper. It’s almost four now, and you’ll need to be up in two hours to ready yourself for work, so he’s glad you’re getting some sleep.

He doesn’t hang up for a few minutes, just listening to your breathing and the little noises you make as you slumber, feeling more calm than he has in a full week. Finding release with you seems to have tempered his raging lust for now, though he knows it will come back with a vengeance just as soon as he allows himself to think about it.

About how you said you were wet for him, just for him…

No! Vernon needs to focus, needs to take advantage of not having his hunger for you clouding his mind. He’s got two hours till the sunrise, and he should use them working on Seungkwan’s EP.

First, he needs to take care of the layer of drying cum covering his hand and stomach, scooching to the edge of the bed and standing before walking to the bathroom, not feeling the urge to rush for once.

He only sets the shower to lukewarm but it feels searing hot on his chilly skin when he steps in, a shiver rippling down his spine as he rinses his dick clean. Honestly, he could go again, but he feels fulfilled enough that he doesn’t pay any mind to the way it hardens under the spray of the water.

Instead, he moves through the rest of his routine swiftly, washing his hair just for the sake of normalcy before shutting the stream off and shaking himself fast enough to vibrate away half the water covering his skin.

A towel mops up the rest, gets dragged through his hair until it’s no longer dripping and then gets hung on the hook to dry. He stares at the empty mirror for a while, trying to conjure his own visage, trying to remember how he looks, before shaking his head and returning to his bedroom.

There’s no good in wishing things were different. This is his life now, and it will be forever.

But it’s immeasurably better with you in it, enough so that he thinks he might not regret being turned into a vampire for once, just because it led him to you.

AN: Vernon masturbates on the phone with reader without telling her or asking for her consent, so I'm tagging as dubious consent (she's into it tho)

AN II: i am fr so sorry it's taken me this long to release part 2 😭 i had so much inspo and passion for this project and it's faded a bit, but i'm doing my best to find it again and finish this!

i'd love to know your thoughts! pls feel free to let me know how you feel via reblog, reply, or ask!!

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#YEHEEHAH #Vernon #seventeen #vampires #vampire!au #au #smut #nsfw

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dxndjxrin · 3 months ago

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Bloodhound Pt. I | chs x reader

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~4.5k | Pairing: chs x reader | Genre: romance, supernatural au

Life as a vampire isn't the easiest for Vernon, friend-wise or feeding-wise. He's ready to find a solution, and he thinks it just might be you.

Warnings: blood mentions (i mean it's a vampire fic like ...), non explicit sexual advances from strangers online, suggestive thoughts, involuntary thoughts of violence/murder, the briefest angst (it's me lbr), food mention, mention of being unable to eat

Reader Notes: human, has 2 brothers (i don't name or describe them so they can be other members if u want), currently ungendered (will have breasts and vagina in future smut)

It took a while for Vernon to figure out what happened to him. He still doesn’t know all the details, just that he woke up in an alley with blood all over his clothes and a burning in his throat that wouldn’t cease, and even now, he doesn’t know who did this. Who made him like this.

This being a vampire, of course.

He knew they existed, but in his short twenty five years walking the earth as a human, he doesn’t think he ever met one. He supposes now he has, considering the fact that he didn’t just wake up like this out of nowhere. He wonders if they meant to change him, or if he bit back and managed to get some of their blood in his system before they left him for dead.

Either way, he’s a vampire now, and it fucking sucks. Literally and metaphorically.

There are many cons, and only a few pros, he’s discovered in the six months since he was turned. He can’t go out in the sun anymore, and he’s so strong, he’s broken three phones. Worse than that, he likes the taste of blood now, likes feeling the coppery liquid fill his mouth before he swallows it down, likes the way it soothes his throat and sates his hunger. His brain still screams at him that it’s not normal or right or cool of him to be drinking fucking blood, and the cognitive dissonance gives him a headache every time he feeds.

That’s another con, the feeding. He doesn’t want to just snatch innocent people and drain them dry like his maker did, but he can’t afford blood bags like the rich vampires, and he also hates the synthetic options available on the market. They all have an awful taste, like too sour grapes, and the weirdest consistency, just a bit too thin to alleviate the burning he still feels.

That leaves him to find willing donors, which is surprisingly difficult when you don’t want to fuck them too. He doesn’t have anything against fetishists, but he also doesn’t have a lot of experience, and gaining it with people who only like him because he’s a vampire isn’t what he wants.

He’s tried the apps, tried the matching services, but they all lead to people who just want him for his venom, and he’s grown tired of it. So, he does the next logical thing.

He puts an ad out on Craigslist.

