#AND WHEN HE STOPPED WORKING THERE YOU THEN SAID FUCK IT AND MOVED BACK TO RUSSIA TO APPEASE THE GHOST OF YOUR DAD

[geminiwritten]

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

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

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

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

He lives for it. 

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

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Bob is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

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

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

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

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

He blinks fast. “No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

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

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

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

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

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

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

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

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

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

Well... almost everyone. 

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

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.” 

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show. 

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.” 

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close. 

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.” 

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes. 

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea. 

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.” 

You swear your knees nearly give. 

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something. 

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?” 

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.” 

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word. 

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1. 

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him. 

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up. 

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet. 

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.” 

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.” 

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.” 

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating. 

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.” 

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?” 

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through. 

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!” 

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops. 

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.” 

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.” 

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order? 

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.” 

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.” 

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution. 

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest. 

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.” 

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature. 

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?” 

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical. 

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn. 

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?” 

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved. 

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.” 

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.” 

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel. 

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.” 

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.” 

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.” 

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs. 

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl. 

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground. 

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room. 

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed. 

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.” 

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.” 

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—” 

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?” 

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice. 

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.” 

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.” 

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch. 

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. 

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—” 

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?” 

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. 

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life. 

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?” 

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.” 

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.” 

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?” 

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?” 

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.” 

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes. 

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?” 

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha. 

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?” 

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.” 

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.” 

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home. 

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home. 

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow. 

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?” 

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?” 

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place. 

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.” 

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?” 

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.” 

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.” 

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.” 

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.” 

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps. 

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him. 

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.” 

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.” 

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room. 

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling. 

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them. 

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest? 

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take. 

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance. 

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word. 

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot. 

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley. 

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.” 

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.” 

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?” 

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.” 

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?” 

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away. 

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes. 

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.” 

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?” 

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence. 

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.” 

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over. 

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest. 

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him. 

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” 

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked. 

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs. 

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet. 

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex. 

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame. 

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?” 

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try. 

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.” 

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing. 

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.” 

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing. 

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing. 

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?” 

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside. 

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin. 

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.” 

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.” 

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile. 

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.” 

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting. 

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.” 

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.” 

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins. 

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.” 

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention. 

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you. 

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather. 

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.” 

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.” 

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him. 

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.” 

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.” 

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round. 

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night. 

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket. 

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return. 

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands. 

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back. 

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion. 

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you. 

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.” 

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is. 

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands. 

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.” 

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.” 

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?” 

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest. 

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists. 

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch. 

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.” 

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale. 

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…” 

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering. 

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid. 

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. 

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.” 

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg. 

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly. 

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.” 

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.” 

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you. 

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh. 

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge. 

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.” 

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.” 

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.” 

They all look at you, confused. 

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply. 

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief. 

You frown. “What?” 

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.” 

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look. 

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.” 

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?” 

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.” 

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?” 

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.” 

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?” 

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn. 

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug. 

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.” 

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you. 

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.” 

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.” 

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?” 

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?” 

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.” 

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief. 

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group. 

Everyone falls silent. 

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.” 

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes. 

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place. 

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?” 

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.” 

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?” 

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.” 

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.” 

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra. 

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you. 

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?” 

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place. 

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?” 

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists. 

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.” 

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor. 

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.” 

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.” 

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.” 

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car. 

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him. 

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?” 

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.” 

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad. 

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.” 

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?” 

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.” 

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.” 

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.” 

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.” 

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.” 

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.” 

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him. 

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’ 

An hour passes. Nothing. 

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you. 

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore. 

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings. 

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try. 

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you. 

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now. 

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric. 

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him… 

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times. 

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs. 

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you. 

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead. 

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—” 

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep. 

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest. 

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now? 

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.” 

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down. 

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it? 

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait. 

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were. 

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back. 

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.” 

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.” 

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?” 

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.” 

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.” 

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?” 

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.” 

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought. 

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face. 

“Trevor…” 

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?” 

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.” 

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.” 

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop. 

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all. 

But deep down, you know the truth. 

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago. 

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd. 

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken. 

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift. 

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room. 

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open. 

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed. 

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry. 

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated. 

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers. 

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve. 

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.” 

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room. 

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule. 

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it. 

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves. 

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded. 

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before. 

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still. 

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike. 

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet. 

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.” 

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely. 

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.” 

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration. 

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race. 

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle. 

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.” 

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it. 

“Vex—” he tries again. 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line. 

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams. 

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!” 

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur. 

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—” 

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!” 

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—" 

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest. 

You’re not going to make it. 

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard. 

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below. 

Then—freefall. 

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine. 

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop. 

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream. 

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind. 

- 

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet. 

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it. 

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital. 

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture. 

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace. 

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible. 

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement. 

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier. 

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go. 

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button. 

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position. 

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now. 

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.” 

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets. 

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?” 

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way. 

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?” 

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.” 

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting. 

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says. 

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.” 

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back. 

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.” 

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—” 

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.” 

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—” 

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—” 

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.” 

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.” 

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out. 

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back. 

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable. 

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist. 

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate. 

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse. 

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

[justevelynnnn]

Don’t open that!

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Reader

Summary: Mark slips up and sends you a picture but what he doesn’t know is you actually end up liking it…

Warnings: MDNI 🔞, Reader is written with being afab in mind but can be gender neutral, mentions of a d pic being sent to reader

A/N: This idea came up to me while i was at work so i had to get it out…but omg imagine this scenario with me😭 also I’m working on a lot of my drafts and requests tonight I promise😭‼️

It was just another late saturday night. You were trying decompress from working earlier that day as well as letting your dinner digest before bed. You lived a simple life. You had your own place now even though you were 20. It was nice, small but yours. It had ambient lighting, a candle here and there…lots of pillows….

Your bed was extra soft tonight too though it probably just feels that way because of how tired you were.

You also had a decent view.

Sometimes you’d leave your window cracked open just in case Mark stopped by. Ever since he got with Amber and then later Eve you haven’t seen him much, but he still came by occasionally. It was just hard. You were convinced you guys would get married and everything back in high school.

A crush might be an understatement to be honest, but saying you were in love was also too much. Especially because you were a teenager, like, what did you know about love? Even though everything still reminded you of him. Or you loved being around him no matter what you guys were doing.

Mark being invincible was weird too. Your ex best friend, a superhero. Flying and punching bad guys daily. Going into literal outer space. It definitely took some getting used to.

Now you were laying on your bed upside down and scrolling on social media. Aside from the occasional video that popped up and the cars honking from below it was quiet in your room. Nice and peaceful.

You didn’t know you had silent mode off on your phone though so that’s why the sudden DING! from your phone scared the shit out of you.

It was message. From Mark.

It said:

Just now | Mark💞 : [One attachment]

You quirked an eyebrow. A meme maybe?

Your finger moved to click the notification. It’s been days since he sent you anything honestly so part of you was excited. However, when you saw what it was your jaw dropped and your heart took a fucking screenshot.

If the angle wasn’t enough it was that dick. His.

Your eyes settled on it for a full minute. You assumed he saw you were looking because he had read receipts on…but you typed nothing. You couldn’t. What could you even say?

You couldn’t even be mad. You should’ve. It was an unprovoked dick pic. In the past, you’d be fuming by now, but, obviously, this was different. Right?

He had his phone angled so it was as if one were looking up at him, his shirt up on his torso so his abs showed, and right in the forefront was his hardened dick. Right there. His tip was flushed and oozing from what you saw too. You couldn’t hell but think that just like his face, his dick was just as captivating.

His face was in the corner but kinda cut but you could see his eyes half lidded and his face was rosy pink.

You mouthed, “Oh my god…”

Eve or Amber or whoever he was with now that was supposed to get this was lucky as shit. You tried to also ignore the rising jealousy for the mystery girl too.

It’s been 3 minutes now. Maybe he didn’t see it went totally the wrong girl? Part of you was scared it WAS meant for you. Not in a bad way. Maybe you were actually nervous.

Then those 3 dots appeared. Oh god.

You swipe out of your messages app. You couldn’t look and let him see you were still staring.

Then another notification just as quick as the dots appeared came from the top of your screen.

Just Now | Mark 💞: DONT OPEN THAT

Just Now | Mark 💞: Oh my fucking god

Just Now | Mark 💞: Don’t open it please

Just Now | Mark 💞: I’m so sorry

You wondered if he saw the little “read” under to his picture or not. Probably not if he’s telling you not to open it.

You waited a minute while he sent a few more panicked texts. Then you sigh and open the app again. What could you say? Something cocky? A joke? Maybe send an emoji? You had to say something because you already saw it and you didn’t want things to be awkward for days on end following this.

Your fingers just start to move.

You: It’s okay Mark

You: It was a mistake

You paused. You thought hard about sending the next text. Then:

You: Also i have to tell you, you’re really hot

You: Sorry if that’s weird.

Nothing. But it said read immediately. Your heart was still hammering in your chest from it all. This actually changes everything. Part of you wanted to know who it was for. A smaller part wondered why he couldn’t just check who he was sending this to.

Things are going to be awkward now for sure.

He starts typing again seconds later. This time you watch the dots. Anticipation building slowly as you wondered what he was going to say next. You had to look away from your phone and at one of your burning candles as you waited.

Mark 💞: It’s fine

Mark 💞: Sorry i fucked up so bad. i seriously didn’t mean to

Mark 💞: I know your traumatized, i’ll make it up to you i promise

Mark 💞: :(

You giggle a bit at the sad face. He normally used it when he joked so you liked how he could joke about this. Your heart now flutters imagining his reaction. His flushed face and sorry eyes behind his screen. Maybe that lip bite thing he does when he’s nervous.

You typed back slowly, deciding to take a risk.

You: I’m not traumatized….actually i kinda liked it..

Your breath hitches as you hit send and this time you actually threw your phone. You couldn’t look again. Hell no. This was the stupidest thing you couldn’t done-

Ding!

You flinch. You slowly turn your phone around so you could see your lock screen with the notification on it.

Just Now | Mark 💞: Oh?

Just “oh”. Now it your turn to be mortified. Has he figured you out? Does he think you’re weird? You hated how he didn’t use emojis so you knew how he was feeling. Even a hint. Was he intrigued? Or grossed out?

You open your messages to reply with an apology when you see just in time another message come through.

Mark 💞: Wanna see it again?

Your eyes widened for the hundredth time that night. You wanted to type yes in all caps immediately but you withheld. You took a deep breath. Things we changing, and fast. You wanted to do this right. Maybe this is your change to finally get with him in your own eccentric way.

You think hard before responding.

You: I wouldn’t mind

He doesn’t respond for a few more minutes. You wish you knew what he was thinking. And you prayed you didn’t go too far.

And just like that your prayers were answered. You sat up on your bed as you saw the second image come in.

Your face was lit up in the semi dark room when the picture appeared. If looking from outside your window, impossible for being on the tenth floor by the way, they’d see your mixed look of shock and arousal. They’d see how you bit your lip and just stares at your phone.

But no one could ever guess you were looking at your best friend’s dick for the second time that night.

You made a choice and hearted the image.

In his own room, Mark smiled. Sure it was meant for Eve because she decided to get back with Rex but your reaction just changed everything.

[nanamisdollie]

corruption kink with rin? pls >_<

sweet bf rin corrupting his cute gf⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

smut, mdni. characters aged up!! cw: degrading, corruption, dubcon!!

“keep your legs open. i’m not telling you again.”

rins tone was gruff, his lips grazing your thigh while he held your legs apart. everything had happened so fast; one minute you were telling your sweet quiet boyfriend about your day and the next you were pushed back onto the couch, skirt flipped up and panties around your ankles.

all you had said was it had been a long day and rin was straight to wanting to help you relax however he could.

you learned pretty quickly into your relationship with the soccer star that he was obsessive. he got addicted to things and once he decided he wanted something, he was gonna have it. thats exactly how he was with your cunt.

“mmph- don’t be s-so rough”

“shut up. let me stretch your little hole…gotta prep it before i can use it properly”

your breath is shaky as you sit up partially. you push him back by his forehead making his dark hair fall out of his face, his teal eyes locking with yours.

“m’ not ready yet rin…”

you made it clear you were a virgin a few months into seeing each other. he didn’t have much of a reaction, just shrugged it off and went on with whatever you two had been doing.

when you did begin taking things to another level, he was always soft. he praised you in his own unique way, would press kisses to every part of your skin he could, carefully push a single finger inside of you, eyes never moving from you; like missing just one of your reactions would ruin the whole experience.

lately though? something had changed with him;

hands slipping up your skirt to grab ur asscheeks when you went out together, ‘honey’ swapped out for ‘needy girl’, lingering touches that screamed i need you. maybe it was stress, maybe he was just too pent up, you didnt know but you didnt question it. not when he knew how to circle his thumb over ur twitching clit just right to have you cumming in minutes.

“still? come on, dont act dumb. i know you want it” rin sits up from between your legs, his clothed hips slotting against your bare hips. your cunt fluttered, drooling onto the couch feeling the bulge in his sweats against your skin.

“just want you rinnie~”

that did it.

maybe it was the stupid nickname he hated or that sweet tone of voice you only ever had with him. maybe it was the fact that you wanted him, only him. whatever it was made a flip switch.

“yeah? want me?”

swiftly two cool hands grip the backs of your thighs and press them to your chest. a choked whine was the single reaction you could give before his clothed cock is pushing against your folds. his hips rut into you at an agonizingly slow pace that contradicts the grip of his hands. his tip is pressed flush against the dampening grey fabric stopping him from using you properly, barely pushing into your tight unused cunt.

“youve got me now dummy-“ wet lips press to your temple “-you feel that? gonna fuck it into you raw next time, hows that sound?”

your brains barely functioning, too much at once but its so damn good. high pitched whimpers with every roll of rins hips, tongue lolling from parted lips. maybe you did need his cock…

“huh- you need it? fuckin’ knew it”

shit. you said that out loud? were you that fucked out from just this? was just the feeling of your sweet boyfriends mushroom tip violating your hungry cunt enough to have you babbling out your own thoughts?

“yesyesyes- fuck! need it, need you!” drool falls from the corner of your mouth as he attempts to bend you further in half, one of his hands grabbing your skirt and pushing it up so he can get a better view of the mess you were making

dark hair falls into your vision while his hips begin to work harder to get both of you off. rins breathing consists of strained whines and huffs, his eyes still locked on where the two of you meet.

“gonna ruin you- fuckk- wanna make it..make it so no guy can ever use this pussy- ngh- besides me. all fuckin’ mine“

the warmth in ur lower stomach is building with every word he throws out. you dont care if theyre icky, you dont care if theyre mean, you get it now. you want him to ruin you.

“pleasepleaseplease!” you huff out a whimper “m’ all y-yours, ruin me- mmph- please rinnie!”

his hips stutter with a choked sob. then you feel it; something sticky seeping through the fabric that had been humping into you. rins head falls into your shoulder while he catches his breath, mumbling incoherent words against your skin. when he finally sits up and sees the finished mess on not only his pants but your lips he is lowering himself back between your aching thighs to get a taste.

“did it get inside…?” you sound worried as you question him, bottom lip pushed out in a pout

“gonna have to check” his thumbs push your folds apart, getting a good look at your pulsing hole. he presses a gentle kiss to your clit followed by another kiss to your cunt “don’t worry; ill clean you up if any did…cant have you getting knocked up before ive even fucked you properly”

tysm for requesting ^.^ i heart rin so much ohmygod. i never have thought about him being into corruption so i hope i did it some justice!!

[anglbunny]

APHRODISIAC

♡. multi, smut mdni, Aphrodisiac

It starts off normal.

He’d been complaining about a headache, digging through the drawer near your bed.

You barely glanced up when he popped a pill and downed it with lukewarm water. Said he found something and flopped onto the couch with a sigh.

But ten minutes later, something’s… off.

He’s fidgety. Restless.

Keeps adjusting himself in his sweats. Tugging his hoodie off with a grunt, brows furrowed like he’s irritated—then glancing at you with this look.

Flushed. Intense. Hungry.

“Babe…” he mutters, voice unusually low. “I don’t feel right.”

He leans into you like his skin’s burning. His hand brushes your thigh, lingers. Then again. And again.

And then suddenly, it’s in your lap. Warm. Heavy.

“It’s hot,” he breathes. “Why’s it so hot in here?”

You blink, confused—until he shifts, and you feel it. His cock, hard as a rock through his sweats, grinding slow into your thigh like it’s involuntary. His breathing’s ragged. Shaky.

“My head’s spinning,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Everything feels tight. I just—I need to touch you, I can’t think.”

It clicks too late.

You rush over to the drawer—pull it open—and there it is. The bottle.

Definitely not Tylenol.

You spin back toward him just in time to see him running a hand through his hair, chest heaving. He looks up at you with wild eyes.

“What did I take?” he asks, voice hoarse. “I feel like I’m losing my mind. You smell so good I think I’m gonna fuckin’ break.”

You don’t even answer before he’s grabbing you—pulling you into his lap, kissing you hard. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.

It’s needy.

He groans into your mouth when your legs fall open across his thighs, when your hips grind down and make him feel everything.

“Oh my god—fuck—baby—don’t do that. I’ll cum in my pants like this,” he whimpers, breath hot against your neck. “I don’t think I can hold it…”

But he still lets you ride him through the fabric, lets you tease him until his hands are shaking and he’s begging into your skin

“Please. I need to be inside you. I need to cum. I need you so bad, it hurts.”

And when you finally give in?

He nearly cries.

Not from pain—

From relief.

Because the second he’s buried in you, flushed to the hilt, he gasps like he’s been pulled from drowning.

“You feel so fucking good, I can’t— I can’t stop—”

And he doesn’t.

His hips never stop moving, grinding into you like he’s high.

Your name falls from his lips like a mantra. Every breath is ragged. Every moan, feral.

And when you cum? He follows, gripping your hips so tight it leaves marks—body shuddering as he spills inside you with a strangled groan.

But it doesn’t end there.

Because five minutes later, his cock twitches again, and he’s still hard.

“One more,” he whispers, eyes glazed. “Just one more. I swear.”

You don’t believe him.

And you’re right.

Because he ends up taking you again. And again.

Until you’re breathless, boneless, dazed and aching—and he’s still flushed, still whining for more, voice cracked and ruined.

“Can’t stop,” he pants, kissing your throat with trembling lips. “You’re like a fucking drug, baby. I need another hit…”

TL: @samm1e13 @demiitria @syleepy @chaoslibra @bontenxo @pinkymangacaps @riinniies @samthesimp1 @sapphireluv @s4turnx1 @nevvynev @cookiesandcreammy @rinniebinniebay @ravenbc @kamelika @luvsymai @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @silverwings920 @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @yanderebluelockfan @valexqpt @bigclownshoes @rinniewinnie787 @satorella @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @mihyas-dieehefrau @ravenbc @shezuannn @greekyoghurtwithberries

A/n: was thinking about this for a while

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[galaxywannabe]

The Miscommunication Trope™

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: After getting into the first real argument of your relationship, some misspoken words from Bucky leave you thinking that he's done. By the time he realizes just how badly he screwed up, will it be too late to correct his mistake?

Warnings: Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Miscommunication; Crying; Arguing between romantic partners; Bucky is mean but he makes up for it; Happy ending; Reader identifies as a woman and uses she/her pronouns, but other than having hair that can be swept behind an ear I don't think there are any other physical descriptors; Please let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: Almost 9.3k.....I'm sorry lol

A/N: Ummm....so. I'm fairly certain I promised this fic, like...3 months ago? In fact, I actually just went back to look and I first teased this fic on Febuary 19th, so um...lol? I made it! Listen, idk if it's even any good anymore but if I look at it for another second I'll scream, so please take it off my hands. Any and all comments or reblogs would be SO appreciated because this has truly been a labor of love, I didn't know if I had it in me. Also!! I have not forgotten @buckyinmyuniverse - you asked to be tagged in this wayyyy back when I first posted about it and I have FANTASTIC news for you babe: The wait is finally over!! I know you've no doubt been refreshing your feed for months looking for it (/j) but this whole time I was cooking this thing I remembered you asking for a tag. So, this one goes out to you. Hope you all enjoy! <3

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You and Bucky hadn’t ever been in a fight before, not really. You bicker, sure, usually over something lighthearted, usually resulting in an eyeroll and a “whatever you say, honey,” from Buck, but nothing serious, nothing that can’t be worked out through a civilized conversation. That was, until today.

You weren’t even trying to start an argument, you were just expressing your concern. He works too much, he takes more missions than anyone else, and it’s running him ragged, anybody can see that.

Obviously, you miss him when he’s away, but that’s not even the point - the point is that he’s taking on too much because he thinks he owes the world something, and that’s not sustainable, it’s not good for him. All you said was that maybe he’d ought to ask Fury to take him off the rotation for a while, or even just cut down on his assignment load, to give him some room to breathe. And Bucky got…defensive.

Obviously, you knew that was a possibility. Typical male pride of course prohibits silly ideas like “self care” and “burnout,” but on top of that is Bucky’s specific brand of guilt, the kind that makes him work himself into the ground no matter how badly his brain and body beg him to stop.

The defensiveness you were prepared for, but you were only coming from a place of love, your concern that of a devoted girlfriend, and surely he’d understand that, wouldn’t he? Except he hadn’t. He’d immediately dismissed your suggestion, waving a hand and continuing to type up his latest mission report with a laser-like focus. 

“I don’t need a break, I’m fine,” he’d muttered, eyes trained on the bluish light of his laptop screen.

Again, you weren’t trying to argue. You certainly weren’t going to  force him to take a break, you just wanted him to at least consider it, to remind him that it would be okay for him to rest a little, if he wanted to. The world would go on without his help for a few weeks, and there were other heroes available besides him. 

“Honey, I know you might not need one, but it’s okay if you just want one. No one would judge you if-”

And then he did something he’d never done before: he snapped at you. He didn’t even look up from his screen, his fingers still a steady staccato on the keyboard as he barked out harshly.

“I said I don’t need a fucking break. I’m just doing my goddamn job, and I don’t need you breathing down my neck watching my every move the whole time I do it. I can take care of myself.”

You winced. Obviously, that stung, and if he’d bothered to look up from his computer screen, he might have seen that on your face. But you could tell he wasn’t as unbothered by this conversation as he was acting.

Despite his brusque attitude, your words were striking a chord with him, hitting a little too close to home. His shoulders were stiff as a board, bunched up around his ears in a telltale sign of defensiveness, and you understood, really you did.

For Bucky, doing this job is the one way he can even attempt to atone for all the bad shit he’s done. Of course he felt uncomfortable with the idea of a break, he thinks he has to do these missions as some sort of self-imposed penance for the things he’d been made to do as the Winter Soldier. 

So you didn’t judge him too harshly for lashing out. You understood the reason he worked so hard, and you knew what motivated him to continue going out there even when he was exhausted. You just wanted him to see that taking a break for his own mental health wasn’t a bad thing, that even if he was making amends he still needed to find time to take care of himself, too.

You took a deep breath and spoke in a calm voice, hoping to express your concern in a nonthreatening manner even as he still refused to look at you. 

“Angel. I’m not trying to breathe down your neck or tell you how to do your job. I know it’s important to you, and I love how hard you work! It’s just that, super-soldier or not, if you want to continue to do this job, you’re gonna need to stop and rest at some point, honey. That’s all I’m trying to say. I’m worried about you, love.”

Finally, he looked up at you, and your heart fluttered just seeing those baby blues you love so much. Until you clocked the scowl on his pretty face, and the hope in your gut curdled to dread. He was angry, you knew what that looked like, but in the six months of your relationship so far you’d never once seen that anger directed at you before.

It wasn’t frightening in a physical sense, not like you were scared for your well-being, of course not. But it deeply unsettled you, seeing the man you love looking at you like that. It made you want to apologize, though you weren’t quite sure what for. Before you could do anything at all, he spoke, his voice a cold, steel edge.

“You don’t know anything about what I can handle. I was doing just fine before you came around, and I don’t need you fussing over me at every turn just because I don’t sit around here all day scrolling on my phone or whatever it is you think I should be doing. I don’t need or want your hovering, so just stop, okay?”

There was silence. His shoulders heaved in the wake of his outburst, and you felt almost dazed, like this was some kind of mirage you could will away if you blinked hard enough. He’d never spoken to you like that.

Obviously, you’d hit a nerve, and while logically you understood that, it didn’t lessen the pain in your chest. You were just worried about him, why was he fighting like you were trying to strap him down and force him to quit?

While you tried to regain your bearings, breathing deeply and forcing back the stinging you felt building in your eyes, he slammed his laptop shut, standing and stalking towards your bedroom door. He’d come over to your place to work on his mission reports at your insistence because you’d wanted to keep him company, and now it appeared he was leaving.

“W-where are you going, what are you doing?” you’d squeaked, alarmed, following after him as he made his way to the foyer of your apartment and shoved his feet into his boots.

“I can’t fucking do this, I'm done,” he’d muttered in a gruff, hard voice, lacing his boots efficiently and standing back to his full height as he reached for the doorknob.

You shook your head, panicked, reaching for his arm and trying futilely to drag him back into your apartment. “Baby, please. I’m sorry, don’t go.”

But he just shook off your hold and stalked out the door, leaving you there as your eyes blurred with tears. After standing there in your foyer for several minutes, waiting for him to turn around and come back, you’d simply fallen to your knees and curled up right there on the polished wooden floor, bawling your eyes out.

That’s where you still are a couple hours later when your phone starts to vibrate incessantly in your pocket. You pull it out with trembling fingers and swipe to answer a call from Natasha.

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“H-hello?” you croak into the receiver.

The second Nat hears you pick up the call she’s talking, looking distractedly through her closet as she holds the phone to her ear with her shoulder.

“Hey honey, listen, me and the girls were thinking about running to Target, and we wanted to- wait, what’s wrong?” Natasha’s cheerful voice quickly drops into something soft and concerned as she picks up on the sniffles coming through her tinny cell phone speakers.

For a few seconds all she can hear is you sobbing quietly, the way you struggle to slow your hysterical breathing so you can put together a sentence. “H-he left, Nat. He broke up with me,” you whimper, voice barely audible. 

This stops Natasha in her tracks, her brow furrowed in deep confusion as she freezes with one hand reaching for her favorite sweater. What the fuck? Why in the hell would Barnes break up with you? Especially when she knows for a fact that on the last mission she had with him, he stopped into a jewelry shop in Germany ‘just to look’ at engagement rings? This doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

“Honey,” Nat speaks into the phone again, her voice soft and soothing even through the crackly audio coming from your cell phone. “What happened, what did he say?”

You sniffle again, and clear your throat so she can hear your scratchy voice a bit better. “We…there was a fight, a-and I didn’t mean to, Nat, I swear, I was just worried, but…he said he can’t do this anymore, that h-he's done, and then he left. He didn’t take any of his things with him, but maybe he’s gonna come back for them, I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Nat…” As your sentence tapers off, your voice fades out, and a few renewed sobs float over the phone call into Nat’s ear, the sounds soaked in agony.

Oh, okay. Nat thinks she can see what really happened here just from your description, but that doesn’t make the sounds of your misery in her ear any less painful to hear. Likely, when Bucky had said he couldn’t do “this” anymore, that he was done, he’d meant the argument, the conversation, not your relationship.

But Barnes is your first real boyfriend, and you’ve never had a fight with him before. You were probably so confused and upset in the moment that you weren’t thinking about the context of his statement.

All you knew was that Bucky got upset with you for the very first time, and then he left. To you, that must certainly look like a breakup, and when Nat thinks about it from your perspective, she understands how you’d come to that conclusion.

She’d love to explain to you how you may have misunderstood, but as she listens to your hoarse crying over speakerphone, she knows you’re not in the frame of mind to process rational thought right now. Instead, she decides to focus on soothing you for the moment.

“I’m sorry, honey, I don’t know why he’d ever do anything like that to you. I’m gonna get to the bottom of it, alright? In the meantime, I just need you to do something for me,” she coos, her voice comforting and warm.

You don’t answer, just sniffling occasionally as you sit there in silence. Natasha, interpreting your lack of response as an affirmation, continues on.

“Where are you right now?”

There’s more silence for a few seconds, the sound of you pulling deep breaths into your lungs as you regain awareness of your surroundings. Then:

“Uh. The floor. In my apartment,” you mumble, confused, like you’ve just now realized that fact.

Natasha feels an additional lash of anger at Barnes flood her system when you tell her that, but she works to keep her voice calm even has her knuckles go white around her device.

“Okay, well, I need you to get up off the floor and go to your bedroom, okay? I want you to get dressed in your comfiest pajamas and crawl into bed for me, and wait there while I handle this. Can you do that? Just close your eyes and try to rest while I figure everything out?”

More sniffles, a hoarse cough, and then, after a beat of silence, your voice crackles over the line.

“Yeah….okay. I can do that, Nat,” you croak, the sound of shuffling floating over the line as you stagger to your feet after who knows how long on the floor.

She smiles, relieved to hear your voice coming through a bit more calmly, even as her mind races with the next items on her to-do list. “Okay sweetheart, you do that, then. I love you, I’ll call back soon, okay? Go get some rest.”

After hanging up with you, confident that at least you’re not curled up on your apartment floor anymore, she pockets her cell and immediately stalks down the hall towards the elevator, Target trip long forgotten.

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Bucky knows he fucked up. As someone who fucks up just about everything, he’s intimately familiar with the process, and he can say, with 100% certainty, that in this instance he absolutely fucked up. He never should have snapped at you - his sweetheart, his girl. You were just worried about him, and of course you were.

Bucky knows damn well he works too hard, especially lately, and he’s been on the verge of physical and mental collapse pretty much every damn day for the past month, running himself into the ground. He’d even been thinking to himself before your argument that he should slow down, take a break before he gets himself killed. So why did he get so defensive when you’d suggested it?

He doesn’t goddamn know. Because he’s messed up. Because it’s one thing when he decides to take some time off, but another when someone else has the idea, like they think he needs it.

He can’t help it; for decades of his life, the slightest sign of weakness meant pain, meant the frigid blast of a firehouse to wake him up or the wandering scalpel of a Hydra doctor looking to find a defect. Not that that makes his outburst okay, by any means, but it’s an explanation, and hey, he’s working on it, really he is. 

Still, he knew the second he walked out of your apartment that he’d fucked up, and so he’s spent the past two hours at his own place a few floors up, licking his wounds and gathering the courage to go apologize.

Because…yes, okay, he’s embarrassed by the way he acted. He’s ashamed of his own behavior, and he’d needed a minute to feel sorry for himself before he inevitably goes back down to your apartment and grovels for your forgiveness. 

He figures you’re pissed beyond belief, and if giving you some time to cool off also gives him a little while to stall the complete destruction of his ego, well, then, he’ll take it.

He finished up his mission report, he took a shower, and now he’s preparing his apology speech, debating the merit of walking down the street to a bodega for some flowers, when his doorbell rings. Shit, maybe he’s already out of time and you decided to come to him. 

When he opens his door, looking thoroughly contrite, it’s not your expected figure that stands in his entryway, but Natasha’s. And even given all his super-soldier reflexes and military training, he still staggers back a step in shock when she slaps him right across the face. 

“Whoa, what the fuck, Nat?” he barks, rubbing at the heat blooming under the skin of this cheek.

Standing there in front of him with her arms crossed, she looks anything but remorseful, her fists clenched as if she has to deny herself the urge to do it again.

“Why the fuck did you break up with her, Barnes? Are you insane?! The one good thing in your life, and you threw it all away, why, because you got a little pissed off? Out of all the stupid, careless decisions you’ve made in your fucked-up life, I really didn’t think you had it in you to top all that, but Jesus…”

As she continues to rant at him, her face pinched with rage, Bucky struggles to make sense of the words she’s already spoken. Broken up with you? Why in God’s name would he ever do that?

What an absolutely absurd thing to accuse him of, given that everybody in this building knows how insanely in love with you he is, especially your own best friend. Why is she here playing some kind of prank on him when he’s supposed to be rehearsing his apology?

“I did no such thing,” he answers bluntly, interrupting her impassioned speech, his expression confused and a little irritated at the accusation.

Nat barely even blinks at this denial. “Oh really? Then why did I just talk to her on the phone, bawling her eyes out on the floor of her apartment, telling me that you did?”

Of course, Nat’s pretty sure that Barnes hadn’t really meant to break up with you by leaving during your argument, but she’s pissed at him either way for not being cognizant enough of your feelings to foresee your interpretation of his behavior.

To Bucky, Natasha’s words might as well have been a bucket of ice water poured over his head, the way they immediately freeze his joints with dread. He feels his stomach churn as if he might be sick, the horrifying mental image of you curled up on your wooden floors driving a stake between his ribs. When he’d left, you’d been standing. Sure, you’d looked upset, but surely not that upset…right? 

He tries to think back to your emotional state when he’d stormed out a couple of hours ago, but truthfully he hadn’t turned back to see your face as he’d walked out your door. Had you been crying? He didn’t think so, but now he isn’t so sure, especially given the look of anger on Nat’s face. Why would you tell her that he’d broken up with you? As a joke, some kind of payback for his outburst?

“I….” he pauses, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. “You talked to her? What did she say?”

Natasha almost feels sympathy for Bucky in this moment, standing before her looking so confused and slightly horrified. But then she thinks about her best friend sobbing on the floor because he’s an idiot, and that emotion vanishes, replaced with her plentiful anger.

“Well, it was kind of hard to hear her, what with all the sobbing and such. But when I finally was able to get her to speak, she said that there was a fight, and that you broke up with her and then left her there. She said you hadn’t taken any of your stuff with you when you left, and she wasn’t sure when you’d be back for it, but that she didn’t know what she was going to do,” Nat recalls in a hard voice, her gaze sharp and accusatory. “After that she started crying again, so I didn’t ask her any more questions.”

Another bruising blow to the tatters of Bucky Barnes’s heart. What did you mean, he hadn’t taken his stuff? Why would he take his things when he’d left them there on purpose so he had them to use when he was at your place?

Why would he take his belongings out of your apartment just because you got into an argument? This doesn’t make any sense, and the longer Natasha talks, the worse his growing sense of unease becomes. 

Why were you crying? Sure, he expected anger, he’d been a huge swinging dick and he deserves some harsh words. But why is Nat saying that you were curled up on your floor sobbing? Why wouldn’t you be on the couch, or in your bed, or even down in the gym punching out your frustrations? 

And why were you on the phone with your best friend moments ago talking like you didn’t expect him to come back? Surely you know he’ll be back, he practically lives in your apartment - his wallet and keys are still sitting in the dish by your front door, his favorite jacket hung on the coat rack. He looks at your closest friend desperately, his face drawn in stark lines of horror and regret.

“Natasha, please, I don’t know why she said all that stuff to you, I didn’t break up with her, I would never break up with her. We had an argument. She was only worried about me, but I got defensive like an asshole and said some shit I didn’t mean, so…I just wanted to get out of there, get some space before I lashed out some more, that’s all. I just needed a minute to cool off, I was always fully planning to go back, to explain myself and apologize. I don’t know why she…” he trails off, looking lost.

Nat sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her best friend is in hysterics, and it’s all because men are the dumbest creatures on this planet.

“What do you think that looked like to her, Barnes? You guys get in your very first fight, and after saying some mean shit to her you stomp out of there and go ‘I can’t do this, I'm done’. What do you think those words might have sounded like to her ears? You’re her first serious boyfriend, jackass! She’s never been in this situation before! She doesn’t know that it’s relatively normal for couples to argue, even if you definitely shouldn’t have snapped at her. She just knows you’ve never fought before, and the first time you do, you walk out the door. She thinks you’re gone for good, James.”

You could hear a pin drop in Bucky’s apartment right now, the sounds of bustling Manhattan outside his windows muffled by the blood roaring in his ears. He wants to be upset with you, to question how you could ever doubt his love enough to think he’d really just walk out after one disagreement. But in truth, given his actions and your lack of relationship experience, he doesn’t see how you could’ve come to any other conclusion. 

Bucky thought he’d been regretful before Nat got here, but after hearing his behavior described in this new light, he’s got a whole list of emotions to add to the pile. Self-loathing, remorse, fear. You’re in your apartment right now, believing yourself to be single. All that time you two spent together, every memory and intimate moment, you think it’s over, just like that, in the blink of an eye. 

Obviously, he needs to explain himself immediately, to tell you that he hadn’t meant to end your relationship in the slightest and that this is all just a giant misunderstanding.

But what if you don’t care? What if, after the way he acted towards you today, you’d rather accept his words as you’d thought he meant them and stay broken up, even knowing that wasn’t his intent? He’s shaking, he realizes distantly, noticing the way Natasha looks at him with concern in her eyes now.

He hadn’t ever really let himself consider that you’d turn him down before, when he was rehearsing his apology speech. You’re in a committed relationship of six months, you’re in love. Surely, even if he was a bit of an asshole, one transgression can be forgiven as long as he apologizes sincerely.

But that was back when he thought his only sin was his harsh words, back when he thought you were angry with him for his outburst.

Now that he knows what you’ve really been feeling, that you’ve apparently spent the past two hours sobbing on your wooden apartment floors waiting for him to come back and take his belongings, he’s not so confident that he can grovel hard enough to make up for this.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you, god damn it, that’s the whole reason he left in the first place, to spare you from his undeserved anger. Now he might be about to lose you because of his own childish temper tantrum, and the terror of that thought feels icy in his veins as it travels straight to his heart, freezing it in place. 

His body is moving towards his apartment door before he even commands his muscles to do so, single-minded on the only thing that matters anymore: fixing what he’s done. His hand is already turning the doorknob by the time a slightly startled Nat is able to catch up with him, her hand on his shoulder stalling him for only the tiniest moment before he’s barrelling ahead again.

“Don’t fuck this up. You love her, now go make it right,” she commands sternly, and Bucky just grunts his acknowledgment before bursting through his door out into the empty hallway, towards the elevator.

He doesn’t stop to voice his fears to Natasha, that it might be too late to make anything right, that he may have fucked it up beyond repair already. He just keeps moving, hoping beyond hope that he still has a chance.

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When he makes it to your apartment a few floors down from his own, it’s eerily silent as he pushes the door open. He’s never needed a key, FRIDAY has explicit orders to grant him entry, but for the first time ever it feels wrong entering your space unannounced, like maybe he should knock and wait for permission in light of what’s happened. He ignores the impulse. 

You’re not crouched on the floor of your entryway like Nat said you’d been, so he supposes that’s a good sign, but it occurs to him then that he’s not even entirely sure you’re home. Bucky pauses to ask FRIDAY where you are, and is relieved to hear that you’re only in your bedroom.

He almost thinks he picks up a hint of annoyance in the AI’s voice when she responds to his inquiry, though, as if even the damn computer program is pissed at him for the way he treated you. It must be his imagination.

“Angel?” he calls out softly, making his way slowly through the apartment to your bedroom, noting the oppressive stillness of the place as he goes deeper. “Honeybun? Sweet pea?” he uses his softest, most gentle voice, disturbed to find your usually lively dwelling so silent. 

The TV in the living room - usually playing some youtube video or episode of your favorite show - is powered off, and the lights are all off too, as if the sun had set and you simply hadn’t bothered to flick any of them on to combat the encroaching darkness. The place he’s wandering now is like a ghost of your apartment, no scented candles lit, no steaming mug of tea waiting for you at your usual spot at the coffee table. 

It’s unnerving, to have a place usually so full of life be so startlingly empty all of a sudden. His slow steps and his soft voice calling out for you are the only sounds in the entire space, until he finally reaches your bedroom door and pauses to listen. For a moment there’s nothing, and he worries that perhaps you aren’t home after all, until he hears a soft sound coming muffled through the thick wood of your door. 

He presses his ear against it to listen closer, brow scrunched as he waits to hear the sound again, and a moment later his heart shatters as it becomes clear that what he’s hearing is your soft sobbing, interspersed with the occasional sniffle.

Bucky pushes your door open ever-so-carefully, cursing under his breath at the slight squeak of the wood on its hinges. It’s hard to see anything in your room, even with his perfect super-soldier eyesight, as the lights are off in here, too, the curtains closed to limit even the soft moonlight coming through the windows. 

His instinct is to flick on the light so he can see you better, but he doesn’t want to startle you, and besides, you obviously prefer the lights off or you would’ve turned them on yourself when it got dark. Instead he just steps further into the room, squinting his eyes as he can just barely make out the lump under the covers where you lay, curled in a ball in the center of your mattress, crying quietly.

He knows you must have heard his entrance, must realize he’s standing at the side of your bed right now, but you make no move to acknowledge him, continuing to sob softly as he watches on, heartbroken.

“Oh, darlin’...” he sighs, pulling the covers back a bit to expose your head, kneeling with one knee on the mattress so he can get a closer look at you.

You sniffle pitifully as you feel the cool air of the room on your face, extra cold against your cheeks where they’re wet with tears. Your vision is too blurry for you to actually see him, but you know who it is, know the scent of his cologne and the familiar touch of his fingers on your face as he brushes your hair back to see you better. 

Your stupid, traitorous nervous system reacts immediately to his presence, your panicked breaths slowing and your tears subsiding, a warm wash of comfort moving through your chest along with an instinctive sense of safety.

Your body knows nothing of the events of the past few hours, that he isn’t yours anymore, that he isn’t here to comfort you. It just instinctively calms under his attention, unaware that it is fleeting now, sure to be gone in only moments.

As the man you love wipes the tears gently from your face, his touch so sweet and soft it inadvertently causes more of them to fall, you force your hoarse voice to speak, the sound a barely audible croak even in the silence of your room. “Are you here to get your things?”

Bucky’s own eyes sting at your words, at the miserable tone to your voice as you say them, and he shakes his head vehemently, though he’s not sure you’re even really seeing him right now.

“No, baby, of course not. Why would I take my stuff, huh? I left those things here so I could use them when I’m visiting my girl, you know that,” he counters in a painfully soft voice, like he thinks speaking above a murmur will shatter you. Maybe he’s right about that, you do feel awfully close to shattering.

You feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind your eyes, and you close them for a moment, struggling to craft a coherent thought through all the heartbreak clouding your brain. Why is he here speaking nonsense when you’re in the middle of trying to mourn him? Does he not see that it’s cruel for him to be here with his comforting touch and his sweet voice, knowing that those things are lost to you forever now? 

“I’m not your girl anymore…” you mumble brokenly, the very act of having to speak the words into existence pulling another sob from your chest. 