Vernon wakes from his daily rest to find his inbox completely full, his phone buzzing on a near constant vibration with every email received. He props himself up on an elbow in bed (no, he doesn’t sleep in a coffin), and scrolls through, cringing at all of the sexual subject lines and wondering if maybe he shouldn’t have included pictures.

He felt like it was the normal thing to do, share part of himself in hopes someone will share back, but it seems all he’s done is made them feel bolder, made them feel more comfortable being open about what they want from him, even though he clearly put NOT DTF in the listing. But maybe that’s a good thing?

He can easily weed out the people who don’t actually want to help him out, and he doesn’t even have to open every single message to find out who they are. His thumb blurs as he deletes email after email, the amount in his inbox dwindling the longer he swipes, until finally, he’s left with one unread.

The subject line is innocuous enough, [interested in becoming friends with “benefits”], and he opens it to find a picture of you, with your arms extended on either side and seemingly wrapped around something, though nothing appears in the picture. You begin by saying that your two vampire brothers took the photo with you, which explains the empty spaces, and continue to tell him that they were changed against their will, attacked on their way home from seeing Spiderman in the movies a few years ago.

That tugs the corners of his lips down, makes him feel sorry that there are other vamps out there like him, other vamps who didn’t choose this life. He knew he wasn’t the only one, but seeing, or he supposes not seeing proof drives the idea home.

Apparently, they struggled with finding a source of sustenance too, never wanting to turn to you for your blood or your help, and when you saw his post, it made you think maybe you could help someone, in some way.

He’s curious what solution your brothers found, and curious if you’re really offering to be fwbb (friends with blood benefits), but reminds himself to be cautious - this could all be a lie to lure him in, to get his defenses down so you can go after what you really want. He maintains that thought as he types out a reply to you, trying to play it cool and not get his hopes up.

Vernon | hey! im sorry to hear what happened to your brothers, my turning was under similar circumstances. ive been looking for someone for a while, someone who i could feed from without hurting, but maybe also a friend too? Idk i lost most of mine when i was changed, even though i didn’t ask for it, and it would be nice to have someone who understands like it seems you could

Okay, so that didn’t come out cautious at all. He practically laid his soul bare and sent it off to you with a smile (literally he ended the email with his name and a smiling emoji). But it’s already in the void, in the cloud, out of his hands, and now all he can do is wait.

Vernon doesn’t have to wait for long, he finds. You reply within minutes, the buzz making him jump and glance away from the space he was staring into. He does that a lot now, just finds some point in the room and sets his eyes on it, thoughts running through his mind in circles and zig zags and parallel lines.

His phone is still lit up with the email icon, and when he brings it up to his face, it unlocks to reveal a new message from you.

You | Oh no, I hate to hear it happened to you too! Is it still fresh? I know you said you were only turned a few months ago. My brothers wouldn’t even see me for a year after, too concerned that they’d snap and hurt me. I never had that fear, but I never blamed them for it either.

Funny, that’s the fear that drove his friends away in the first place. It’s nice to hear you don’t have it, that you accepted your brothers’ new forms immediately and also accepted their worries, didn’t get upset or hold it against them when they felt they couldn’t be near you for your own safety.

You | I think we could definitely make this work! I have blood and friendship to spare, and you’re in need of both. My only restriction is that I can’t offer too much of the first on weekdays, I teach third grade and I need all my energy to wrangle those kids :-)

So you’re a teacher too? Are you just entirely altruistic or…?

If you are, he thinks this might really be good, maybe even great. His heart would be racing if it could still move, and he can’t stop himself from scrolling back up to find your picture. He didn’t pay much mind to it before, didn’t study your face like he’s doing now, and he really should have before responding to you.

Because you’re beautiful, and he’s in danger.

In danger of what, he doesn’t know, but he can feel it stirring in his belly, burning like hunger and brewing like need, and before he knows it, his fangs are poking at his bottom lip and his dick is throbbing.

But he won’t give in, won’t ruin this with his base desires, won’t become something to fear.

He needs a blood source and a friend, and if he wants you to be both, he can’t be lusting after you like the monster he worries he really is.

Vernon exchanges emails with you for days after that, going over logistics and preferences and possibilities. You decide together that you’ll meet next month, after some time spent getting to know and trust each other, and he decides not to feed from you that first meeting, wanting you to feel comfortable and safe with him before he sinks his teeth into you.

It makes him feel giddy almost, the anticipation of having a friend, of having someone to drink from who doesn’t carry ulterior motives, of having you. Emails become texts which become calls, and soon enough, he’s got the tone and cadence of your voice memorized. He learns how you take your coffee in the morning, knows that you’d both die and kill for your kids, hears the love in your voice when you’re talking about your brothers.