Despite yourself you nuzzle your cheek into his palm as he cradles your face, desperate for his affection. If you’re never going to feel his touch again, you’ll bask in every opportunity while you have it, savoring the familiar warmth even as you question why he’s offering it to you in the first place.

Your face is pinched in concentration, like you’re trying to commit the sensation to memory, and Bucky’s heart might as well be in shards by his feet at this point, the way you seek out his touch like you’re starved for it. Like it hasn’t only been hours since he last gave it to you, like you’ll never have the chance to feel it again.

“Yes you are, baby, you’re always gonna be my girl. You’re mine, honey, just like I’m yours. Forever, haven’t I told you that?” he speaks desperately, like he’s pleading with you to agree with him, and although you’d love to, you have very recent evidence to the contrary.

“B-but, you said…” you trail off in a whisper, unable to repeat the words. You don’t need to anyways, you both know what he’d said. That he can’t do this. Can’t be with you anymore.

Bucky’s quick to interrupt you, needing you to understand that that’s not what he’d said, or, at least, not what he’d meant. “Baby, I didn’t- I’m sorry I said it like that, and I understand why you took those words the way you did. But that’s not what I meant to say, sweetheart, I swear.”

He huffs and slides a frustrated hand through his hair, suddenly unable to bear having this conversation with you while you lie curled up alone in your bed, looking up at him blankly with your shining eyes.

Before you can speak another word he peels back the covers some more, making room for himself as he slides into the bed beside you, pulling you up and onto his chest so he can hold you in his arms. The tears on your cheeks immediately soak through the soft cotton of his T-shirt, but he doesn’t care, cradling you tightly against his chest and rubbing slow, comforting circles onto your back.

You want to say something, to express your confusion at his incongruent behavior, but you can’t, not with his arms around you and his scent in your nose. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out are more shuddering sobs, your body limp in his hold, completely helpless against the comfort he offers.

Even if he shouldn’t be, he’s here. He’s here, and he’s holding you like you’re something precious again, and even if you know that there must be some mistake you can’t stop yourself from completely melting into his embrace, any semblance of your remaining composure crumbling completely.

Bucky just coos softly, murmuring gentle assurances in your ear and holding you, solid and steady as you weather the storm of your heartbreak. Despite having spent the better part of the past two hours bawling your eyes out, the crying starts anew with him here, his comforting presence both a relief and a reminder of what you’ve lost, what you’ll be missing when he walks out that door again.

You two lie like that for a while, though whether it’s for a few minutes or several hours you can’t say, time stretching into infinity as you cry into his chest. As the tears finally subside once again, your body exhausted and your throat sore, your mind belatedly registers his words from before. He’d been saying something, hadn’t he? 

“What…” your voice comes out scratchy, so you clear your throat to be heard better - though Bucky couldn’t have missed a word out of your mouth if he tried, focused on you as he is. “What do you mean, that’s not what you meant? You broke up with me.”

Bucky shakes his head immediately, bringing his mismatched palms up to cradle your face, sweeping your hair back behind your ears so he can see his beautiful girl. God, it’s torture watching you cry, but he seems to have broken through to you somehow, and he’s not going to squander this opportunity to explain himself.

He can’t suppress the urge to lean down and drop a tender kiss to your forehead, though, your tear-stained face so pitiful he could cry right along with you if he didn’t have something more important to be doing at the moment.

“I mean, that’s not what I meant, sweetheart. I never intended to break up with you. How could I? Leave my girl, my princess? Don’t you know you mean more to me than every other person on this planet put together?” He speaks calmly but firmly, his gaze steady on yours as he practically begs you to believe him. You have to believe him.

You frown, confusion pulling your brows together as you take in his desperate expression. His words make your heart flutter with hope, but you don’t understand, can’t make sense of the reality he’s trying to assert when you know you heard otherwise only a couple of hours ago. It’s all a bit much for your heartbroken brain to handle, and you just blink at him blankly, completely lost.

“I don’t understand, Buck. Y-you were so upset, and then you left, and you said ‘I can’t do this, I'm done.’ I thought you meant we were done, that you can’t do us anymore.” you recall in a miserable voice, searching his eyes for answers as you desperately try to understand.

He nods empathetically, his thumbs brushing at the tears on your cheeks even as more continue to fall to take their place. “I know that’s what I said, sweet girl, and I know how it sounded to you, but that’s not at all how I meant it, I swear. I just…” Bucky sighs, his features plastered with remorse, his eyes falling from yours in shame.

“I was being an asshole. I knew, even as I was doing it, that I was being an asshole, that I couldn’t stop being an asshole, so I just…I wanted to get away from you before I lashed out any more, that’s all. I knew if I kept trying to discuss things with you right then I was only going to say more shit I didn’t mean, so I tried to put some space between us, just until I could cool off and be rational again.”

Bucky pauses, sighing deeply and stroking your cheeks. His eyes are swimming with guilt so deep it hurts your chest just to look at it. He looks almost as torn up about this whole ordeal as you do, which, although his pain isn’t something you revel in, does make your heart beat a little faster with hope. Would a man who doesn’t want to be with you anymore still look at you with that much guilt over having caused you pain?

When he speaks again his voice is low and strained with emotion, apologetic. “Darlin’, I…I am so sorry for the things I said to you today. I didn’t mean a single damn one of them. I love that you look after me, I love that I have someone waiting for me when I come home, making sure I’m not pushing myself too hard. I need you there to do that for me, because we both know I’m too proud and stubborn to take a break on my own. I got defensive, and I lashed out because I felt threatened, and that is not okay or fair to you. If you can’t forgive me for those things I said, I understand.” 

He swallows thickly, his eyes closing as hot tears sting the backs of them, fighting to escape. “But you need to know that when I told you I couldn’t ‘do this,’ I sure as hell didn’t mean you, or us. All I meant was that I couldn’t keep having that conversation with you, that I needed to get away before I hurt you worse. That’s all it was. When I left your apartment today, it was to get some space because I knew I was throwing a temper tantrum. In no way, shape, or form was I breaking up with you, or trying to end what we have. I couldn’t do that, it’s not in my DNA to do that. I’m simply not capable of it, and you have to know that. Even if you decide you’re better off without me, I need you to know that. Please.”

You stare down at him in the wake of his speech, watching as he blinks rapidly to keep tears at bay, and you’re so god damn confused in this moment that you wish he would give you a timeout, let you process everything he just said before you have to respond to it.

Could it possibly be true? That he’d never meant to break up with you, that he still loves and wants you? Could this all just be some massive misunderstanding on your part?

The possibility has hope fluttering warm in your chest, but you suppress it. Better to make absolutely sure first, before you let your heart get obliterated for the second time today. Letting yourself have this hope only to quash it moments later might actually break you for good.

“You weren’t…I mean, you didn’t want to break up with me?” you whisper hesitantly, afraid to let yourself believe it even though you’re desperate to.

Bucky’s heart cracks in his chest as you ask that so timidly, like just voicing the question is opening you up to a whole new potential world of hurt. He shakes his head firmly, his metal hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull, his fingertips massaging your scalp gently.

“No, babygirl, never. Not in a million years. Even though we were arguing, it was the last thing on my mind, trust me. I’ve never wanted to break up with you, not for a second. I love you,” he reassures you smoothly, his voice low and calm, exuding certainty.

You have to sniffle hard to hold back a fresh round of tears at those three simple words, ones you never thought you’d get to hear from him again. Jesus Christ, if you never cry again it’ll be too soon. Your gaze is particularly frail and fragile as it meets Bucky’s, some of that hope you’d been suppressing earlier making itself known in your features, tentative but present.

“So…you’re still my boyfriend?” you ask in a tiny murmur, like maybe this is the part where he pulls the rug out from under you and announces he was kidding about the whole misunderstanding thing.

Bucky’s features tighten a little at your question, and dread pools in your stomach rapidly, fearing the worst. But his words aren’t quite the heartbreaking blow you’re expecting, more like a puzzling wrinkle.

“If you want me to be, yeah, baby, I am.”

Your brow furrows, confused. What the hell does that mean? Suddenly, you recall a few other parts of his speech just now, parts that had been immediately overshadowed when he’d said that he still wanted to be with you. Now that you think about it, he’d also said a bunch of stuff along the lines of ‘If you can forgive me,’ and ‘If you decide you’re better off without me,’ hadn’t he?

What the hell was that all about? Why’s he talking about whether you want to be with him? Like you haven’t been literally bawling your eyes out for the past two hours at the prospect of having to live without him? How does that make any sense?

“Of course I want you to be. You think I was curled up on the floor sobbing because I was happy to think that our relationship was over?” you ask incredulously, frowning at him. 

He chuckles a little at that, the sound vibrating through you as you lay on his chest, but it’s strained, his expression vulnerable. Although you attribute this misunderstanding mostly to your own mind jumping to the worst possible conclusion, Bucky is riddled with guilt for both his abrupt exit from your apartment and the things he’d said leading up to it.

In his eyes you went through a lot of pain today, and every inch of it is his fault. If he’d stopped to explain his meaning, or, hell, if he hadn’t gotten so damn defensive in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. His girl wouldn’t have spent hours of her life sobbing on her hardwood floors if he’d just stopped to breathe like his therapist taught him to. His pale irises swim with shame as he gazes up at you.

“No, no, I just…I said some horrible things to you today, darlin’. And just because you were upset to think that I’d broken up with you doesn’t necessarily mean that all is forgiven, I know that. I understand if you’d rather keep us apart after the way I acted,” he murmurs defeatedly, like he’s already prepared himself for a thorough scolding.

Which is absolutely goddamn ridiculous, in your eyes. You snort, brows raised in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? All is forgiven, Buck, all is so past forgiven. I don’t care about the shit you said. You’re here, you’re still mine, that’s all that matters now. Forget the fight, forget all of it. I’ve got you, that’s all I care about.”

You say it so simply, like it could be so easy. Like his indiscretions are just wiped clean in the face of your pure relief. But he knows that they aren’t, they can’t be. It’s not that easy, as much as he’d like it to be. He fucked up, and he deserves what’s coming to him.

He tries to reason with you, his expression pained. “Baby, you can’t just-” 

“I absolutely can, actually,” you interrupt, looking unamused, stern. “I’m the one you said those things to, so I think I have the right to determine how I feel about them, don’t you?” You keep your eyebrows raised, challenging.

You watch as he mulls those words over a bit, licking his lips anxiously. It takes him a moment to decide how to respond, and when he does his words are slow, strained. Like maybe he doesn’t want to say them, but he feels like he has to.

“Yes, you do. It’s ultimately your decision, of course it is. I just…before you decide to blindly forgive me for this, I want you to really consider how you feel, okay? I know your instinct is to forget all about it because you’re just relieved to have me at all right now, but…I messed up. I hurt you, I said hurtful things even if I didn’t mean them. You didn’t deserve that, least of all from me, the man who’s supposed to love and protect you. You’re allowed to be upset about it, and if my actions made you realize that you don’t want to be with me anymore, then…you’re allowed to feel that way, too.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and your heart aches painfully in your chest at the sound. In this moment, you’re realizing with horror that Bucky truly believes he deserves to be broken up with tonight. With the unshed tears clinging to his lashline and the devastated look on his face, it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be dumped, that in fact that’s the last thing he wants.

But it’s obviously what he thinks should happen, the punishment he thinks he’s earned for the inadvertent heartbreak he put you through tonight, and that’s just…unacceptable, to be honest. 

The man would forgive you if you literally drove a stake through his chest, for Christ’s sake, yet he’s expecting you to kick him to the curb? What, because he got a little snippy with you? Because you jumped to the wrong conclusion and convinced yourself he left you? You would almost be insulted that he could think such a thing of you if you didn't know where the fear comes from.

You've seen them firsthand: the deep layers of self-loathing that have bogged him down since long before your relationship started, the inherent belief he carries that he is irreparably flawed and unworthy of love. He doesn't feel like he deserves you on his best day, so when he screws up, no matter the size of the infraction, he expects to be cast aside.

You reach out with one hand to cradle his cheek, his stubble gently scraping against your thumb as you caress his skin. Your expression is caring but firm, your eyes holding his as you speak in an even voice.

“I need you to understand that I don't expect you to be perfect, James. I don’t expect that you will always say the right thing, or have a perfectly even temperament in every situation because hell, none of us do. You’re allowed to fuck up sometimes, sweetheart, and you still deserve to be loved even when you do.”

His brow furrows as you speak, his instinct to reflexively deny the forgiveness you’re offering. “But I hurt you,” he interjects, the look on his face so miserable it tugs at your chest.

You nod your agreement, though your expression is still full of compassion and love. “Yes, you did. I won’t even begin to address the break-up fiasco because that was a complete misunderstanding on my part, but yes, the things you said before you left really stung me. Do you know why I’m going to forgive you anyways, though? Why, even if this happens again, I’ll probably forgive you a hundred times over?”

You pause for effect, giving him the opportunity to respond. Honestly, as upset as you’ve been these past few hours, it’s all begun to fade in the face of this man you love trying to convince you he’s not worth it. When he just looks at you helplessly, his eyes tracking your speech with rapt attention, you smile and continue.

“It’s because I know you’d never hurt me on purpose, Bucky. Let me ask you something: when you snapped at me today, did you do it because you were trying to find the absolute meanest thing you could say at that moment? Did you say it because you wanted me to feel bad?”

Looking a bit startled at the suggestion, Bucky shakes his head mutely. He hadn’t really even been conscious of the words at all until after they’d already blurted from his mouth, and even then it didn’t fully sink in until after he’d calmed down. You smile, satisfied by his immediate denial. 

“No, of course you didn’t. You didn’t say that stuff to be mean, to hurt just for hurting’s sake. You were feeling ambushed and defensive, and you lashed out. Is it ideally how you’ll always react when I try to express my concern for your wellbeing? No, of course not. But is it a realistic thing for a person to do who’s not used to being cared for? Absolutely, it is. And it’s just something we’re gonna have to work on, baby. I’ve never done this whole relationship thing before, and you’re trying to do it for the first time in 80 years with a hell of a lot of additional trauma thrown into the mix. 

“We’re learning, and it’s not always gonna be perfect or easy. Maybe before this becomes an issue again, we’ll think up some ways for you to politely tell me ‘I’m feeling overwhelmed by this conversation, please back off and we can come back to it later.’ Or maybe we’ll discuss how I can voice my concerns to you in the future without triggering your defensive response, how I can come off as less accusatory and make the discussion feel more safe for you.

“We’ve only been doing this for six months, and as real as it is, as much as I love you more than anything, we’re gonna face a hell of a lot more than this one hurdle if we want to keep doing this thing in the long term. So, yeah, tonight has sucked, pretty much every minute of it was a disaster, but you know what? It’s over now. You apologized, we’re gonna try and do better next time, and…that’s the end of it. Clean slate. All I want to do with the rest of my night is finally stop fucking crying, and eat a burger the size of my head. Preferably, with my boyfriend next to me the whole time, trying to steal my fries when I’m not looking. Do you think you could help me make that happen, Buck? Please?”

He looks stunned in the wake of your speech, silent for several moments as his brain struggles to grapple with the reality of your easy forgiveness. He blinks at you hard, like he truly can’t believe that you’re not running in the opposite direction right now, burning every trace of your life together and cursing his name the whole way.

But the truth is, you’d already made up your mind to forgive him the second you realized he hadn’t meant to break up with you in the first place, and Bucky must see that, too, because the fight in his eyes is slowly dimming into something more fragile, vulnerable. 

His gaze fixes on yours in the dark, searching for some hidden shard of resentment or anger that you may be holding back for his sake, but he doesn’t find it, there is no such thing for him to find. You just smile weakly up at him, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day but no less sincere, and when he blows out a slow breath through his nose, you know you’ve got him.

He’s definitely not done badgering himself about the mistakes he made today, not by a long shot, but he must see your weariness on your face, your desperate need to move on from this at least for the moment, so he nods slowly, his flesh hand rising to gently tuck some of your hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, sweetheart, we can make that happen. Whatever you want.”

Your smile brightens, the relief so stark in your features that it brings a lump to his throat, and when you press your lips against his he makes a silent promise to never put you in a position like this again, to never let his bullshit drag you down or put your relationship at risk like he did today.

He’ll go to therapy twice a damn week if he has to, you deserve better than his temper tantrums, than cruel words spoken out of a defensiveness he doesn’t need anymore. Not with you. 

Half an hour later finds you perched in his lap, draped in one of his hoodies and talking and laughing at your favorite diner like there never was an argument, like not a single tear was shed today. He hates that the joy on your face is most likely motivated by your sheer relief that he’s still yours, but he can’t complain about the sparkle in your eyes, nor the way you lean back against his chest as you sip your shake.

Obliging your request, he steals some fries off your plate while you gesticulate wildly through a story, a warm flutter going off in his chest when you pretend to squawk in protest. He soaks in every second, every twitch of your lips and brush of your hand against his, reminding himself what he could have lost, what he perhaps deserved to lose after his actions today. 

He’ll make this up to you, he knows he will - he’s sure Natasha will have plenty of suggestions for how he can start. He thinks back to that little velvet box he’s got buried deep in the back of his sock drawer, a sharp pull tugging at his heart as he realizes he almost lost his chance to give it to you at all. He resolves right here and now, basking in the warm light of your infinite patience for him, that he won’t take that box out until he’s earned it.

He hates to wait even a second longer, itches to lock you down with every passing moment, but he won’t ask you to make that kind of commitment to him until he’s sure he’s the man that you need him to be. As he presses a firm kiss to your temple, swiping another morsel from the edge of your plate with a smile, he swears up to his Ma that he will work hard to deserve you, even if you seem to think he already does.

[jinjoohaa]

Room for One more?

Pairing - JJK Men x reader

CW: obsessive behavior, dubcon/free use themes, sexual exhaustion, manipulation, smut-heavy content, degradation, group dynamics, rough language, Gojo being an unhinged menace, humor mixed with filth.

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Chapter 20

Gojo had always been insatiable, but now he became something else entirely. Something unhinged. He wasn’t just using you—he was devouring you, every part of you, all day, every day, with that same sugar-sweet voice and pretty blue eyes that masked the fact he was a walking, talking, sex-starved maniac.

You couldn’t walk into a room without him turning it into his personal fantasy.

He’d fuck you over the sink while brushing his teeth, his mouth full of foam, smearing it along your neck as he groaned, “I knew you were gonna look hot in these panties today, baby… you wear ‘em just for me?”

Sometimes he didn’t even bother touching you. He’d jerk off just watching you—when you were sleeping, when you were reading, when you were just curled up on the couch in a big shirt with your legs tucked under you. He’d sit across from you, eyes glazed, fist working his cock under a blanket like he didn’t care who noticed.

“You don’t even need to do anything,” he’d sigh. “Just exist. That’s all it takes, angel. Just sit there and let me cum all over myself like the pathetic little perv I am, yeah?”

And he’d do it.

But it wasn’t always just for himself.

There were times he’d bend you over the coffee table three times before lunch, tongue buried deep between your legs like he was starving, whimpering sweet nothings against your clit.

“Ngh—don’t run, don’t move, baby, just let me—fuck, you taste so good today, did you eat fruit or something? You always taste sweeter after mangoes. God, I love you—love your pussy, love your thighs, love the way you go all dumb and whiny just for me—”

By the time evening rolled around, your legs were shaking. You’d be half-asleep on the couch while Gojo was still wide-eyed and grinning, pawing at you like a cat in heat.

He wasn’t rough. He never hurt you. That was the worst part—he was so gentle about it, so loving, always kissing your cheeks and whispering praise, coaxing you through orgasm after orgasm like it was nothing.

“Still with me, pretty girl? I know it’s the third time, but I swear this one’s gonna be the best—please, just one more, and I’ll let you nap on my chest all evening, promise.”

He’d say that. Then thirty minutes later he’d be hard again.

At first you loved it.

The way he's obsessed with you like a maniac. The way his world revolved around you. The way all his energy and attention went straight to you. The way he spoils you. The way he comes home right after work so he could cuddle you, love you or bend you over and fuck you right after.

But you couldn't lie, it was getting a bit too much.

You were exhausted.

Your thighs ached. Your voice went hoarse. You couldn’t focus on anything. You’d try to make breakfast and Gojo would come up behind you, cock already hard in his shorts, and start grinding against your ass while pretending he was just trying to reach the kettle.

“Oops. Sorry, baby. It’s just so warm back here… don’t mind me.”

But it never stopped there. His “just one more time” turned into two, then three, then more.

And when you finally gathered the nerve to talk to him—one evening, after sex had made your whole body sore—you sat him down gently and said, “Satoru… maybe uhmm. . . we could take it slow for a few days? Just a little?”

He blinked.

Then tilted his head and gave you that look—the big, glassy, hurt-puppy stare.

“...What’s wrong, baby? Don’t I make you feel good?”

“I’m not hurting you, am I? I’m always so careful…”

“You don’t love me anymore? That’s it, right? You love Geto more now? Or Nanami? I knew it. It’s ‘cause Toji’s stronger, isn’t it?”

He rambled like that for ten straight minutes while you panicked and backtracked, apologizing and hugging him, promising that you loved him more than anything. And so… you never brought it up again.

But the exhaustion didn’t go unnoticed.

Geto saw the way your legs trembled at breakfast. Nanami caught you dozing off mid-task. Toji had to hold you up once during laundry because your knees nearly gave out.

When you confessed to Geto—quietly, while Gojo was out—that you were overwhelmed, he’d simply nodded.

“I’ll talk to him.”

And so they did.

It all came to a head the next evening.

You were folding laundry in the living room, soft music playing in the background, Geto and Nanami nearby. Toji was resting on the recliner.

Then came the sound of the door slamming.

Gojo stumbled in, sweaty from a jog, plastic bag swinging from one hand, his silver hair stuck to his forehead. He was muttering to himself—something about getting the spicy curry you liked—and didn’t even take off his shoes before he tossed the bag aside, palming his crotch, and started marching toward you with his cock already half-hard.

“Sweetheart,” he panted, “I missed you so fucking much—lemme just—just a quick one, I need you—can’t think—”

His eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide. He was panting like a man possessed, shirt damp, skin flushed, all but vibrating as he started crossing the room.

Before he could get two steps closer, a hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar.

Toji.

With one swift yank, he dragged Gojo back like an unruly mutt and tossed him bodily onto the couch.

Gojo landed with a grunt, flopping like a ragdoll.

“What the fuck, Toji?!” he groaned, sitting up, hair even messier than before.

“You need to cool it,” Toji snapped. “You’ve been walking around with your dick out more than your clothes this week.”

Gojo blinked. “Okay, but… who's complaining?”

“Her! She’s fucking exhausted.”

“I’m gentle—!”

“And constant,” Nanami cut in, calm but sharp. “There’s a difference between loving and smothering, Satoru.”

Gojo’s jaw clenched. He looked to you—wide-eyed, breathless, heart in his throat.

“You said you liked it… I make you feel good…”

“And now she’s barely sleeping,” Geto said, sighing as he moved to your side, tugging you gently into his lap. “You have no off switch. It’s too much.”

“She didn’t say anything—!”

“Because every time she tries, you guilt her,” Nanami said flatly. “You twist it into something it’s not. That’s manipulative.”

“I just… I just love her so much…”

“We all love her,” Toji said, rubbing his temples. “But if you keep acting like you’re the only one who deserves her, we’re gonna have a problem.”

Gojo slumped back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily. His cock was still twitching, shamelessly, against his thigh.

“…Can I at least jerk off while watching her then?” he muttered.

“Toji, hold him down.” Nanami snapped.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—”

Gojo sat on the couch, legs spread like he owned the place, flushed and breathing heavily as if he had been the one unfairly manhandled. His cock was still half-hard in his pants and twitching with every annoyed shift of his hips.

“I seriously don’t get what the big deal is,” he muttered, lip jutting out in a pout. “She likes it. She lets me. She moans. I’m gentle. You guys are just pissed because she loves me the most.”

There was a pause.

Toji’s head turned, slow and sharp, like a predator hearing a challenge.

“What did you just say?”

“I said,” Gojo grinned, too smug for his own good, “she loves me the most. That’s why you’re all mad. You don’t see her face when I make her cum. You don’t hear the little sounds she makes when I eat her out till she cries. You don’t know the way she grabs my hair like she’s gonna die without me. That’s love, baby.”

Toji was already on his feet, cracking his neck.

“You wanna say that again, pretty boy?”

“You mad, Toji?” Gojo smirked. “Didn’t get enough last time you begged to taste her? Want me to describe how she sounds when she—”

"You fucker—" Toji was ready to throw hands.

“Toji,” Nanami said firmly, hand on his chest. “Don’t.”

Toji growled but stayed still, eyes burning holes through Gojo.

Gojo huffed, crossing his arms. “Everyone uses the free-use thing. So why am I the only one getting ganged up on like this? You guys fuck her too. Why aren’t you all getting dragged? Huh?”

“Because none of us are fucking her four times a day,” Geto snapped.

Gojo blinked. “That’s not true. Maybe three.”

“Do you want the list?” Nanami asked, deadpan.

Gojo shrugged. “Go ahead. Bet none of it sounds that bad.”

Nanami sighed. “Fine. You asked.”

He held up one finger.

“Last Wednesday. You fucked her in the laundry room on top of the detergent. The cap was still open. It spilled. She sat in it. Her thighs were raw. She couldn’t walk properly.”

Gojo shrugged. “It was hypoallergenic. Also, she said the floor was cold, I was trying to keep her warm.”

Toji rubbed his temples.

Geto jumped in. “That same day, you asked her to hold your cock in her mouth while you played video games. You told her it was ‘team bonding’ and if she loved you, she’d keep it warm until the match ended.”

Gojo raised his hand, as if correcting a fact. “First of all, it was two matches. And second, it was bonding. She was humming. That’s, like, advanced affection.”

Nanami glared. “She was humming because she couldn’t breathe and was trying to make noise.”

Gojo blinked. “...Details.”

Toji snorted. “For fuck's sake. Remember Sunday brunch? She was wearing a dress. We were all eating. You kept fingering her under the table. She dropped her goddamn fork. Three times.”

“She looked pretty,” Gojo replied defensively. “And I was helping her relax. You know how she gets nervous during meals.”

“She choked on orange juice,” Toji snapped.

“She’s clumsy!” Gojo threw his hands up. “I was gonna Heimlich her if it got bad. Geez.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched.

Geto leaned forward. “The time you smeared whipped cream on her tits at 3AM because you ‘wanted dessert’—”

“Oh, come on,” Gojo cut in, “that one was romantic. It was her birthday.”

“Her birthday is on next month.”

Gojo blinked. “...Time is an illusion?”

Toji looked like he was about to lunge again.

Nanami just pinched the bridge of his nose.

Geto sighed. “You literally humped her thigh while she was napping on the beanbag. You thought we didn’t see, but the mirror caught it.”

“She looked like she wanted it in her sleep!”

“She was asleep.”

Gojo shrugged. “Consent is forever.”

Toji hissed through his teeth. “Oh I’m gonna—”

Nanami stepped in. “Toji.”

Gojo was on a roll now, clearly doubling down.

“Y’all are just mad cause she cuddles me more. She tells me she loves me every night. I don’t hear her saying that to you.”

“Because you make her say it,” Geto growled. “While your cock’s down her throat.”

Gojo smiled like that was a compliment. “Exactly.”

Nanami finally threw his hands up. “I can’t. I literally cannot listen to this anymore.”

“C’mon, Nanamin—”

“No.”

Nanami stood. “I’m done arguing with a hormonal raccoon in heat.”

“I’m not a raccoon!”

“You are. You’re white-haired, nocturnal, and you hump things indiscriminately.”

Gojo looked offended. “That’s racist.”

Toji burst out laughing.

Nanami shook his head and turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Geto asked.

“To my room,” Nanami muttered. “I’d rather listen to cursed audio of Gojo moaning than hear another excuse for why he thought fucking her against the fridge during a blackout was a good idea.”

Gojo pointed at Geto. “That one was your idea!”

“I said light a candle, not rail her next to the butter drawer!”

Nanami disappeared down the hall and slammed his door shut.

Toji sat back down, rubbing his jaw. “I swear, if you keep this up, I’m gonna staple your dick to the floor.”

Gojo crossed his legs dramatically. “You’re all bullies.”

Geto flopped next to you, pulled you onto his lap, and whispered, “You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, half amused, half dazed from the chaos. Gojo pouted from across the room.

“She still loves me the most,” he muttered.

Toji picked up a sock and threw it at his face.

Few minutes passed.

Gojo stayed on the couch, unmoving, as if he were mourning something sacred. His long limbs sprawled across the cushions dramatically, one arm draped over his eyes like he was in the final scene of a tragic romance. The sock Toji had thrown at him was still resting on his chest.

No one said anything for a while. You were curled into Geto’s lap, and he was gently stroking your back, murmuring something soft into your ear while Toji looked through his phone like none of this ever happened.

Then Gojo let out the most obnoxiously loud sigh you’d ever heard.

“…No one even cares that I’m hurt,” he said, voice shaking slightly. “No one’s asking how I’m doing. How I’m feeling.”

Toji didn’t even glance up. “You tried to stick your dick into her while she was folding towels.”

“And you tackled me!” Gojo flailed his arms. “I have bruises! My hip hit the corner of the goddamn table! You think this is easy for me?”

“You think this—” Toji gestured at you, limp in Geto’s lap, your shirt slightly stretched and your thighs marked up with faint bruises from earlier— “is easy for her?”

“She’s glowing,” Gojo said stubbornly.

“She’s fading,” Geto corrected flatly. “She almost fell asleep while chewing cereal this morning.”

“I was just giving her vitamins,” Gojo muttered.

“By fucking them into her at sunrise?” Geto scoffed.

Gojo pouted harder, then slowly slid down the couch like a melting popsicle, his ass nearly hanging off the edge now.

“I’m not even horny right now,” he whispered.

Everyone stared at him.

“…I just wanted to cuddle.”

“Go to bed,” Toji said.

Gojo didn’t move. “You’re all gonna brainwash her against me. That’s what this is. You want her to stop loving me.”

Geto rolled his eyes. “No one’s plotting against you, you maniac.”

“I saw how she smiled at Nanamin yesterday.”

“I smile at everyone,” you said weakly, voice still raspy from earlier.

Gojo turned his head toward you slowly, like a ghost haunting a Victorian home.

“But you smiled at him differently.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Toji muttered under his breath.

“I can’t help it if I’m just more sensitive,” Gojo continued, now curled into fetal position, pulling the sock onto his hand like a puppet.

“You guys don’t get it. She’s everything to me. Every time I touch her, it’s like a religious experience.”

“You came in your pants before even touching her last night,” Geto said.

“Exactly!” Gojo looked betrayed that Geto didn’t see the poetry in that. “That’s how powerful it is. I don’t need any of you to understand.”

He turned toward you again, lip trembling like he was really about to cry.

“Baby,” he whispered, crawling across the couch like a sad, horny panther. “You still love me, right? You still want me? I’m your good boy, yeah?”

Geto narrowed his eyes. “Don’t answer that.”

Gojo sat upright again with a loud huff, legs crossed, arms folded.

“…I’m just gonna sleep on the floor then. Right here. Naked. Maybe she’ll trip on me and accidentally fall into my mouth. Oh no. How tragic.”

Toji grabbed a pillow and smacked him in the face.

Gojo let himself fall backward with a grunt, now fully stretched out and muttering under his breath.

“You’re all just jealous. She loves me the most. She said it while I was balls deep and sucking her tits last day. That’s basically a marriage vow.”

“I’m gonna shove that sock in your mouth,” Toji muttered.

“Not before she shoves her tits in my mouth,” Gojo sing-songed, wagging his tongue.

“Enough,” Geto said finally, shifting you onto the couch next to him and standing. He walked over and pulled Gojo up by the shirt collar.

“You wanna prove you’re not just a sex-crazed lunatic? Then back off and let her rest. Give her at least one full day without any of your dick-stupid antics.”

Gojo blinked. “What if I just cuddle her with my dick out?”

“Gojo.”

“…Okay, fine.” He deflated again. “But only because I love her more than any of you.”

Toji kicked a cushion at his head.

“I will. And I’ll make her say it too, next time she’s gagging on—”

Geto clapped a hand over his mouth and started dragging him away by the collar.

Gojo muffled something that sounded suspiciously like “jealous losers.”

You let out a breath, eyes fluttering closed.

“…I'm gonna get some sleep now.” you mumbled.

Toji sat beside you, brushing your hair back with surprising gentleness.

“Sleep, baby. He’ll still be dumb when you wake up.”

to be continued in the next chapter. . . .

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[ramp-it-up]

Consent

Summary: Bucky's in his head. Only you can get him out of it.

Word count: 4.8 K

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader; Sam Wilson x Bucky and Reader (platonic)

A/N: Been on my Bucky bullshit for a minute. Just block me now. Or, read, respond, and reblog! Love you heauxes! This is connected to Charm , Celebrate and Claim, but can be read alone! This was inspired by a reblog comment from @binkybonkybucky. Thanks, love! 😁

I’ve also decided to include some prompts from my 5K follower celebration challenge, #PraiseMe5k. See if you can spot them! 😉

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Teacher Reader, Congressman Bucky, Bucky Angst, Switch! Bucky, dom Bucky, sub Bucky, consent conversation, shower sex, EDGING, teasing, fold fucking, anal play, SIZE KINK, orgasm denial, tit worship/play, BEGGING KINK, overstimulation, sex game play, lap dance, did I say sub!Bucky? Dinner with Sam, f receiving orall, raw p in v, praise kink, bit of the Sargeant kink, nicknames Charm and Baby, use of Good girl and Good boy. Basically pwp.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

The next time you came to D.C., you had a key to Bucky’s townhouse.

The place was quiet when you let yourself in, causing a small pang of worry to bloom in your chest.

You knew he was struggling.

Congress didn’t move like Bucky did.

He was a man of instinct and of action. He was built for swift decisions and clean execution. But this world of legislation, compromise, and rules that looped in on themselves was agony.

He hated the endless meetings. Hated the speeches. Hated the sensation of being trapped, muzzled, and constrained by red tape.

This wasn’t the fight he’d signed up for.

School was out, and you’d carved out this one week before you started teaching summer school to be here.

With him. 

You listened for a moment after you closed his front door. You heard water running and smiled; Bucky was in the shower.

You slipped off your sandals by the door, heart already racing a little. You padded toward the sound, the hem of his stolen dress shirt skimming your thighs above a pair of khaki short shorts.

Steam poured from the bathroom, thick and curling like fog from the cracked door. 

You stepped inside.

And there he was.

Bucky stood under the spray, his palms braced against the tile, head tipped back, water trailing down the ridges of his chest, over his abs, tracing the deep grooves of his hips, and soaking the powerful muscles of his thighs. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were closed. And his whole body taut with something that wasn't physical strain.

You didn’t say a word. Just peeled your clothes away and stepped into the heat behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. 

He exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in hours.

“Did you have a good trip?” he asked, voice low and quiet.

“I missed you.” 

Your voice was soft, muffled against his skin.

He turned slowly, his hands sliding to your hips. His eyes flicked over your face, searching for something. You gave him a small smile. 

“You okay?”

He hesitated. 

“I should be. Just… been in my head. Thinking.”

“About what?”

His jaw flexed.

“About you being here for the week. About what that means. About what it does to me.” 

He looked down for a beat, then back up. 

“I came in here to clear my head, but you’re always in it. You make me forget the constant struggle. You make me want to stop holding back. And that’s... terrifying.”

You kissed the scar above his heart, your lips gentle. His breath hitched. Not from pain. From memory. From trust.

“You don’t have to hold anything back with me,” you said. “Not your strength. Not your softness. Not your want.”

You reached up, gently cradling his face.

“So here’s what I propose,” you said, voice steady. 

“This week, we consent. Fully. Freely. You take what you want when you need to lead. And when you need to surrender, you can give yourself to me, with no shame, and no hesitation. Deal?”

His body shifted. You felt it happen. That subtle undoing of tension in his shoulders, the air returning to his lungs in a deep, cleansing breath. His grip on your waist tightened.

And then his expression changed.

The softness burned away, leaving something feral in its place.

“Deal, Charm,” he said. His voice dropped to gravel. “Right now I want to ruin you a little.”

Your breath caught.

“Make you come so hard your knees give out,” he growled, lips at your ear.

You were soaked already, and not from the water.

“Wanna hear you beg for it, Charm.”

You smiled against his mouth, heart slamming in your chest. 

“There’s my Bucky.”

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs circling his waist as your back met the cool tile. His cock, hot and thick, pressed between your folds, the water slicking every inch of you. He kissed you hard, and then pulled back just enough to speak.

“You’re gonna take all of me,” he said, voice barely controlled, “even if it’s rough. I’m going to get you ready for me first. Okay?”

Your head dropped back, breath ragged, legs tightening around his waist.

“Okay, Bucky.”

He grinned darkly, lowering his mouth to your throat.

“Good girl.”

His gaze dropped to your breasts, your nipples tight from the air shift, your breasts rising and falling with every panting breath.

“Your tits, baby…fuck. I sit in budget hearings hard as a rock thinking about how they bounce when I fuck you.”

That made you grind down harder, feeling the thick length of him trapped between your bodies.

He groaned. His hands slid up, cupping your breasts in his warm, rough hands, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples. The flicks were gentle, then punishing, making you gasp. Every stroke sent a jolt straight to your core.

The strikes of his hot breath against your skin made the taut buds tighten even more. Then his mouth was on you, tongue lapping, lips sucking, teeth grazing, treating your breasts with the same devotion he gave your cunt.

You moaned, nearly weeping with pleasure already. His teeth scraped and his tongue lapped against the underside of the sensitive peak and you were almost cumming, the wave cresting and intense.

It was going to change your life, you just knew it. The pulls of his mouth were greedy and sublime. He moved to the other nipple, giving it the same attention, teasing you to the very edge and not letting you go over.

You whimpered, trembling, clenching around nothing.

Bucky chuckled darkly, mouth brushing your collarbone. 

“Not yet, baby. I wanna hear you beg.”

Your pride broke first.

“Please, Bucky… don’t stop. I need you.”

“That’s better.”

His hand slid between your thighs, parting your folds with practiced care. He slid his fingers over the lips of your pussy, squeezing them between his straightened fingers as his thumb skated over your clit. His fingers teased relentlessly, dipping inside just enough to make you gasp, then pulling back. 

The edge was sharp and unbearable. 

You couldn’t stop moving your hips, trying to chase him.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice broken. “This all for me?”

You nodded quickly, unable to speak.

He slid two fingers inside you, curling them. You sobbed.

“Jesus!”

He pulled his fingers out, studying them slick with your arousal before licking them clean.

“Sweetest fucking nectar.”

You whimpered, practically vibrating.

He growled low in his throat, positioning himself. The blunt head of his cock was at your entrance. He paused. He looked at you. You knew what he wanted.

“Please,” you breathed. “Please, Bucky. I need it.”

That did it. He rolled his hips, cock grinding along your slick folds, teasing you where you ached the most. Every movement sent sparks skittering through your body. You gasped into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pinned you to the tile, the shower spray pounding around you like white noise.

Then he slowed down, dragging the thick head of his cock down, then up again, just grazing your clit.

“Fuck, Bucky…”

He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up.

“Keep those eyes open,” he said, voice rough. “I want to watch you fall apart.”

He lifted you slightly, adjusting his angle, and then slowly his cock began to press inside. Then, another breach: two fingers slid into your ass. The sweet burn made you keen.

“Don’t cum,” he warned.

“Oh God, Bucky!” you cried as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt.

“Fuck, you’re dripping. You want to be used like this?” he asked, voice broken with lust.

“Yes,” you sobbed. “God, yes.”

“You’re taking me so good, baby,” he whispered. “So fucking tight for me. So perfect.”

He held you there, stuffed full of him, stretching you wide while the hot water poured down around you like a curtain.

“You feel that stretch?” he murmured at your ear.

“That’s mine. You’re not gonna cum until I say, Charm. You’re gonna take it. Hold it. Beg for it.”

“Please, please, please!”

Finally, he began to move with slow, grinding, deep thrusts, each one dragging against the most sensitive parts of you, keeping you right there on the edge. He kept his eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction.

“You want to cum already, don’t you?” he asked, smirking against your lips. 

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“I said,” he growled, thrusting hard enough to knock the breath from you, “you want to cum?”

“Yes, Bucky,” you gasped. “Please. I can’t hold it, I can’t…”

“You will.”

He reached between you and brushed your clit with maddening precision, and your whole body arched.

“Every time you get close, I’m gonna stop,” he promised. “Until you’re crying for it. Wanna ruin you.”

You were already crying. Tears and steam and desperation all mixing into one wet haze. But you didn’t want it to stop.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then whispered in your ear.

“You’re so fucking perfect when you cry for me. Doing so good for me, baby. So good. That little cunt’s gripping me like it doesn’t want to let go.”

Another thrust. Another crest of pleasure. And then he stopped

Just stopped. Buried to the hilt. Not moving.

You whimpered, hips rolling against him on instinct, but he held you in place with one hand around your throat just tight enough to still you.

“You’re so close I can feel it,” he murmured. “But you’re not there yet. Not until you break.”

Your clit throbbed. Your body shook. You were wrecked.

“Bucky, please…”

He held your face in his hands, eyes boring into yours.

“You trust me?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Always.”

“Then give me everything.”

And he took it.

He moved again, slow at first, then harder, deeper, faster. The pace edged into brutal territory, the sound of your slick heat echoed in the steamy bathroom, and your cries bounced off the walls.

Every time you hit the edge, he denied you. Again. And again. Until your legs gave out and your tears fell freely and your lips couldn’t form full words anymore.

“Please, Bucky,” you begged. “Don’t stop. Let me…please…”

He grunted, driving into you.

“Look so pretty like this. Taking all of me. Like you were made for it.”

He rubbed your clit again, this time in more insistent, more perfect circles. He grabbed your hair, yanked your head up.

“You wanna cum?”

“Yes! Please!”

“You gonna thank me when I let you?”

“Yes, Bucky. Thank you, thank you—”

“Cum.”

The command detonated in your bloodstream. Your back arched. You screamed, your pussy pulsing in tight, spasming waves around his cock. You shook from the inside out, sobbing his name, and absolutely broke apart.

Bucky groaned into your neck, thrusting through your aftershocks until he came, deep and hot, buried in you, his whole body shuddering with release.

You collapsed against him under the water, both of you gasping, trembling, utterly spent.

Eventually, he kissed your forehead, hand stroking your cheek.

“You took it so well,” he murmured. “My perfect girl.”