You’re a real, genuine person, and Vernon can’t wait to meet you.

The days and nights fly by now that he has someone to talk to, and it only hits him the week before your meetup that not only will he be meeting you, you’ll be meeting him.

You’ll be seeing and hearing and perceiving him, and suddenly, he’s nervous out of his mind. He hasn’t met anyone that stuck around since he was changed, and he’s all too aware that you could slip out of his life just as easily as you slipped in.

In the days before, he tries to remind himself that you’ve already heard his voice, already seen his face, that you know he’s a vampire and haven’t shown any sign of running.

It doesn’t occur to him to worry about his own reaction to you, which is mistake number one.

Mistake number two is going to your meeting hungry.

You settle into the booth, latte in hand and heart beating out of your chest, and keep your eyes locked on the door. Vernon should be arriving soon, and with so many conflicting emotions razing your thoughts, you don’t know how you feel exactly.

You’re nervous, of course, as you should be when it comes to meeting online people in real life. You’re scared a little, because what if he’s not as harmless as he seems? He is still a vampire, and he could still easily kill you. But you’re also a bit… excited? He’s cute and sweet and in dire need of a confidante, and you think you could be that for him.

Over the weeks spent getting to know Vernon, you’ve grown fond of him, fond of his dry jokes and his media recommendations and his fascinating opinions, and you’re interested to see if your easy back and forth will remain in person.

This should be a good environment to test it out, you think.

You chose this cafe because it’s open twenty four hours, but also because it’s welcoming to vamps, serving a few synthetic options and even carrying donated blood for those with a bigger budget.

What will Vernon get, you wonder? Will he go for synthetic even though he’s admitted to you that he hates it, or will he spring for a blood bag, drink it in front of you with a straw like it’s expensive cherry cola?

Will he buy nothing, deny his hunger and his state of being?

It’s a shame you don’t get to find out.

Vernon takes in a no longer necessary deep breath to steady his nerves and places his hand on the door of the cafe, primed to pull it open. There’s a growl in his stomach, an emptiness that reminds him he didn’t have a chance to feed before, and he pushes it down, drowns it out, ignoring it for all he’s worth.

There’ll be time later, after he finally meets you.

His hand is steady as he pulls the door open but his ice cold heart is in his throat, lodged there like something he can’t swallow down.

“Come on in!” The barista calls out, allowing him to cross the threshold and enter the cafe. He nods in thanks and starts to scan the tables for someone familiar, someone whose picture he definitely doesn’t look at before he lays himself to rest every morning. His eyes catch on a hand raised, one that leads down a soft arm to a gently sloped shoulder and up a tantalizing neck to a sweet, kind, open face. Your sweet, kind, open face.

He grins, beams really, and races over, stirring napkins and shifting chairs with his sudden movement. He’s about to slide into the booth across from you when it hits him.

Your scent.

It’s like a brick wall smashing into him, every sane, rational thought in his head scattering like rubble in the wake of your natural perfume, unmarred by synthetic smells and caustic chemicals like so many others out there.

Instantly, the burning in his throat starts, except this time, it’s an inferno, a supernova of pain and need and desire and hunger screaming at him to take take take. His fangs shoot out, bursting through his bottom lip and making him cover his mouth, frantically backing away from you with his eyes wide and his other hand held out to keep you in the booth when it looks like you might follow him.

He bumps into tables and chairs as he flees, his blazing red eyes still locked with yours, part feral, part apologetic. The door slams behind him but he doesn’t hear it as he runs, his ears full of a roaring voice telling him that he’s going the wrong way, that he needs to go back to you and steal you and keep you and sip drink devour until you’re his, all his, until you’re glassy eyed and your heart is slow and your breaths are even slower.

Which is fucking terrifying, the thought of ever hurting you like that, of wanting to hurt you like that, making him shake with rage at himself and despair over likely blowing it with you.

He’s miles out of the city before he stops running.

When he finally does, he turns in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings and attempting to find his humanity again even with his mind still screaming at him to find you and fucking kidnap you. His clothes are torn and his bones are aching and his stomach is empty, so very, very empty, but nothing is worse than the shame.

He wasn’t strong enough for you. He wasn’t in control, wasn’t even capable of sitting across from you without wanting to drag you over the table and either kiss you breathless or suck you dry.

Numbly, he sinks to the ground, laying himself out on the forest floor and staring up at the moon peeking through the trees.

He feels like it’s taunting him.