Your voice was hoarse.

“You’re gonna kill me one day.”

He smiled, kissing you again.

“Not until I’ve made you cum like that a hundred more times.”

—--

The next afternoon, the two of you were lazing in Bucky’s bed, having slept and cuddled most of the day. But even in that bliss, you felt it: the slow, creeping return of tension. It slithered back into his shoulders as he sat up and began to button a crisp shirt, each movement precise, and almost too careful.

Sam was coming over for dinner. But Bucky was thinking too much, still carrying the weight of his world behind those pretty blue eyes.

You still had a couple of hours.

So, you decided to break his brain before dinner.

You walked over to the armchair where he was sprawled scrolling emails and trailed a hand lazily down his chest. Your lips found the place just under his jaw.

“Let’s play a game,” you whispered, fingers dipping below his waistband before you pulled back and walked toward the table.

He raised an eyebrow, his suspicion clear. 

“What kind of game?”

You pulled a slim deck of cards from your tote, a novelty thing from a friend’s bachelorette weekend, once laughed at and forgotten. 

Until now.

“Give and Take,” you said, smiling sweetly. 

 “One of us draws a card. The other does what it says.”

He narrowed his eyes, amused.

“And if we refuse?”

You shrugged, cocking a brow.

“Then the other gets a point. First to three wins. Winner decides how the night ends.”

That got him. Bucky loved rules. Loved breaking them. And he loved choosing when to surrender.

“Alright, Charm,” he said. “Deal.”

You pulled the first card.

GIVE – Eye contact. While touching. No talking. One minute.

He pushed the chair back, inviting you in with the lazy sprawl of his legs. You climbed into his lap, straddling him, fingertips brushing the sharp line of his jaw.

You locked eyes.

The electricity bloomed instantly. His body reacted, fast and fierce, his cock thickening beneath you, his breath catching as you rolled your hips just barely against him… then stopped.

He twitched. His lips parted. But he didn’t break.

When the timer chimed, he snatched the next card and flipped it with a flick of his wrist.

GIVE – A whisper. Something filthy. Something real.

You leaned in. Your breath danced over the shell of his ear.

“I want to make you cum in your pants while Sam’s sitting right next to you.”

He twitched. All over. And his hands gripped your thighs like he was grounding himself.

“Your turn,” he rasped.

You drew your card.

TAKE– Let them tease. You can’t touch. Five minutes.

Your eyes gleamed as you set your timer and slid off his lap, dropping gracefully to your knees between his legs.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Shirt open,” you commanded.

He obeyed.

You dragged your tongue along the ridges of his abs. You dipped lower, hot breath ghosting over the bulge in his pants, and let your cheek brush against the thick line of his cock. Your mouth moved over the fabric, teasing his balls, the sensitive tip, the aching outline of him, but never giving more.

He groaned. His hips bucked slightly. You held him in place with your palms on his thighs.

The timer beeped.

Relief crossed his face. Until he flipped the next card.

GIVE – Ask for something. Nicely.

You turned the tables.

“Please tell me what you want right now, Bucky.”

He bit down hard on his lip, and your pussy clenched at the sight.

“I want your mouth,” he ground out, voice hoarse and fraying. “I want to cum down your throat.”

You leaned back on your heels, and licked your lips, as if considering.

“Too bad,” you whispered, licking your bottom lip. “You haven’t earned that yet.”

His cock twitched visibly, precum soaking through the fabric. His fists clenched on the chair arms, breath ragged.

Next card.

TAKE – Lap dance. No kissing. Two songs.

He exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut.

You put on the speaker. Rihanna’s Kiss It Better began to thrum low and sultry through the room.

Your eyes flicked to Bucky’s, and he swallowed hard.

You straddled him again and moved. Slow circles of your hips ground right down on the bulge in his pants, and your ass dragged over him with just enough friction to torment. You kept your hands on his shoulders, your lips just out of reach.

By the time Diamonds and Pearls came on, he was sweating. 

He whimpered, his hips barely resisting the urge to buck up into you. He was shaking now.

“I’m close,” he gasped. 

“Charm…fuck, I’m gonna– ”

You stood up and he let out a sound like you’d ripped his soul out.

“Next card,” you said lightly, drawing from the deck as he sat there, ruined.

His eyes shut as he heard the words.

GIVE – Beg. Without touching.

He looked wrecked. His mouth was red, his hair disheveled, and his pupils were blown.

“Please,” he breathed.

“Please let me touch you. Let me taste you. Let me fucking cum. I’m losing it.”

You leaned in, mouth almost brushing his.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” you whispered.

“One more card.”

He picked it up with shaking fingers.

TAKE – Let them taste. One minute. That’s all.

He dropped to his knees before he even finished reading it aloud, then he pushed you back on the bed, pulled your thighs apart and buried his face between them. 

The moment he tasted you, he moaned, licking at you like a man starving. Tongue flat, then pointed, then swirling. He mouthed your clit like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His grip on your hips was bruising.

You were soaked, shaking, and already close.

One minute passed; you pushed him back.

“No,” he growled, trying to chase you.

“Better go change your pants, Sergeant,” you purred. 

“Sam will be here in twenty. And you’re not going to cum… until after dessert.”

He stayed on his knees, panting, flushed and furious. And grinning like a man undone.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

“That’s the point.”

—-

At 6:30 sharp, you were dressed and deadly in a black dress that hugged every curve. No bra. No panties. And Bucky knew it.

He opened the door looking put-together, but tight, barely in control.

Sam grinned. “Good to see you, man.”

Then his eyes shifted.

“Well damn. You must be Charm. He didn’t say you were gorgeous.”

You smiled sweetly and took Sam’s offered hand. 

“He also didn’t say you were this charming. You too always withhold information from one another?”

“Only when it comes to feelings,” Sam joked, clapping Bucky on the shoulder, missing the subtle flinch it drew.

You were watching Bucky closely. The slight stiffness. The twitch in his jaw. The way his hands kept flexing like they needed to hold something. Or someone.

Dinner was set: simple pasta, garlic bread, wine. Easy enough to manage while your mind ran absolutely wild with all the things you wanted to do to your man after dessert.

The conversation flowed. Mostly.

You asked Sam about the transition to being Captain America. He asked you about teaching. Bucky interjected here and there, quieter than usual, his fingers white-knuckled around his fork.

His leg bounced.

So you slid your bare foot under the table, and up his leg.

He froze mid-sip; you went higher.

“You good, Barnes?” Sam asked.

“Fine,” Bucky rasped. “Wrong pipe.”

Your foot pressed between his thighs.

Sam kept talking. You kept teasing. Bucky unraveled. He was flushed, damp at the temples, shifting constantly in his seat. His cock was straining again, still aching from earlier, but still denied.

Finally, Sam stood.

“Early flight. I should head out.”

Sam stepped in for a quick hug and a beautiful smile.

“You take care of him, alright? He’s a grumpy bastard, but he means well.”

“Don’t I know it,” you said, your smile angelic.

As soon as the door shut behind Sam, Bucky spun around.

“Take off the dress.”

You raised a brow. 

“Excuse me?”

“You knew I was barely hanging on.” 

His voice was low, dark with need. 

“You're wearing nothing under that dress. You played footsie under the table while I tried to pretend I wasn’t already leaking in my pants from what you did earlier.”

“Poor thing,” you murmured. 

“Did you want to cum in the middle of dinner, Bucky? With Sam sitting right across from you?”

He stalked toward you like a predator finally let off the leash.

“I would’ve. If you’d told me to. Right there. Right in my fucking pants.”

You stood your ground. 

“You’re not in charge tonight.”

He stopped. Breathing hard. Neck flushed.

“Then tell me what to do.”

You stepped up close, sliding your hands into his hair, tugging gently so he looked at you.

“On your knees, Baby.”

He sank immediately.

You slipped your dress over your head and stood there naked and  glowing in the low light. Bucky looked up at you like you were divine.

“You don’t touch me until I say. You don’t speak unless I ask. And you don’t cum until I allow it. Understand?”

He swallowed hard. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

You grinned.

“Good boy.”

—---

He was on his knees.

Shoulders wide, thighs parted, chest rising and falling with deep, restrained breaths. The collar of his dress shirt was open, sleeves rolled. He hadn’t dared take it off.

You hadn’t given permission.

But you stood over him, completely bare. 

“You’ve been very good tonight,” you said, voice like silk. “And very patient.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up your body with reverence. And hunger. 

“Thank you,” he rasped.

“For dinner. For… everything.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly, watching his eyes flutter shut as he leaned into the touch.

“But you want more.”

“God, yes.”

“Even after I tortured you through the entire meal?”

He let out a breathless laugh. 

“Especially after that.”

You smiled and pulled his face against your inner thigh. 

“Then earn it.”

And he did. Instantly.

He kissed up the soft line of your leg, slow and open-mouthed. But when he reached your cunt, you pulled back. Just enough to drive him insane..

“Not yet.”

His groan was guttural. 

“Please, Charm…”

“You want your reward?” 

You reached down and traced your fingers along his jaw. 

“Then you have to keep your hands behind your back and your mouth very busy.”

Obedience was instantaneous. His hands locked behind him, his posture was perfect. And he opened his mouth like a man ready to be fed.

You stepped forward and let your pussy press against his face. The moment his tongue met you, everything inside you tightened. He licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, moaning into you, like your taste alone was bliss.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Take your time.”

And he did. Tongue teasing your clit, then dipping lower, circling and stroking, his mouth working you with slow, endless hunger. His nose bumped you rhythmically, your hips starting to roll against his face, chasing each wave of pressure.

You glanced down,  and his eyes were locked on you. His jaw worked like he was starving, like this was his first real meal. And he was so good at it. The perfect pressure. The perfect rhythm. 

“Fuck, baby—” 

You grabbed the edge of the counter for balance as heat coiled tight in your belly. 

“You’re going to make me cum just like this.”

He moaned into you, encouraged, mouth open wider, his tongue curling up just right, and you grabbed his hair and rode his face.

He held still and strong beneath you, his cock aching in his slacks, untouched and forgotten.

And then it hit. A sharp, blinding orgasm that rippled through you, your thighs clenching, cunt pulsing against his mouth. He licked you through it, gentle now, soothing your shaking legs until you could breathe again.

“Good boy,” you whispered, fingers stroking his cheek.

“You’ve earned something else now.”

His breath hitched.

“Bedroom. Now.”

You walked slowly to the bedroom, Bucky behind you. Once there, you turned, voice firm. 

“Strip.”

He obeyed in record time. Shirt, pants, boxers, all discarded, leaving him bare, flushed, already leaking, his cock thick and red and so, so ready.

You pushed him back onto the bed and straddled his thighs, letting your soaked heat brush the length of him.

“Look at you,” you murmured, sliding your fingers up his shaft. “So eager. So desperate.”

His hips jerked on instinct. You pinned him with yours.

You took him in hand, guided his tip to your slick folds. Rubbed it there. Let him feel it. But didn’t let him in.

He whimpered.

“Do you want to cum, Bucky?”

“Please. Baby, I need it. I’m dying.”

“Then beg. Properly.”

“I need to be inside you, Charm,” he rasped. “I’ll be so good. I’ll take everything. Please. I need to feel you. I need to fill you. Please let me cum inside.”

You let his tip breach you. Just enough. His head dropped back, a strangled sound ripping from his chest. But you didn’t let him thrust. 

Instead, you slid down slowly, inch by inch, taking him in deep until he was fully seated inside you.

And then you stopped.

“Stay. Just like that.”

His entire body was trembling. His cock throbbed inside your cunt. His fists clenched in the sheets.

“Charm…baby, please…I can’t…”

You leaned down and kissed him.

“Not yet,” you whispered. “You’ll know when.”

Then you began to move in slow, deliberate rolls of your hips. Just enough to feel him, to keep him simmering, but never enough to push him over the edge.

He was huge inside you, stretching you perfectly, the thick head of his cock dragging over your sweet spot with every slow grind. His hands clutched the sheets like a man in pain.

“God,” he choked. “You’re so tight. So warm. I…fuck, I can’t…”

“You can,” you whispered in his ear, dragging your teeth along the edge. 

“You will. Because it’s not time yet.”

He groaned, head tossed back into the pillows, jaw clenched, muscles straining under you. You ran your hands over his chest, over the muscles twitching beneath his skin. His eyes opened just enough to find yours.

“You want to cum so bad, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he choked. “God, yes.”

You clenched around him and stopped again.

“I know,” you said sweetly.

 “I can feel how close you are. You're twitching inside me, Buck. Leaking for it. You’re aching to lose control.”

His hips bucked, instinctive, but you had him pinned. Even though he was much stronger than you, he wouldn’t thrust. Wouldn’t move.

“You’re gonna wait,” you said. “Until I say. You’re going to stay right there and take it. Because you’re mine. Just lay there and take it, handsome.”

“I can feel it. You’re twitching. Leaking. Holding it for me like a good boy.”

He sobbed through gritted teeth.

“I’ll wait. I’ll wait. I swear.”

“You’re going to. Because you’re mine. And you don’t cum until I say so.”

You rode him harder, faster now, chasing your own orgasm while holding his hostage. His hands were shaking, his thighs trembling under you, and he was babbling now.

“Fuck, you feel so good. I’m gonna blow, Charm, I can’t…please…need to cum, please let me, let me…”

“Not. Yet.”

You clenched around him again and he turned his head and screamed into the pillow, sobbing with pleasure and denial. 

You trembled against him, cumming hard, pussy pulsing, your cries loud and raw. And still, he didn’t cum.

You leaned down, forehead pressed to his, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

“You’ve been so good for me,” you whispered, stroking his sweat-damp hair. 

“So obedient. So desperate.”

“Please,” he begged, his voice wrecked.

“Please let me cum. I’ll do anything. I’ll get on my knees, I’ll eat you out ‘til morning, I’ll fuck you senseless, I need it, baby, please.”

You kissed him, and then you whispered: “Cum for me, Bucky. Now.”

The second the words left your mouth, he broke.

His body arched off the bed, his hands grabbing at your hips to pull you closer. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he came harder than he ever had. Thick spurts of semen filled you, pulsing deep inside as he shook beneath you, every nerve alight with release.

You held him through it, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, murmuring praise as he sobbed your name and trembled beneath you.

When it passed, he collapsed under you, ruined and glowing.

“You took it so well,” you whispered, fingers stroking his sweat-slick hair.

“You were made for this.”

He smiled softly, dazed, and blissed beyond reason. 

“I fucking love you, Charm.”

You curled against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your cheek. He was totally relaxed now.

And if he got tense again, you’d let him decide if he wanted to take control or be controlled, whatever it took to keep him in this space.

“I love you too, Bucky. No matter what.”

———

Let me know what you think! 😓

[sweetlovepascal]

steady hands

pairings joel miller x reader

summary you don’t feel the pain as much as you feel his panic. joel’s hands are trembling and no matter how many times you say you’re fine, he keeps looking at you like he’s about to lose everything all over again.

content angst, established relationship, minor injury, joel panics, hurt/comfort, protective joel, joel can’t cope with you getting hurt, blood mention, emotional vulnerability, soft reassurance, love in the silence.

masterlist

the sting in your side wasn’t the worst you’d ever felt. a clean graze from a bullet, nothing more.

you’d been lucky. lucky the shooter had a shaky aim, lucky joel had dropped him with a single shot before anything worse could happen.

but joel wasn’t acting like you were lucky. he was acting like the world had just ended. again.

“sit,” he barked the second you both made it inside an abandoned warehouse.

his voice was low but sharp, one hand steering you toward the sagging couch in the corner while the other yanked his backpack off with a jerk.

“i’m fine—”

“didn’t ask,” he cut you off, rummaging through his pack for the med kit, hands moving too fast, too frantic.

you sighed, wincing when the motion shifted your weight and pulled at your side. that made him pause. just for a second. but it was enough to see the flash of something raw behind his eyes. fear.

he knelt in front of you and reached for your shirt. “lemme see it.”

you held still while he cut away the fabric around the wound with his pocketknife. his hands were shaking. subtle, but noticeable. joel miller’s hands never shook. not even in a firefight.

“i told you i’m okay,” you tried again, softer this time.

he didn’t answer right away. just stared at the blood, excessive. enough to redden your shirt and smear across his fingertips. his jaw worked like he was biting something back.

“you ain’t okay,” he muttered. “you’re bleedin’. that ain’t okay with me.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but the look on his face made you stop. not angry. just haunted.

joel poured alcohol over the wound without warning. you jumped, cursing, and he flinched like he’d felt it too.

“shit. sorry,” he breathed. “i just—fuck, i should’ve seen the bastard comin’. should’ve had you behind me.”

“it wasn’t your fault,” you said gently. “he was hidden in the trees. could’ve happened to either of us.”

you hissed sharply when the sting flared up, and joel froze, eyes flicking up to catch your reaction.

his jaw clenched again as he started wrapping the bandage, each movement careful now, too careful, like he thought he’d hurt you worse if he didn’t go slow.

when he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

“next time,” he said, eyes locked on the gauze, “you let me go first. that way if someone gets hurt, it’s me. that’s the deal.”

you blinked, caught off guard by the tremor in his voice. “joel—”

“i ain’t losin’ you.” his eyes met yours finally, and there it was. all of it. the panic. the guilt. the storm he was trying to hold back behind that rugged, stoic shell.

“you get that? you go down, i don’t—i can’t…”

you bit your lip, trying to keep still, but the pain was sharp and sudden.

“hey, hey, it’s okay,” joel said softly, his hand resting warm and steady on your side.

“i’m right here. you’re okay, okay? you’re tough as hell—tougher than anyone i know. ain’t nothing gonna break you, not while i’m around.”

you swallowed, the sting still sharp, but his words wrapped around you like a shield.

“just lean on me, baby girl. i got you.” he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, thumb trailing gently over your cheek. “you’re safe now. i'm here.”

he trailed off, chest rising and falling like he’d just finished running. his hands were still on your side, gently holding your wrist as if feeling your pulse would convince him you were still here.

you leaned forward and gently cupped the side of his face. “i’m okay. you stopped it before it got worse. you saved me. like you always do.”

his eyes slipped closed at your touch. he turned into it slightly, like he didn’t want to let go.

“i shouldn’t’ve let you get in front of me,” he whispered. “i’m supposed to protect you.”

“you do. every day.”

he pulled in a shaky breath. “not well enough.”

you kissed his forehead. just a light press, just enough to ground him.

“joel. look at me.”

he did.

“you’re allowed to be scared,” you told him. “but i’m not made of glass. i’ve got your back out there too, you know.”

“don’t want you to have to,” he admitted. “i’d take every hit if i could.”

you smiled gently, your thumb brushing over his stubbled cheek.

“i know. but we’re a team, remember? and i need you to keep it together when i get a scratch. because if our roles were reversed, i know you’d be telling me not to panic.”

joel huffed a breath. almost a laugh, but it cracked too hard to be lighthearted.

“yeah, well. turns out i ain’t so good at takin’ my own advice.”

“you’re doing fine. a little overdramatic, but fine.”

“overdramatic,” he echoed with a scoff, wrapping the last bit of gauze around your side. “damn got a hole shot in you and i’m overdramatic.”

“joel.”

his eyes flicked up. you held his gaze.

“i’m here. i’m safe. and i’m not going anywhere.”

something in him melted then. his shoulders dropped, the tension draining slowly, like your words had finally pushed through the wall.

he pressed a kiss to your bandaged side, then rested his forehead against it. “you ever scare me like that again, i’m tyin’ you to the goddamn porch.”

you grinned. “you’d miss me after five minutes.”

he was smiling now, just a little, his hand curling gently around your uninjured one.

and even though you were the one bleeding, he looked like he was the one who’d just barely survived.

you didn’t say anything more. you just held onto him, letting the silence stretch until his breathing slowed and his hands stopped shaking.

letting him know without words this time that you were his. and you weren’t going anywhere.

not now. not ever.

[stargirlygirl]

no, you can't buy my ranch

rancher!sylus x spoiled!city girl!reader

⭑.ᐟ part one: new home

summary: today is the day you move into your dad's ranch house, but there's a problem. who is this silver-haired man touring your property?

contains: swearing, angst, 1.5k words

You never thought it would come to this, but as rolling grassy hills and cattle whir past your tinted car windows, you realise it indeed has.

You’re a city girl. You love the buzz and bustle of the concrete jungle; the fact that there are so many people, no one looks at you. You blend right into this fashion-forward, $8 coffee-drinking, road rage mania. It’s your home.

When your father bought a property in the middle of nowhere a few years ago, you didn’t think much of it. Not until a couple of months ago, when he asked you to pack up and move in there for the next year, so he won’t be taxed on rent collection. You were in utter disbelief and refused straight off the bat. You couldn’t give up your barista-made 57-degree oat milk lattes, let alone your apartment, or your job. And what of your gym membership? Your weekly outings with friends?

But here you are, growing frustrated at your GPS as you try to navigate the few roads of this tiny town.

You’ll be working remotely for as long as you stay here, and daddy-poo bought you an espresso machine in preparation for your move. In your mind, this next year couldn’t go any faster. You can’t wait to be out of here. Sure, the countryside looks nice. But it’s not going to be very nice when you find snakes in your backyard and can’t pop down to the supermarket after work because it closes at 5pm.

And don’t get me started on the small town gossip. Within days, everyone here will be fluent enough in your life story to write a biography about you. What high school you went to, every crush you’ve ever had, how many times you’ve peed in the pool, all of it! They’re going to know, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them from talking about it. You said so to your father when he saw you off.