The moon used to be his friend, back when he was human. He was a perpetual night owl, always staying up late with his curtains open and music blaring and the light of the moon filtering in through the window. His roommates didn’t mind the noise because they were all making their own, and it wasn’t often any one of them would be sleeping before the sun came up.

He lived most of his life at night and slept during the day, wasting the sunshine and warmth and normal waking hours like the ungrateful bastard he was.

He can remember the moon that night. The night he was bitten.

It was a blood moon, foreshadowing trouble around the bend, and it’s about the only thing he does remember before the agony blinded him and his memories started to flicker through his brain, going too fast for him to make sense of much.

Some stood out, like when his baby sister came home for the first time, screaming and crying until she set those big eyes on him and fell silent, transfixed. Or when he was thirteen and broke his arm sledding in Prospect Park, pretending after that it didn’t hurt because all his friends were watching, waiting for tears. Or when he got a full ride at Berklee for music production, every exhausting day sped up and reduced to a flash before he saw himself walking across the stage and shaking the Dean’s hand.

He succumbed to the encroaching darkness soon after, the red moon growing nearer and nearer in his mind’s eye. He awoke hours later, just minutes before the sunrise, with his throat on fire and his body feeling like someone else’s.

This moon is full and silver, friendlier looking than the last one he remembers, but no less foreboding.

This moon is the one he ruined everything under.

He’s sure any chance he had with you is gone. Any chance to be your friend or maybe even more, as he’s realizing only now that he did want more. Does want more.

How could he not, when you matched his energy, met him quip for quip, made him a playlist and a hypothetical skincare routine? When you devoted so much of your time to helping others and still made some for him? When you’re so beautiful inside and out, that it would take his breath away if he needed to breathe?

How could he ever not want more with you?

You stare down at your undoubtedly cold latte and furrow your brows, scrunching your mouth to the side as you remember how Vernon ran from you.

The barista has already been by to check on you, and you can still feel their eyes every so often, concern and pity rolling off of them in waves. You appreciate their empathy, but you feel a bit raw, a bit on edge, and you wish you could just burrow into the booth and go unseen. You’d leave but too many people who witnessed it remain, and you don’t have it in you to walk past them just yet.

That leaves you to wrap your trembling hands around the mug and bring it up to your lips, attempting to act like nothing is wrong. Like it’s normal for your possible friend and perhaps crush to dash away at one whiff of you.

You have to assume that’s what happened. He seemed so happy to see you, his mouth stretching wide in a smile and his hand coming up to mirror yours as he zoomed over in a blur. The wind he created made you laugh but it also rustled your hair, blew it away from your neck and probably wafted the scent of your rushing blood toward him.

You don’t wear perfume or use fragranced products, your brothers’ noses are too sensitive for that, and you bite your lip, considering that perhaps you should have just this once. Your brothers are old enough to be able to control themselves but Vernon isn’t.

He may be twenty five in human years but in the vampire world, he’s still a baby, and you didn’t approach him as such.

Fuck, this is all your fault.

You sip down the latte slowly, the rich bittersweetness heavy on your tongue, and take a small bite of the cake the barista brought over while you were stewing in your thoughts. It settles like a stone in your belly and you push it away, unable to eat with the idea that you may never see or hear from Vernon again blaring in your mind.

It’s only been a few weeks since you started talking to him but he feels… special. Important. Like someone who’s meant to be in your life. You’d hate to go back to not having him in it, especially now that you know what it’s like with him around.

Everything is brighter, happier, more vibrant. You wake with a smile on your face knowing you’ll have a goodnight text from him, countdown the minutes from sunrise to sunset knowing he’ll call you as soon as he opens his eyes, go about your day wishing you were sleeping next to him instead.

You don’t want to be a vampire, but by God you really think you could love this one.

So you’re not going to let him go that easily. You’re not going to let him fade into the night, never to be seen again. And you’re definitely not going to let him be alone anymore, not like he has been since he was turned.

With determination alight in your veins, you unlock your phone and find Vernon’s contact, pressing call and assuming he’ll send you to voicemail. You have a lot to say, and you’ll be glad to get it off your chest. You’re surprised when a ragged voice greets you, sounding, for all intents and purposes, dead inside.

“Hello?”

“Vernon?” You gasp desperately, any thought of a speech gone from your head as soon as you hear his voice.

“Y/n?” He gasps back, suddenly full of wonder and light and life. “I didn’t check before I answered, I can’t believe it’s you.”

“Why can’t you believe it’s me? We talk every day,” you joke halfheartedly, not even trying to suppress the frown at his response.

“I thought you’d never want to speak to me again after I went feral like that,” he confesses, shame and dejection obvious in both his words and his voice.