“This is a bad idea,” you pouted. And he just sighed and waved as you pulled out of the parking lot and hit ‘start route’ to your new hellhole home.

For the third time in the last hour, your GPS has missed a turn and is now redirecting you back to the main road. The busy ice cream parlour workers must be tired of seeing your rust bucket of a car; they’re probably gossiping about this fucking loser who keeps circling. Determined not to go past your turn again, you drive extra slow, take the right lane, and round the corner when clear.

Driving to the end of empty grasslands, you find a small ranch house. Blue-tiled roof, white exterior, chimney, and is that a rocking chair on the porch? The sun is setting, tangerine hues casting the quaint house in a cosy glow. It’s enchanting, even more so as you pull off the dirt road and park on a nearby worn patch where you assume the prior tenants parked.

But there’s just one problem.

On the opposite side of the dirt trail is a black pickup truck. Stepping out of your beat-up tin car, the hinges groaning as you gently shut the door. Staring at the intruding vehicle, you notice the red interior of the truck and various tools stacked up on the tray. Huffing, you head to the passenger’s side and turn your handbag inside-out looking for the house keys. Upon grasping them, you lock your car and stride up your new ‘home’.

Drawing closer, you hear muffled voices from the side of the house. A deep, resonating chuckle accompanies feet crackling on the tall shrubs. You change course, following the sounds of the approaching strangers instead. It only takes a few seconds before silky silver locks glinting in the fading light come into view, followed by narrow crimson eyes. They settle on you instantly, zeroing in and assessing you like a predator does to its prey.

He’s gorgeous. Ahem. Fine. He looks fine.

Angular features, rippling muscles beneath his button-up, broad shoulders and the sluttiest little waist (that black vest understood the assignment). You’re practically ogling him with how your lips are parted, a bit of spit forming at the corner of your mouth while your eyes rake up and down his every line and curve.

Sylus’s dark boots squish every insect and hint of vegetation in their path until he stops a few feet away from you. His shadow looms over you, making you feel small and weak. His eyes have you glued in place, rendering you speechless and flushed as you wish you could run to your car and book it back to the city. So what if it’s another six-hour drive? Who cares? You certainly don’t if it means escaping the hunk of man in front of you.

Feebly, you murmur, “Who’re you?” The way it comes out, you sound like an abandoned kitten drenched by an unrelenting storm. He smirks; it sends chills rolling up your spine.

“I could say the same about you, kitten,” he confidently drawls.

Your eyes widen as you stutter, “W-what? What did you just call me?”

The man by his side, whom you haven’t even spared a glance at, interjects, “Miss, this is private property. If you don’t identify yourself, then you could be charged with trespassing.”

“Trespassing?!” You echo, a hint of panic in your tone.

Crossing your arms beneath your chest, you scold him, “If anyone’s trespassing, it’s you two.” Your gaze flickers to the silver-haired man, his sharp eyes still fixated on you; they observe every breath you take, the darkness beneath your eyes, and how you shift uncomfortably on your feet like you’ve been driving for hours.

You continue, irritated, “My father owns this property. Who’re you to come here and accuse me of—”

“Oh,” Sylus interrupts, his voice rich like dark velvet.

“So, you’re Miss L/n, then?” He continues with a raised brow and a mocking grin on his perfect face. Oh, how you wanna punch it off! You nod, a little knot in your brow, which he finds amusing.

The silver-haired man introduces himself, “I was hoping to make your acquaintance sooner or later. I am Sylus, and I’d like to purchase your ranch.”

Your jaw slackens as you stare at him, sputtering, “Y-you what?”

“Mr Qin is a successful ranch owner and businessman. You have quite a nice block of land, Miss L/n. I was showing him around the property in preparation for a sale, once your father gives the word, of course,” the other man explains. You notice that he’s in a suit and holding several papers. Must be the real estate agent, you think.

You scoff, “Who… who do you think you are, you prick?” Pointing at Sylus, you scowl, “You have no right to be inspecting my land and you—” Your fury switches to the real estate agent, “are out of your fucking mind! Showing potential clients around here? Are you so desperate for commission? Get the fuck out of here or I’m calling the police.”

Delving into your back jean pocket, you retrieve your phone and open the dial pad.

Sylus’s charming chuckle unnerves you, “There’s no need to do that, sweetie. The tour is finished anyway.” Glancing up from your screen, you step back reflexively as he steps forward.

He holds out a red card between his long fingers, smirking, “My business card for when you’re ready to negotiate price.” You snatch it from him, glaring at him the entire time. And you don’t stop until you can make out his tall figure (bakery in full view btw) amongst the sunset backdrop, climbing into his truck and driving away in a flurry of dust and mystery.

Locking your phone, you slide it into your pocket and flip over Sylus’s business card. Address, email, phone number, all detailed in silver embossed lettering on a smooth background. But not as smooth as his voice. What?

Shaking those thoughts out of your head, you trudge back to your car and flip open the boot. It’s a long night, pulling out the few boxes you could fit, carrying them up the porch steps and eventually dumping them in the warm living room. Luckily, everything’s mostly furnished. It’s just your homely touch that needs to be added.

You unpack the ‘essentials’ box: toiletries, fry pan and toaster, and phone charger. Shortly afterwards, you collapse into bed, a certain silver-tongued fox on your mind. His shrewd gaze haunts your dreams, as do the defined contours of his body, evident in the afternoon light.

Oh, what it would be like to feel such muscles beneath your palm, to have his eyes on you for eternity. Such dreams are forbidden, yet you cannot stop the wandering mind from doing just that in the early hours of the morn.

masterlist

[lazysoulwriter]

prompt #20 - pedro pascal - “if you knew how good you taste…”

CW: smut, oral (f!receiving), munch!Pedro supremacy, worship vibes, filthy praise, overstimulation, unhinged obsession 😵‍💫💦

---

It should’ve been over.

You were breathless, legs still trembling from your second orgasm, fingers buried in his curls, trying to gently coax him up toward your mouth. You wanted to kiss him, wanted to pull him into your arms and tell him enough, that he’d done more than enough.

But Pedro wasn’t done.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, dragging you down further on the bed until your legs were fully open for him again, trembling and slick, your chest still heaving from the high he had just given you.

“Pedro—”

He looked up, eyes glassy, lips wet, flushed like a man starved.

“Don’t you dare stop me,” he muttered, mouth already moving back to where he wanted you most. “You have no idea how good you taste…”

Your head fell back with a broken moan, thighs instinctively trying to close—but he wouldn’t let you. His palms pushed them apart again, holding you open like a gift he refused to return.

“I’m serious, baby,” he murmured between licks, voice low and almost reverent. “I could die between your legs and I’d go smiling.”

You whimpered, back arching when his tongue circled you again—slow, deep, greedy. He groaned into you, sucking with just enough pressure to make your toes curl.

You tugged his hair, voice cracking. “Pedro, I—can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasped, dragging his tongue up with precision that made your vision blur. “One more. Give me one more. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

You cried out, hands fisting the sheets, body melting into the mattress as he devoured you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And when you came again—louder, messier, completely undone—Pedro moaned like he was the one getting off.

He finally came up, face flushed and glistening, the most satisfied, fucked-out smile on his lips.

“Fuck,” he breathed, laying beside you, kissing your shoulder while you struggled to come down. “You're never getting rid of me. I’m obsessed. Addicted. Ruined for anyone else.”

And you couldn’t even speak—not yet. But the way your body curled into him, the way your fingers found his hand under the blanket, said everything.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that. send me your prompt!

[siriuslywicked]

Okay, hear me out… Robby with a partner who has a hard time orgasming (because I need to feel seen, and hopefully y’all do too). MDNI 18+!!!

a/n: I know we all love a good smutty fic where the reader gets to cum like three times, but let’s be honest, that is not reality for most people. I need some representation for those of us who live the antidepressant lifestyle. I know I asked about Robby/Michael, but something about this felt like a 'Robby' fic (idk). Next time I write about this man we will go with Michael, pinky promise. Wrote this after working a 50 hour week and did not revise it. Also haven't written smut in literal years. You have been warned.

In recent years, getting yourself to orgasm has become a challenge. Sure, you can get there on your own with some patience and a trusty vibrator, but it takes time. And sometimes being with a partner, especially a new one, means you don’t really want them trying to get you there for forty fucking minutes. So, when you and Robby start seeing each other you don't exactly fake it, but you don’t let him focus his attention on you for long before you turn the tables and start pleasuring him. 

But Robby isn’t stupid, and he needs to know you’re enjoying yourself as much as he is. So, a handful of times into sleeping together, he finds himself in a familiar position: dressed in only his briefs, lying sprawled out on his stomach, head between your open legs, putting his mouth to good use. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel fucking amazing. His beard scratches at your inner thighs and below your entrance as he uses his tongue to steadily lap at your clit. The pressure and rhythm he's giving you is enough to make pleasure burn low in your pelvis; you can’t help but rock your hips into his face, using your grip in his hair as leverage to make sure he keeps his tongue right fucking there. 

Robby can feel the urgency in the way you’re pulling his face impossibly closer. He knows damn well that you haven’t cum for him in any of your previous times together, he’s had over thirty years of experience with women, not to mention he’s a fucking doctor, he knows what an orgasm looks like (and sounds and tastes and feels like). He can tell each time you give up and move the focus away from your own pleasure, trying to distract him. This time though, he isn’t stopping until he gets what he wants. He moves his hands from where they rest passively on your thighs, one going to grip your hip and anchor you to him, the other coming to rest flat and warm on your lower stomach. You let out a moan at the feeling of his palm on your stomach, the feeling in your pelvis has grown into something that feels more tangible. So much so, that your legs begin to shake with it and you think you might actually cum this time. Robby thinks so too, feeling your thighs trembling on either side of his head. He groans softly into you, and chooses this moment to push down on your belly. 

You jolt your head up in surprise, grip tightening on his head. “Fuck, Robby that feels good.” 

He moans again in response, and thanks to your more upright position you catch his hips rolling into the mattress. Dutiful as ever, he continues applying pressure with his palm and doubles down with his tongue, pushing himself to go faster, harder, anything to feel you cum on his face. 

You’ve moved to be fully sitting up now, one hand behind you for support and the other firmly anchored in his hair. You grind your hips almost frantically, sweat beginning to collect on your face and neck, chasing an orgasm that is so close you can taste it. 

“Oh,” you huff out followed by a hum that borders on whiny, “I think ‘m getting close.” Your teeth grit around the words, body tensing up in its pursuit of pleasure. 

Robby opens his eyes to peer up at you. Your head has lolled back, eyes squeezed shut, your mouth now hangs open on a silent moan. Your clit has gotten more swollen than he thought it could and he can feel you getting wetter by the second, it’s practically dripping off his chin. You are so close, so nearly there. 

And yet… 

“Fuck,” you whine out, and not in a good way. Your hips stop their movement, thighs no longer shaking with pleasure. Robby slows his ministrations and watches as you flop onto your back once more, arms coming to rest over your face, pout evident on your lips.

With a grunt, he pulls himself up and crawls to lay beside you. 

“Sweetheart, can you look at me?” He places a hand on one of your arms, tugging gently to remove it, only to be met with firm resistance. 

“No.” 

“Please?” 

You let out a sigh and allow him to move your arms off of your face. He pulls the one between you into his chest, interlacing your fingers with his. 

Still refusing to look at him, you stare straight ahead at the ceiling. This close, Robby can see the tears of frustration welling up in your eyes. Your face is flushed, now from a mixture of embarrassment and exertion. 

When you remain silent and continue to avoid his gaze Robby prompts you further. 

“You’re okay, nothing to be embarrassed about,” his thumb rubs soothingly along the back of your hand, “All I want is to make you feel good, sweetheart. But, I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me about what's going on.” 

Your eyes close tightly, tears finally spilling over and running down your cheeks as you nod in agreement. After a moment you open them again and finally turn to face him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper softly, eyes darting between his own. You elaborate a few moments later: “for not communicating.” 

“It’s okay, what’s important is we’re talking now. Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. 

Robby waits, prepared to begin asking you questions in a diagnostic manner if you don’t speak up, but is pleased when you begin without prodding. 

“I- uhm,” a pause, “It takes a lot for me to uh- finish, most of the time.” 

He hums in acknowledgment, scooting closer and pulling you into a quasi embrace, hand draped over your waist. 

“Can you tell me what ‘a lot’ looks like for you?” Your eyes meet his again, unsure. 

His voice is low, almost gravelly, “When you touch yourself, what do you like? How do you make yourself cum?”

He asks with genuine interest in learning how best to please you, but his manner of speaking makes you feel suddenly hot as your thighs squeezing together. Robby doesn’t miss it. 

“I use my fingers mostly… but I have a vibrator too that I like. Mostly it just takes a really long time.” 

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he waits for your nod of assent, “There is nothing I would rather do than take my time making you feel good.” 

Feeling at a loss for words, a small ‘okay’ escapes you. 

“Good. Now, how about we try again and you tell me what you need from me, and we’ll go for as long as you want to. I would happily go all night without getting off if it meant I got to see you cum for me.” 

A smile grows on his face as he speaks, the tone shifting from serious to playful once more. You mirror his energy, grinning as you respond, “That sounds really fucking nice.” 

-

Forty seven minutes later (after Robby had all but tackled you into the bed for a solid makeout sesh and used his mouth once more to warm you back up) you find yourself perched on his lap, cock snug inside you. Robby sits with his back against the headboard, hands on your hips to guide the steady rock of your hips into his own. You have a tight grip on one of his shoulders to steady yourself, and an even tighter grip on the vibrator that you had sheepishly produced from the bedside drawer. 

“Come on baby, you’re doing so good for me, take whatever you need,” he encourages, voice rough with his own pleasure. 

“Feels really good, Robby,” you moan, resting your forehead against his as your hips pick up speed. 

Robby rolls his own up to meet yours, feeling you start to clench around him periodically. 

“I know it does, can feel you gettin’ all tight on me,” he laughs and all you can do is moan weakly in response. “Turn up the vibrator, you can take it sweetheart.” 

He feels you almost shake your head no to his request, before giving in and increasing the speed. 

“Oh- oh shit,” the effect is instant, your cunt feels so wet and warm as it grips him somehow tighter. Robby can feel his control starting to slip, and despite his earlier promise he knows he won’t last forever like this. Oh shit indeed.

“Feel so good around me. Tell me what you need, baby. Please,” He begs. 

“Talk to me? Please, Robby ‘m so close, just wanna know I’m being good for you.” 

“I got you baby, we’ll get you there. Me and that vibrator,” you both laugh at his comment, but Robby doesn’t lose focus for a second, using his grip to maintain your rhythm. “You’re doing so good, keep riding me just like this.” 

Nodding, you can feel the tell tale signs of your orgasm starting to creep in. The relentless buzzing at your clit coupled with Robby’s assistance in rolling your hips back and forth have you barreling towards the edge. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Just let it happen baby you’re right there, gripping me so fucking tight.” 

Your movements start to grow erratic, hips beginning to lock up. 

Robby reaches down and places his thumb over yours where it rests on the “up” button. 

“Gonna look so pretty coming on my cock, such a good girl,” he presses his thumb down. 

It comes on fast and strong. Your core is tightening as your back curves, your hips go dead still and lift ever so slightly as you shake on top of him. “Robby, please,” it comes out as a pitiful whine, begging him for something, anything, even as your orgasm is ripping through you. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, hips slamming up into you, continuing to use his one hand to make sure the vibrator stays on your clit. 

Robby can feel you still clenching around him as his own orgasm overtakes him, and he rides it out for as long as he can, groaning out incoherent praises as his hips begin to slow. 

He’s brought back into reality when you whine frantically and at your joined hands holding the vibrator, suddenly oversensitive. Even without the stimulation, the aftershocks are powerful as you quake above him. He does his best to pull you back flush with his hips, tucking you into his chest as you ride it out. 

After several minutes of holding you in his lap, Robby helps you to the bathroom, only teasing you for how bad your legs shake once. Once you’ve both cleaned up, you wind up back in bed. 

“Thank you for that, I think you’ve ruined me for all other men.” You say it jokingly, but there’s nothing but truth behind the words. 

“The pleasure was all mine.” He kisses the top of your head where it rests on your chest. 

Just as you're drifting off to sleep you hear him mumble, “Do I need to be jealous of that vibrator?”

[luckyroll3]

Thank You, Daddy Chapter 9

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 10,097

A/N: We've finally made it to the end my friends! Enjoy. [I've been trying to post this for the past 3 hours, but kept getting pulled into meetings. As if they don't know I have important schedules to keep! 😂]

You push through the door of your penthouse, yoga mat tucked under one arm, too much sweat cooling uncomfortably against your skin after an hour at hot power yoga. The air conditioning hits you like a reprieve, and you're already mentally mapping the path to your shower when you see him, Christopher, perched on your pristine white couch like he owns it, like he owns you. His eyes track your movement, dark and intent, a predator watching prey. The mat slips from your grip, thumping softly against the marble floor.

"What the fuck?" The words escape before you can collect yourself. Your leggings cling to your thighs, sports bra damp against your chest. You feel suddenly, acutely exposed.

Christopher doesn't move, just watches you with that infuriating stillness of his. He's dressed impeccably. Black slacks and a cream long-sleeved crew neck shirt, both tailored to mathematical perfection, the glint of his watch worth more than most people's cars peeking out from beneath his sleeve. His hair is swept back, not a strand out of place. A stark contrast to your post-workout dishevelment.

"Good afternoon to you too," he says, voice level in a way that raises the hair on your arms. "Your doorman is remarkably accommodating when you flash the right credentials."

Mental note: File a complaint with management about the doorman. And put your foot so far up his ass you’ll rip him a new one.

"Breaking and entering is a crime, Christopher," you say, crossing your arms. You don't move closer. "Even for rich assholes."

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I wouldn't have resorted to this if you'd answered a single one of my calls."

"Did it occur to you that there was a reason I wasn't answering?" You bend to pick up your mat, needing something to do with your hands. "That perhaps I didn't want to talk to you?"

"It's been three weeks." His composure cracks slightly, a fissure in perfect marble. "Three weeks of silence. Not even the courtesy of a response to my offer for renewal."

You laugh, though nothing about this is funny. "Courtesy? That's rich coming from you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" He stands now, unfolding his frame from your couch, and you hate that part of you still responds to his presence. His confident stance, the breadth of shoulders under expensive fabric, the dangerous line of his mouth. And those fucking lips.

"It means I'm not renewing the fucking contract." You say it flatly, letting each word land. "I'm done. And I don't want you as a client anymore."

His entire body tenses, as if you've physically struck him. He wasn't expecting that; you can see it in the momentary widening of his eyes, the subtle step backward he takes. Christopher Bahng, master of the universe, actually caught off guard.

"That's absurd," he says, recovering quickly. "We have a good arrangement. The best, by your own admission."

"Had," you correct. "Past tense."

He moves toward you, crossing the cool expanse of your living room in three long strides. You force yourself not to retreat, even as he stops close enough that you can smell his cologne, that familiar blend that's imprinted itself on your senses, on your sheets, on your skin.

"This is about what happened that night." It's not a question. His chest rises and falls more rapidly now, control slipping. "About what I said."

"This is about me making a business decision," you counter. "Our arrangement has run its course."

His hand reaches for you, and you step neatly out of his grasp. Something flashes in his eyes… hurt, anger, both.

"You're being childish," he says, and the words strike a match inside you.

"Childish?" Your voice rises despite your best efforts. "Because I don't want to fuck you for money anymore? Because I had the audacity to develop feelings, that you encouraged by the way, and then got crushed when you made it clear all I am to you is a fantasy in a convenient body?"

Christopher's face darkens. "That's not what happened."

"No? Then what would you call it?" You're in dangerous territory now, the words spilling out unchecked. "Because from where I'm standing, you made it perfectly clear that our arrangement was purely transactional when I asked if you had feelings for me."

"You blindsided me." His voice rises to match yours.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you spit back. "Next time I'll be sure to schedule my emotional vulnerability in your Outlook calendar. Would that work better for you Christopher?"

"Don't twist my words." He steps closer, invading your space. "You know damn well that's not what I meant."

"Do I?" You tilt your chin up, refusing to be intimidated despite the hammering of your heart. "When I asked if there was something real between us, you shut down faster than the stock market on Black Monday."

"And you ran." His accusation hangs in the air between you. "You didn't give me a chance to process, to explain. You just disappeared."

You laugh. "You had a fucking month to process. Yet nothing. Even as you continued fucking me. And what was there to explain? You said everything I needed to hear."

"I said what I thought I was supposed to say!" The words explode from him, echoing off the high ceilings. You raise an eyebrow at his sudden loss of composure. "Christ, do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I planned for any of this?"

"Poor Christopher," you mock. "Did the girl you were paying to fuck actually expect to be treated like a human being? How inconvenient for you." You roll your eyes.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, not threatening but restraining. "Is that really what you think of me? After everything?"

The question catches you off guard. There's genuine hurt in his voice, and it makes something inside you falter. But you've come too far to back down now.

"What I think doesn't matter," you say, more quietly. "Our arrangement is over. We’re done. I'd like you to leave."

"No." His refusal is soft but steel-lined. "Not until you hear me out."

"There's nothing to hear."

"I'm in love with you."

The words hang between you like a suspended moment of time. You stare at him, certain you've misheard. "What? What the fuck did you just say?"

"I said I'm in love with you." His voice is different now, raw, stripped of its usual polished confidence. "I love you. I've been in love with you since... I don't even know when. And it terrifies me."

You shake your head, disbelief warring with a dangerous spark of hope. "Don't do this," you warn him, your voice soft. There’s nothing you hate more than men trying to use ‘love’ to get their way.

"Do what? Tell the truth?" He laughs, a harsh sound. "Believe me, I tried not to. I told myself it was just sex, just companionship. That you were just another beautiful thing I could buy."

"Stop it," you whisper.

"But you're not. You never were." He runs a hand through his perfect hair, mussing it. "I see you. That ditz Rebecca got one thing right; you are a beautiful soul. You’re smart, you’re strong, you’re your own person. And you see me. Not Christopher Bahng the financial titan. Not the rich client. Me. Chris. The kid from the Bronx who grew up with nothing. And you're not afraid to call me on my shit. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

Your throat feels thick. "This isn't…"

"When you asked me that night about my feelings, I panicked." His confession rushes out now, unstoppable. "Because admitting I loved you meant admitting I could lose you. That you had power over me. And control is... it's all I've ever had. I wasn’t ready to take that risk."

"So you pushed me away instead," you say, voice hollow.

"I fucked up." The admission costs him, you can see it in the tight line of his shoulders. "In our last month together, I tried to let you have your space, allowed you to disconnect yourself and your feelings from me. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t that attached to you.” He sighs deeply. “But these weeks without you? They've been hell. Every call you didn't answer, every message you ignored... I realized that the control I thought I needed was worth nothing if it meant losing you."

Your pulse thuds in your ears. This is everything you wanted to hear and everything you're afraid to believe.

"What exactly are you saying?" you ask, needing clarity.

Christopher takes a breath, steadying himself. "I'm saying I want you. Not as an arrangement, not as a transaction. Just you. I want a real relationship. I want to wake up with you every morning and fall asleep with you every night. I want to watch sunrises with you. I want to lay my head in your lap when I have a shitty day. I want to eat your scrambled eggs for breakfast on the days I have time for breakfast. I want you to move in with me, properly, this time. No separate rooms. No conditions."

"And my work?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

His jaw tightens. "I won't share you. Not anymore. But I'll take care of you financially, if that's what you're worried about."

And just like that, the momentary spell is broken. "Take care of me? Like I'm what, your dependent? Your pet? Your toy?"

"That's not what I meant…"

"But it's what you said." The anger returns, sharper now. "You say you want me for real, but on your terms. You still want to control the situation. Control me."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You're trembling now, but not from fear. From fury. From the bitter disappointment of almost believing. "You don't want a relationship, Christopher. You want ownership. That’s all you know."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that I just want to be with you?" His frustration matches yours. "And that I don't want to think about you with other men?"

"Because you're still making it about what you want!" The words tear from your throat, loud enough that you’re sure the entire building has heard you. "My work, my life, my body, my choices; they're mine to make. Not yours to approve or forbid."

"So that's it?" His voice drops dangerously. "You'd rather keep whoring yourself than be with me?"

The slap of his words stings worse than any physical blow could. You step back, ice crystallizing around your heart.

"Heh….” You shake your head slowly in disbelief as you chuckle. This is how he really sees you. “Get out."

"Baby girl…" He steps closer to you. “I didn’t…”

"Don't you fucking dare." Your voice shakes as you move away from him. "I can’t believe I thought you could be a real person,” you say more to yourself than to him. “Get the fuck out of my face. Get out of my penthouse. Get out of my life."

Christopher stands frozen, shock written across his features. For a man so accustomed to control, to getting exactly what he wants, your rejection is incomprehensible.

"You don't mean that," he says, but doubt has crept in.

"Try me." You stride to the door, wrench it open. "Leave, Christopher. Now."

For a moment, he doesn't move, and you think he might refuse. Then, slowly, he walks toward the door. He pauses as he passes you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"This isn't over," he says quietly. "What's between us… it's real. You know it is."

You stare straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. "There’s nothing between us. Goodbye, Christopher."

The door closes behind him with a click that sounds like finality. Only when you're sure he's gone do you allow your legs to give way, sliding down the wall to the floor, yoga mat forgotten, sweat drying cold on your skin.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Christopher, no doubt. You ignore it, head tipping back against the wall, eyes closed against a sting that has nothing to do with post-workout exhaustion.

He loves you. And it changes nothing.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you dial Eva's number, the phone slick against your palm. The penthouse feels too quiet now, Christopher's absence a tangible thing, like furniture moved just slightly out of place. You need another voice, someone who understands this world and its complicated currencies of power and desire. Eva picks up on the third ring, and you don't bother with pleasantries. "I need you to come over. Now."

"What happened?" Eva's voice is sharp, instantly alert. She knows you don't panic easily.

"Christopher was here." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, stretched thin like worn elastic. "He… We had it out. He said he loves me."

A beat of silence. "I'll be there in twenty."

The call ends with a click, and you're alone again with the echo of Christopher's words. Love. Such a small word for something so dangerous. 

You pull yourself from the ground and head to the bathroom. You peel off your damp workout clothes, stepping into the shower on autopilot. The hot water drenches your skin, but it can't wash away the memory of his face when you told him to leave. There was shock giving way to something that looked uncomfortably like heartbreak.

By the time you've dressed in soft loungewear, hair wrapped in a towel, your mind has replayed the confrontation a dozen different ways. Each version ends the same, with Christopher walking out your door and taking something of yours with him, something you hadn't meant to give.

Your phone buzzes with Eva's text.

Eva: Downstairs. Buzz me up.

You: Tell that motherfucker that if he can let some random ass man into my home without my consent, he can let you in. He’s sees you every fucking week.

Eva: Uh… Okay.

You ditch the towel and walk out of your bedroom, then stand in the center of your living room, unsure what to do with your body. The space still feels charged, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. You can almost see the indent in your couch where he sat, waiting for you.

After two quick knocks, the door opens and Eva strides in, all five feet ten inches of her a vision in a crimson wrap dress, lips painted to match. She takes one look at you and arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"You look like shit," she says, kicking off her heels by the door. It's her way of showing concern.

"Thanks. You look stunning, as always."

Eva crosses to you, bracelets jangling as she takes your face between her hands, examining you like a doctor checking for symptoms. "Have you been crying?"

You pull back. "No."

"Liar." She releases you, moving to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of red wine from your rack with familiar ease. "So. Christopher Bahng, love confession. Start from the beginning."

You sink onto the couch, pulling your legs up beneath you. "He broke into my apartment."

"Dramatic. Is that why the doorman is now terrified of you?" Eva pours two generous glasses. "This is not surprising. Men like him don't handle rejection well, and three weeks of ghosting is definitely a rejection."

"I wasn't ghosting him. I was..." You accept the wine she hands you, searching for the right word. "Processing."

Eva settles beside you, her eyes, sharp and knowing as ever, never leaving your face. "And what conclusion did this processing lead to? Before he showed up with his grand declaration."

You take a sip, letting the tannins bite at your tongue. "That it's over. That it has to be."

"Why?" The question is simple but pointed.

"Because he wants to own me." The words come automatically, rehearsed. "Because he thinks he can buy me like everything else in his life. He didn’t come here to tell me he loved me. He came to offer terms for an extended arrangement. His love confession only came after I said I wasn’t interested in another contract."

Eva makes a noncommittal sound, swirling her wine. "And what exactly did he say, when he professed this earth-shattering love?"

You relay the conversation, trying to keep your voice detached, clinical. But even as you speak, you hear the tremor creeping in, feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Eva watches, her expression unreadable.

"So," she says when you finish, "he wants a real relationship. No contract, no arrangement. Just you and him, playing house in his mansion."

"With conditions," you counter. "No more work. Complete financial dependence on him."

"Did he say that explicitly?"

You pause, remembering. "He said he'd 'take care of me financially.'"

"Mmm." Eva sips her wine. "And that's a deal-breaker."

"Of course it is!" The vehemence in your voice surprises even you. "I've worked too hard for my independence. Where does that put me when he decides he wants a new toy and he’s done playing house with me? I’ve already tasted that. For five months he worshipped me, was emotionally vulnerable with me, let me see the parts of him he hid from everyone else; then all of a sudden I was just something he paid to fuck again with no warning. And when I tried to get him to be open with me, he shut me down and basically told me my role was to fulfill his fantasies and anything else I felt I was imagining. I’m not interested in that shit again. And I'm not trading one form of transaction for another."

"Are you sure that's what he's offering?" Eva's tone is mild, but her gaze is penetrating. "Are you sure you're not using your work as a shield?"

You blink at her. "A shield?"

"Against vulnerability. Against the possibility that this might actually be real." She leans forward, bracelets clinking. "Think about it. How many clients have said they loved you? How many have offered to make it exclusive?"

"Several." You shrug. "It's part of the fantasy. They all think they're fucking special."

"And how many have you believed?" She doesn't wait for your answer. "None. Until Christopher."

The truth of it sits heavy in your chest. You stare into your wine, seeing nothing.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Eva asks, her voice softer now. "Are you sure you want to walk away?"

"I don’t doubt that he loves me. And yes, despite everything, I've fallen hard for him," you admit, the words leaving a burn in their wake. "But I can't let this control me. Not when he thinks he can use love as chains. And that’s what he’s doing. I can't become another possession."

Eva sets down her glass, turning fully toward you. Her expression is unusually grave. "Listen to me. I've been in this business longer than you. I've seen every kind of relationship, every kind of arrangement. I know what I said about Christopher at the beginning. But what you and Christopher have? It's not typical. And I don't just mean the black card and the mansion."

"What do you mean, then?"

"I mean he sees you." Eva's words echo Christopher's uncomfortably. "The real you, not just the fantasy you sell. And you see him; the man behind the money, behind the power. That's rare. That's worth considering, even with the complications."

"He wants me to stop working," you say stubbornly.

"So negotiate." Eva shrugs, as if it's simple. "Set boundaries. Find compromise. That's what real relationships require."

You shake your head, a hollow laugh escaping. "Christopher Bahng doesn't compromise."

"He does. He did it with your arrangement. Gave you everything you asked for. And that was before you got to know each other. Maybe he’s changed." Eva drains her glass, standing in one fluid motion. "Or maybe you'll realize some things are worth surrendering for. Not your independence, never that. But maybe your fear."

She gathers her things and walks to the door. “I have to run, babe. An appointment.” She slips back into her heels, then pauses, looking back at you with an expression you can't quite decipher. "For what it's worth," she says, "I've never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him. Not even when you're trying to hate him."

And then she's gone, leaving you with a half-empty wine glass and thoughts that refuse to settle into any coherent pattern. You sit motionless, watching shadows lengthen across your floor as afternoon slides toward evening.

Eva's words circle in your mind, bumping against Christopher's. Love. Compromise. Fear. The shape of them changes each time, like a kaleidoscope turning.

Your phone rings, startling you from your reverie. An unfamiliar number. No, not unfamiliar; just one you keep forgetting to save. Hyunjin.

Your finger hovers over "decline." At the last moment, something makes you swipe to answer instead.

"What?" Your greeting lacks warmth.

"Good evening to you too." Hyunjin's voice is smooth as aged whiskey, with just a hint of amusement. "I think we need to talk."

"Let me guess. Christopher sent his attack dog to clean up his mess."

A soft chuckle. "If I were in 'attack dog' mode, believe me, this conversation would be very different. And no, he doesn't know I'm calling. In fact, he'd probably fire me from my job and as his best friend if he did."

That gives you pause. "Then why are you?"

"Because I've known Christopher Bahng for almost twenty years, and I've never seen him like this. He's a wreck."

Something twists in your chest: concern, satisfaction, guilt. You push it away. "Not my problem."

"See, I think it is." Hyunjin's tone remains conversational, but there's steel underneath. "I think you're both making this far more complicated than it needs to be."

"He broke into my apartment."

"Technically, he was let in." Hyunjin sounds almost bored. "And yes, it was excessive. Christopher doesn't do anything by halves. Surely you've noticed."

You bite back a caustic reply, because he's right. Everything about Christopher is intense, all-consuming. It's what drew you to him, even as it terrified you.

"Look," Hyunjin continues, "I understand why you're pissed. Chris can be extremely stubborn, especially when he's scared."

"Christopher Bahng, scared?" You can't keep the skepticism from your voice.

"Terrified." Hyunjin says it matter-of-factly. "He's never been in love before. Not really. Not like this."

The word hangs between you, a live wire. "He has a funny way of showing it."

"Does he?" Hyunjin sounds genuinely curious. "He's given you everything you've asked for, hasn't he? Well, except for the one thing he couldn't admit to himself; that he loves you. Always has. But he's admitted it now, hasn't he?"

You swallow hard. "He also wants to control me. My work, my life…"

"He wants exclusivity," Hyunjin corrects. "He's possessive, yes. Jealous, absolutely. But controlling? I don't think that's quite fair."

"Oh please, Jin. He’s the literal definition of a control freak. I’m sure if I were to look it up, his picture would appear as the classic example. He wants to dictate every aspect of my life: what I wear, how I smell, how I do my hair. He wants me to quit my job and depend on him financially. What would you call it?"

A pause. "Okay, yes, he’s also a bit controlling. But I'd call it more clumsy than anything. An inelegant attempt to keep you in his life without having to share you. But I think it's less about control… not in the way you mean."

You say nothing, processing this perspective. It's one thing to hear it from Eva, who knows you but not Christopher. But Hyunjin knows him, has known him for decades and is the one person on the planet who knows everything about him.

"Here's what I know," Hyunjin continues into your silence. "You're both in love with each other. And you're both too fucking stubborn to admit it without conditions."

"I told him how I felt," you say defensively. "That I had strong feelings for him. A month before the end of the contract. I asked him to tell me I meant something to him, more than the arrangement. He shut me down."

"So he was on a different timeline. But now he's told you, and you've done the same thing. Shut him down." A smile colors Hyunjin's voice. "You're more alike than you think."

"Stay the fuck out of it, Hyunjin." Your voice hardens. "I don't care if you're the Christopher whisperer. This is between him and me."

"Fair enough." He doesn't sound offended. "But ask yourself this: if your positions were reversed, if you had his money, his power, and fell in love with someone who slept with other people for a living… would you be so quick to share?"

The question hits uncomfortably close to home, touching a nerve you thought you had numbed. It’s one thing for Eva to push you to confront your feelings, but Hyunjin knows exactly how to reframe Christopher’s perspective. To put you emotionally off balance. You know what he’s doing, and it pisses you off even more because it’s working.

“But here’s the thing, Hyunjin,” you say, spitting his name like an expletive while you pace your living room. “He knew I was a whore before all of this started,” you say, using Christopher’s word to describe yourself; a word you never use. “Did he tell you he called me a whore?” You don’t wait for an answer. “What the fuck do I look Iike? Some girl standing on a dusty ass corner begging for a ten in exchange for a blow job only to hand it over to my pimp so he can reward me with two of those dollars? I may not be a billionaire, but my annual take home salary is over two-hundred thousand. I own my penthouse and my mom’s home outright. My IRA is maximized every fucking year and my 401K makes a million annually just on dividends. He can get the fuck outta here with that whore bullshit. He knew what being with me meant. Nobody made him sign up for this; in fact, it was his idea, his deal, his arrangement.” You sigh deeply. “He said he loved me because I was different, not like the rest. And now suddenly I’m supposed to fit into this neat little box because he doesn’t like that I have sex with other men? What happened to being special? What happened to being the one? You don't do that; you don’t put conditions on someone you claim to love."

Hyunjin stays quiet, letting you burn off the frustration. You can almost see his smirk at your rant, the way he’s probably lounging somewhere luxuriously. The world’s most unbothered fixer.

"This is who I am, Hyunjin," you continue, relentless, emotions spilling over. "What I do for a living doesn’t define who I really am as a person anymore than what he does defines him. Yet, he gets to demand I change my life because my job involves fucking people? Do I get to make similar demands about what he does for his job since he fucks people over financially? The hypocrisy and misogyny are astounding." You don’t give Hyunjin the chance to speak, your voice rising in pitch. “Imagine how it makes me feel that he decided to buy me and then changed his mind about what that means. All of a sudden, he can’t stand thinking about me with other men, he can’t stand not having me all to himself. But what about me? Why would I want to be as attached as I am, only for him to one day decide he’s done with me and he wants a new sexy toy? Or that I’m not good enough to love as an equal? I can’t do that again.”

Your words echo in the room, bouncing off the walls with a ferocity that surprises you. You’re panting a little, like you’ve just finished an argument with Christopher himself, and in a way, you have. It feels like Hyunjin is the stand-in, the proxy, navigating through you and Christopher’s bullshit too easily.

"Touché," Hyunjin replies.

He sounds amused, but there’s a hint of admiration in the word. You can picture him quirking an eyebrow, completely unfazed by your tirade. He always was the more perceptive of the two of them, more willing to let you rant yourself into exhaustion. You force yourself to quiet down, steady your breathing.

When he speaks again, breaking the silence with your real name, his tone is different. It’s gentler, almost coaxing. "Look, I know you’re pissed. You have every right to be. And I’m sorry he called you a whore. Everything you’ve said is valid. But have you considered that maybe you’re scared too?"

Scared. That damned word again. 

Scared to lose him. Scared to want him. Scared that he has the power to destroy you, and maybe you have the power to destroy him too, if you'd let yourself use it. Scared you can’t trust the love without the transaction and the rules, the security without the walls you keep so carefully constructed.

“Of course I’m fucking scared,” you whisper. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he wants me to act like something I’m not and that he wants to have the upper hand in this relationship where he gets to dictate what everything is, what everything means. I’m not interested in any of that.”

"Just think about it," Hyunjin says softly. "Before you throw away something that could be extraordinary. For both of you." He takes a deep breath. “You know, I also love having you around, as a part of our fam. Not sure that holds any weight for you, but I hope it does.”

The call ends, leaving you with a silence that feels heavier than before. Outside your windows, the city sparkles into twilight, thousands of lights glimmering like promises. Somewhere out there, in his sleek glass tower, Christopher is wrestling with the same questions, the same fears.

You close your eyes, letting yourself imagine, just for a moment, what it might be like to choose him. To be chosen by him, not for your body or your companionship, but for yourself. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

Your wine sits forgotten on the coffee table. The night stretches ahead, full of possibilities and pitfalls. And for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to truly feel the ache of his absence, not as a client, but as the man who somehow, against all odds, has become essential to your life.

Hours later, you lie in bed, eyes tracing the subtle patterns of shadow and light that play across your ceiling as cars pass on the street below. Sleep feels like a foreign country, distant, unreachable. Your mind keeps circling back to Christopher's face as he said those three dangerous words.

I love you.

The memory of it sits on your chest like a stone, heavy with possibility and fear. You've been here before, staring at ceilings, dissecting men's words for truth. But it's never felt like this…like your entire future balances on the edge of a decision.

The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 3:17 AM in accusatory red. Hours since Eva left. Hours since Hyunjin's call. Hours of circular thinking that leads you nowhere except back to Christopher's eyes, dark with an emotion you're afraid to name.

You roll onto your side, punching your pillow into submission. This is ridiculous. He's just a man. Another wealthy, entitled man who thinks he can arrange the world to suit him. So what if he's different from your other clients? So what if he makes you laugh, challenges you, sees parts of you that you've kept hidden from everyone else?

So what if you're in love with him?

The thought arrives fully formed, impossible to deny in the honest darkness of your bedroom.

You're in love with Christopher Bahng.

Not with his money or his power or the luxuries he provides. With him. With the man who grew up with nothing, who built an empire through sheer force of will, who looks at you like you're the most fascinating puzzle he's ever encountered.

You close your eyes, and memories flood in unbidden.

Christopher teaching you to play chess in his study, his smile slow and surprised when you captured his queen. His hand at the small of your back as you entered a crowded space, protective but not possessive. The way he listened, really listened, when you told him about your childhood, about the dreams you had for your future, about the compromises you've made along the way.

But there are darker memories too.

His cold fury when another man flirted with you at a charity event. The way he once casually mentioned buying the restaurant where you first met, as if acquiring significant landmarks in your shared history was normal behavior. The times when his need for control slipped into something harder, hungrier, when his hands gripped you tight enough to leave marks, not out of cruelty but from a sheer desperation to keep you close.

Christopher Bahng is complicated. Possessive, yes. Controlling, at times. But also vulnerable in ways he shows to no one else.

You remember the night he told you about his mother's death, how his voice had cracked on the memory, how he'd tried to hide the moisture in his eyes before throwing himself in your lap as he sobbed. You remember how he'd relaxed beneath your hands that night, tension melting like ice under spring sun.

You sit up, giving up on sleep entirely. This circular thinking will get you nowhere. What you need is clarity. A balance sheet of pros and cons, the kind of objective assessment you'd make for any other life-changing decision.

Pro: Christopher loves you. Not the version of you that you present to clients, but the real you. Messy, stubborn, sarcastic, ambitious you.

Con: His love comes with expectations. No more work. Financial dependence.

Pro: You love him too. The real him, not the financial titan or the dominant lover, but the man beneath. The one who sometimes wakes from nightmares he won't discuss, who reads philosophy and poetry and romance books before bed, who still has a soft spot for the bodega cat near his first apartment and keeps a picture of her and one of her kitten litters tucked away in his drawer.

Con: Loving him means vulnerability. It means giving someone else power over your happiness.