“Vernon, you didn’t go feral. Feral would have been killing me. You ran instead, hell, you protected me!”

“Yeah, from myself,” he laughs acerbically, making you roll your eyes at his self-deprecating tone.

“Listen, you’re still new. My brothers had run-ins like this too, it’s not a sign of your character or your control. It’s just a byproduct of your nature, you can’t help it,” you insist, pleading with him to understand and stop blaming himself.

“That almost makes it worse! The fact that there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can change. I don’t think I can see you until I figure this out,” he sighs regretfully, and somehow you can picture him shaking his head, his brow furrowed and his mouth tight.

“What are you going to do until then? How are you going to feed?” You ask in concern, knowing it’s already been a few days and selfishly wanting him to change his mind.

“I don’t know, I’ll spring for the blood bags and try some synthetic too,” you can tell he’s shrugging, and his nonchalance at being able to fucking eat has you lighting up with anger. You tamp it down, try to temper it, but your anger isn’t just at him.

You’re upset with the world, with the greedy overlords who decide the price of life, with the asshole who took Vernon’s away from him, with the fact that he may never be able to control himself around you. Talking has been enough for the last month but that’s just with you in the crush phase.

What happens when you finally fall in actual facts love with him?

“Vernon…,” you start, not knowing where you’re going but knowing where you want to finish (with his teeth in your neck and your body on top of his).

“Y/n, I’m not risking you.”

He sounds as firm as you’ve ever heard him, and you feel the anger ramp up and then wash away as you realize you’re simply not going to win. There is still a way you could help him though. It might be tedious and painful, but you’re willing to endure it for Vernon.

“What if I go to a donation center and have them reserve it for you? You’d just have to tell them your name and show your ID and you could drink my blood instead of paying for bags. You may still need to supplement with synthetic but together they could tide you over until we can meet again.”

There’s silence on the other end for a few minutes, minutes you spend picking at your nails and going over tomorrow’s lesson plan in your head. You doubt he realizes how long he’s been thinking about it, but you’re not going to rush him when it’s likely that his hasty answer would be no.

“I don’t know… I could still- You’d have to be so far away from me, I couldn’t even smell you,” he sounds unsure, apprehensive, and you don’t want to force him into it but you know this is the best solution.

“You could wait a day or two before going to pick it up? It’ll be less fresh but maybe by then my scent will have faded,” you offer, nearly ready to beg him to say yes.

A few more beats follow, your breathing steady and calm though your heart is racing, galloping in your chest as you wait for his response. You just want to know Vernon is happy and healthy and fed, you just want to take care of him. It seems like no one has done that in a long time, maybe since even before he was turned.

“Okay, we can try,” he still sounds reluctant, but there’s an edge too, a determination that wasn’t there before.

You bite back the squeal, vibrating in your seat as you look up centers nearby. There’s one just down the street and it’s open twenty four hours, so realistically, you could go right now.

“I’ll donate tonight, just don’t change your mind in the next couple days, okay?” You rush to say, grinning and relaxing in the booth when you hear him let out an easy laugh.

“I’ll do my best,” he chuckles, and though you know you should hang up and get going, you can’t help but linger.

“Did you make it back to your apartment alright?” You ask, realizing you don’t hear any music or TV in the background like you normally do.

“Ummm, I think I might be in Connecticut actually.”

He’s not nearly as bothered by this as you are, he even sounds almost carefree compared to how he first picked up the phone.

As if he can anticipate your responses, he says, “I’m not coming back until you’re home safe, okay? With the door locked.”

“You don’t even know where I live,” you remind him, jest in your voice and fondness in your heart.

“That doesn’t matter. I could find you anywhere with how good you smell,” his admission sounds apologetic almost, like he’s sorry for wanting your blood so bad he could find you by fragrance.

Honestly, you preen a bit, flattered that you seem to affect him so.

“Let me go to the blood bank and get you squared away first, then I’ll go straight home and lock all my locks,” you can hear the smile in your voice, hear the affection, and you wonder if Vernon hears them too. You hope he does.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

AN: i was super excited to kickstart baby vamp vernon so i figured i'd post on his (and dk's) birthday!! this was inspired by a series of asks, but mainly this one. it got a bit more plot heavy than i expected but i'm having a good time so far!! i have the second part written already and i'm hoping to write part three before i release part two just so i can stay ahead of it and yall don't have to wait too long!

pls pls pls reblog and lmk how you liked it! you don't know how happy it makes me to see your thoughts and feelings on my work, they're my fuel to keep sharing my writing 🥰

*warnings for this were a bit tricky so if you think i missed anything, lmk and i'll be happy to add it!

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