Pro: With Christopher, you don't have to pretend. You don't have to be the fantasy: charming, agreeable, endlessly accommodating. You can be sharp-tongued, challenging, a pain in the ass, and he loves you for it.

Con: You'd be giving up your professional independence, the control over your body and time that you've fought so hard to maintain.

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes until sparks dance behind your lids. The list feels inadequate, clinical. How do you quantify the way your heart races when he enters a room or he smiles at you with those fucking dimples? How do you measure the comfort of being truly seen? How do you weigh independence against belonging?

Hyunjin's words return to you: if your positions were reversed… if you had his money, his power, and fell in love with someone who slept with other people for a living, would you be so quick to share?

The truth lands like a blow. You wouldn't want to share. The thought of Christopher with another woman, even professionally, makes something feral curl in your gut. You've been judging him for a possessiveness you also share.

But that doesn't mean you'd demand he quit, become financially dependent on you. You’d leave that choice up to him, and if you were truly in love with him, you’d move past it. There's a line between commitment and control, and that's where the negotiation needs to happen.

Your phone lies dark on the nightstand. It would be so easy to pick it up, to text him, to start repairing the bridge you burned today. But once that door opens, there's no closing it again. Whatever happens next will be irreversible in a way your arrangement never was.

You reach for the phone anyway.

The screen illuminates your face in the darkness as you type, delete, and retype a message. Finally, you settle on simplicity

You: Can we talk? Today, Prospect Park by the lake. 1 PM.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself, then fall back against your pillows, heart hammering as if you've run a marathon. It's done. The ball is in his court now.

The response comes faster than you expected given how early it is, your phone buzzing against your palm.

Christopher: I'll be there.

Just three words, but they carry the weight of promise. You stare at them until the screen dims, then fades to black. Outside your window, the sky has begun to lighten, night giving way to the first tentative touches of dawn. You close your eyes at last, and sleep finds you easily now, as if it was only waiting for you to make a decision.

****

The park hums with Saturday afternoon life: children shrieking by the playground, joggers pounding past on gravel paths, couples sprawled on blankets enjoying the unseasonable warmth. You spot Christopher before he sees you, a solitary figure by the lake, hands in the pockets of his jeans. Even dressed down in a simple black t-shirt, he stands apart, marked by an innate confidence that draws the eye.

Your pulse quickens as you approach. This is Christopher without the armor of his suits, without the shield of his office or mansion. Just a man waiting by a lake, uncertainty written in the set of his shoulders.

He turns as you draw near, sensing your presence before you speak. His eyes find yours, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

"Thank you for coming," you say finally, stopping a few feet away from him.

"Thank you for asking me to." His voice is measured, careful. "I wasn't sure I’d hear from you again."

You gesture toward a nearby bench, and he nods. You sit together, a careful distance between you, watching ducks glide across the lake's surface.

"I've been thinking about what you said," you begin, eyes fixed on the water. It's easier somehow, not looking at him. "About wanting a real relationship."

Christopher shifts beside you, but doesn't interrupt. You can feel him looking at you.

"I need you to understand something." You turn to face him now, needing to see his reaction. "I'm in love with you too. I have been for... longer than I want to admit. That's why I asked you that night, about your feelings."

His expression softens, relief and something like wonder crossing his features. "Baby girl…"

"Let me finish," you say, gentle but firm. "I'm in love with you, but I'm also my own person. I built my life on my terms, and I won't give that up. Not even for you."

Christopher's jaw tightens, but he nods for you to continue.

"If we do this, if we try for something real, it needs to be clear that I am not your possession or your toy. I'm your partner." You hold his gaze, unflinching. "That means we make decisions together. That means the controlling shit stops."

"And your work?" The question is quiet, but there's tension behind it.

You take a breath. "I'm willing to consider stopping escorting. Not because you demand it, but because I want exclusivity too. So I’ll think about it. But it is my decision to make, not yours. If I choose to continue, you’d need to decide if you can live with that. But I can’t be kept; I need financial independence. I need my own money, my own security."

"I could provide that security," he says, a hint of his usual confidence returning.

"I know you could. But I need to know I can stand on my own two feet, with or without you." You soften your voice. "It's not about trust, Chris. It's about who I am, fundamentally."

He's silent for a long moment, processing. The ducks circle back toward your end of the lake, hopeful for bread crumbs that aren't coming.

"I've never done this before," he admits finally. "A real relationship, I mean.”

“What about Julia?”

“Julia was... different. More of a performance. Less complicated."

"I haven’t been in a real relationship either. Not since high school, and that doesn’t fucking count." You smile faintly. "We're both fumbling in the dark here."

His hand finds yours on the bench between you, fingers brushing against your skin. The contact sends a current through you.

"I meant what I said yesterday," he says, voice low. "I love you. Not as a possession or a trophy, though I know I've treated you that way sometimes. I love your mind, your stubbornness, the way you call me on my shit."

"I do that a lot," you acknowledge, warmth spreading through your chest.

"Too much, sometimes." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "But I need it. Need you." He goes quiet again as he looks down at your joined hands. "About that night, when we had dinner with the Thompsons… They talked about being truly vulnerable for the person you love and I didn’t know if I could do that. I thought I would lose you," he admits finally, his voice raw and stripped of its usual confidence. “I was so fucking terrified of losing you that I unintentionally sabotaged us.”

You cup his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You’re not going to lose me,” you say, your voice steady and full of the truth you’ve come to realize. “You’re not. Not if you continue to be open with me, and share the real version of yourself. The Chris who told me about the chip on his shoulder, who opened up about being scarred physically and emotionally by his dad, who held me when he woke up from nightmares, who cried in my arms about his mom… that’s the man I fell in love with. I could give a shit about all the other stuff like the mansion, the cars, the trips…”

Your fingers interlace with his, the simple contact more intimate somehow than all the nights you've spent in his bed.

“That man sounds pathetic,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No, that man sounds genuine,” you counter. “Real. As real as those emerald earrings you bought for me.”

“So you did see those,” Christopher presses, a hint of curiosity in his voice, though his gaze remains fixed on your intertwined fingers, unwilling to meet your eyes.

“I did,” you respond, keeping your voice steady.

“I had them made especially for you," he continues, the corners of his mouth twitching with a flicker of emotion. “Each emerald surrounded by 6 diamonds for the 6 months we spent together. But you didn’t take them with you.”

Your heart tightens as you lean back slightly. “I didn’t want them," you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. "I wanted you, Chris.” The words were barely a whisper. You both fall silent, the air growing heavy with unspoken words. "So where does this leave us?" you ask.

Christopher turns to face you fully, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "It leaves us figuring it out together. I can't promise I won't be possessive or controlling sometimes; it's in my nature. But I can promise to try. To listen. To respect your boundaries."

"And I can't promise I won't challenge you, push back when you get too controlling. But I can promise to be honest. To stay, even when it's hard. To choose you, every day."

His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, a touch so tender it makes your throat ache. "I want you to move back in. We can set up a home office for you, your own space, if you want to continue your business. Or you could finish your MBA. Whatever you want."

The offer is unexpected, a glimpse of the compromise Eva suggested might be possible. "You'd support that?"

"I'd support anything that makes you happy," he says simply. "As long as you're with me."

You lean into his touch, the last of your resistance melting away. "Okay."

"Okay?" Hope flares in his eyes.

"Okay, I'll move in with you. For real this time. No separate rooms, no arrangement." You smile, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. "Just us, figuring it out."

Christopher's answering smile is radiant, transforming his usually guarded features. He leans forward, and you meet him halfway, lips finding each other in a kiss that feels like coming home. His hand slides to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer, and you go willingly, heart hammering against your ribs.

When you part, both slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours. "This won't be easy," he murmurs. "I'm not an easy man to love."

"And I'm not an easy woman," you reply with a soft laugh. "But maybe that's the point. Maybe the best things never are."

Around you, the park continues its Saturday rhythm, oblivious to the seismic shift that's just occurred between you and the man who once bought your time but now holds your heart. There will be challenges ahead: his possessiveness, your need for independence, both of your stubbornness, the delicate balance of power between you. But for now, with his hand warm in yours and the sun dappling the lake before you, those challenges feel manageable.

You lean against his shoulder, feeling his arm wrap securely around you. For the first time, the embrace doesn't feel like ownership; it feels like belonging. To him, to yourself, to the complicated, beautiful thing growing between you.

"Take me home," you say softly, and Christopher's arm tightens around you, understanding all the layers of meaning in those three simple words.

The two of you stand, hands still linked, and begin the walk back through the park. With each step, the future unfolds before you. It’s uncertain, imperfect, but yours to create together.

By the time you make it to your penthouse, you're breathless, having barely contained the fire simmering between you. His mouth is on yours before the door finishes swinging shut, an urgency there you haven't felt before. You pull him toward the sofa, but he sweeps you into his arms, carrying you to your bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. This time you're both laughing, giddy, lightheaded with this new possibility.

The bed is a mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothes before you even hit the mattress, and you can see the hunger in his eyes, in the way his hands claim your body like he's never tasted you before. But this time is different; this time you're not afraid to let yourself go, not afraid to give in entirely. It's not something he bought or demanded; it's something you are finally ready to share.

He pins you to the bed, lips tracing the length of your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. Each touch is a promise, each kiss an unspoken vow. You arch against him, breath catching in your throat as he moves lower, lower. "Mine?" he asks in a groan against your skin, and for the first time, the word doesn't feel like a demand, a threat, or a trap. It feels like a choice, a gift.

"Yours," you answer, pulling his head back up to meet your eyes, to catch the look on his face as he slides into you, deep and overwhelming. You hold his gaze, unguarded, vulnerable in a way you’ve never been, surrendering to everything he makes you feel. Your nails rake down his back, and he grinds into you harder, swallowing the sound of your pleasure with his mouth, taking you to the edge and back again. He rolls, pulling you on top of him, wanting you in control, in charge. Your hands brace on his chest as you ride him, unrestrained and unreserved.

His gaze is fixed on you, drinking in every inch of your body in motion above him. His hands grip your hips, guiding your motion. With each rotation of your hips, you teeter on the edge until finally succumbing to an outcry of unadulterated bliss as your climax crashes over you like a tempestuous wave. Christopher soon follows suit, uttering your name with fervor as he finds release within you.

But it doesn’t stop there. Christopher clearly wants to make up for lost time as he flips your bodies once again to continue fucking you. You lose track of how many times you cum, together and apart, until you collapse against him, both of you spent and satisfied, bodies slick with sweat and limbs inextricably tangled. He wraps his arms around you, keeping you close, and your heart feels raw in your chest. There’s no space between you now. No distance, no walls. Just a man and a woman, both finally unafraid to let go completely.

For a timeless moment, you linger there, immersed in the euphoria of your union. Christopher’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. The soft rhythm is mesmerizing, comforting, familiar, against your ear.

“When did you know?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence in the room. The words escape your lips with a mixture of curiosity and a hint of vulnerability.

“Hmmm?” Christopher asked, confused as he gently combed his fingers through your hair.

You shift the position of your head on his chest to look up at him, capturing his eyes. You need to know. "When did you realize it was more than just sex? When did you know you were in love with me?" These questions have danced around the edge of your consciousness for the past twenty-four hours, begging for clarity. Some part of you suspects you already know the answer, but you need to hear it from him. You need him to spell it out, to give voice to the things that have remained unspoken between you for so long.

His eyes meet yours, and you brace yourself for the possibility that he might dodge the question altogether. It's the sort of thing Christopher would sidestep, leaving you to piece together the fragments on your own. But then something beautiful and unexpected happens. His gaze shifts, softens, and in that instant, you see the unmistakable traces of everything he’s been holding back: the passion simmering beneath the surface, the hesitation that once kept him at a distance, the sheer vulnerability that he’s risked now by opening himself to you.

Christopher’s fingers still in your hair as he draws in a deep breath, like he’s unsure of where to start or how to open the door you’ve cracked with your question. His lips part, forming something that never quite makes it out into words, and you think, just for a moment, that he will definitely retreat. The anticipation is thick between you, and you barely realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks.

“I think I knew it the first time you told me ‘no’,” he confesses, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The words tumble out, ragged and so unexpectedly vulnerable that they leave you momentarily stunned.

You feel a laugh rise in your throat, the sound bright and full of surprise. "Seriously?"

He nods, his expression softening as if the memory lingers just beneath the surface. "Nobody, other than Jin, had ever done that before. Not to me. Not since I became this version of Christopher Bahng. Not the way you did. You said no and walked out, and I thought I'd let it go. But then I just… couldn't. It drove me insane; a beautiful woman, much less an escort, who didn't need me or my money. I wasn't prepared for you, Baby Girl. I wasn't prepared for how much you had unintentionally fucked with my head."

You think back to that night. It was your third time meeting with him. He had asked if you could spend the night, but that wasn’t part of the original engagement and you had plans the following morning that you weren’t interested in cancelling. The disbelief on his face when you refused his offer to triple your pay, the way he had watched you leave, like he couldn't quite believe it was happening. Who knew that something so simple could affect him so deeply?

You let his confession sink in, savoring each word and the weight they carry. "It didn't seem like love then," you say softly. "It seemed like you were pissed."

"I was," he admits with a low chuckle. "God, I was pissed. But underneath that, underneath everything, I realized what I really felt was..." He pauses, as though he still can't quite believe it himself. "Scared. Scared of how much I wanted you, even after just three appointments. Scared that you'd slip through my fingers."

Your heart skips, the admission resonating deep within you. "Chris…"

"A few dates later you called me ‘Chris’ and it did something to me.” That was your fifth meeting. He had fucked you so good, you slipped up and moaned the name Chris. You noticed him react to it, but he hadn’t said anything at the time. “And then you accepted the arrangement," he continues, his eyes never leaving yours. "I thought I'd won. That you were mine. But you kept me at arm's length, added all those extra protections and boundaries and time away from me and the house. It drove me fucking crazy.”

You remember how he barely contained his surprise at the extensive changes you requested to the contract, particularly having a separate bedroom and three days outside the mansion.

"I couldn't stand it," he says, his voice gaining intensity, emotion spilling over the edges. “Having you, but not really having you. I wanted you to love me. But I was too much of a fucking coward to admit it." He brushes a strand of hair from your face, the tenderness in his touch a contrast to the rawness in his words. "I didn't know for sure until I told you about my scar, my dad."

A jolt of something, recognition or maybe relief, sparks inside you, your mind racing through the months you've just lived. The fight in your penthouse. The aching silence when you asked him to leave. The desperate plea in his eyes when he turned back, urging you to consider him.

"Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why wait?" There’s no accusation in your tone, just a genuine need to understand. It’s a need he hears, he feels, because he pulls you even closer, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

"Because I thought I could do it," he admits, his voice hoarse with sincerity. "I thought I could keep it professional. I thought I could have you on my terms. But you ruined me, Baby Girl. Ruined me for anything less."

His words wrap around your heart, squeezing, releasing, leaving you raw and filled with a joy you weren't sure you'd ever feel when you first met him.

"What about you?" he asks, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. “When did you know you were head over heels in love with me?” he inquires with a smirk.

You laugh loudly, unsure how to put words to what you're feeling or to the journey that brought you here. Then, you start to consider it, the question piercing straight through you. God, when did you know? You look off to the side, the memories flooding back, each one demanding a different kind of attention. 

Surely not at the start, not when you had everything planned out so perfectly.

The truth is, you've known for a while now, maybe much longer than you care to admit. But it crept in somewhere, sometime, despite all your efforts to keep it at bay. It caught you off guard, a slow unraveling that you didn't notice until it was too late. You wrack your brain, letting the months and moments unravel like an old film reel, flickering behind your eyes. 

Suddenly, a single point in time stands out.

The night he fell apart in your arms, the night you held him through his grief and something shifted inside you. The night you almost let hope ruin everything you believed about yourself.

You look back up at him, seeing the anticipation in his face, the mixture of curiosity and affection that colors his expression. "I felt a connection blooming between us when I learned that our backgrounds were similar. Then when Julia warned me about you, I was confused as to why what she shared about you had affected me so deeply. Paris was certainly a turning point; I felt that we could have something real after we went to the club. But really… I think it was when you told me about your mom," you confess softly, drawing patterns on his chest with the tip of your finger.

He gives you a curious look, and you smile despite the ache of remembering. "When you cried in my arms and let me hold you. When you showed me a side of yourself I never thought I'd see. It terrified me, how much I wanted to hold on to you. How much I wanted to keep you. How much I wanted it to be real."

“So it was real,” he murmurs, relief and something deeper, lighting his eyes. “Even then.”

"Even then," you confirm, brushing your lips against his. "Especially then. You broke my heart that night with how vulnerable you were. How fucking brave you were to be so open about that. And I was so fucking scared of what it meant for both of us."

“And then I fucking ruined it,” he said with a sigh, “by withdrawing, by pushing you away.” After a brief pause he adds, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you reply.

He rolls you onto your back, pressing his body against yours. You can feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours beat for beat. "Promise me you won't run again," he says, the plea rough against your neck. "Promise me you'll stay."

"I promise, daddy," you whisper, wrapping your legs around him and pulling him deeper into this new, uncertain, beautiful life together. "I'm yours, Chris. Yours."

It's a promise you intend to keep, no matter how hard it gets, no matter how much he tests your patience, no matter how much you both have to change. Hell, it’s a promise you intend to keep even when it means challenging everything you’ve ever known about yourself. 

You're his. He's yours. 

The rest is just details, working themselves out with each push and pull, with each moment spent holding on when it would be easier to let go.

He's yours. You're his.

You're both in so fucking deep that the idea of escaping is the real impossibility now.

There's no contract this time, no countdown to the finish line or safety net to catch you if it all goes sideways. Just desire and commitment and the hope that what you have is strong enough to withstand everything you've thrown away to get here. 

How did it come to this? How did you go from a perfectly orchestrated life to this beautiful, terrifying mess of a relationship?

It's addictive, all-consuming, terrifying, and my god… exactly what you both want now.

Beyond you and Christopher, it's a whole new world to navigate. And the challenges are very fucking real. Gossip. Friends. Family. Staying out of the public eye. And maybe the biggest challenge of all: admitting you might actually be afraid of the future.

But for now, for right here, as his lips press softly against yours, you don’t think you’ve ever been this happy.

The contract may have ended, but this… this thing between you and Christopher is only the beginning.

A/N: Thanks so much for coming along for the emotional ride on this story. And also for the great comments, which got me excited about posting and talking with y'all (more so than the likes).

When I first started posting Thank You, Daddy, I was pretty sure this would be the last fic I posted to Tumblr because no one ever commented or shared their thoughts about anything, so I wasn't sure if any of these stories were resonating with folks. Don't take for granted that your engagement is what encourages us authors to continue sharing our work. Otherwise, I'm just writing for myself.

Anyway, let me know you're final thoughts.

Hope to see the comments/engagement keep rolling in for additional fics. I have a one-shot coming probably on Friday or Saturday, and then a new darker story starting next week. Hope to see you there!

[chososbbyg]

Older bf Choso...

You didn’t even hear the front door shut behind him.

You were too deep into the chaos of your own brain—finals week chaos, caffeine sweats, browser tabs open like blooming flowers, fingers tapping at your keyboard like it owed you something. Your hoodie hung loose on your shoulders, but you were overheating, wrapped in your own panic, thighs curled up into your chair.

It was his hoodie, too. Of course it was.

Choso stepped into the apartment and paused, watching from the doorway to your shared bedroom.

You hadn’t noticed him. Hadn’t looked up.

Not even when he crossed the room and leaned against the desk beside you, crossing his arms.

“You’re still doing this?” His voice was calm—too calm. That low rumble always made your stomach tighten, but right now it cut through your haze like a warning bell.

You glanced up, guilty. “Yeah. It’s my last final, I swear.”

“I’ve been gone six hours, and you haven’t even moved.”

“I had to finish the outline,” you said, defensive. “And I still need to cite sources and fix my thesis and—”

He clicked his tongue.

“Come on,” he said. “Stand up.”

“Choso—”

“I’m not asking.”

His tone was different now. That voice—the one that only came out when he switched. When he stopped being just your soft-spoken boyfriend and became the version of him that reminded you of the age gap you always pretended didn’t matter.

You stood, chest tight with nerves and something hotter.

Choso didn’t waste time. His fingers gripped your hips and he turned you around, bending you slightly forward over the desk. You gasped as your cheek met the cool wood.

“Choso, I still have stuff to—”

“You’ve had seven panic attacks this week,” he murmured into your ear. “I watched you fall asleep on your keyboard yesterday.”

His hand slid under your hoodie, up your spine. “You keep pushing yourself like you’ve got something to prove. But you’re not proving anything to me except that you need me to take over for a while.”

“Take over?” you whispered, already trembling.

His voice dropped.

“I know what you need better than you do.”

You shivered.

In one fluid motion, he tugged the hoodie up over your waist. You weren’t wearing anything beneath—not for comfort, and not because you expected this, but because you were always a little reckless with him.

He groaned softly when he saw.

“Jesus. No panties?” His palm cupped your ass. “Do you know what that does to me?”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Yes, you were.” His fingers dipped between your thighs, sliding against your already damp heat. “And now you’re going to lay here and take what I give you.”

Choso knelt between your thighs like he had nowhere else to be, like your body was the only thing in the world he wanted to study. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, spreading you open so wide the tension in your hips forced a breath from your lungs.

“I’m going to take my time,” he said, dragging his mouth hot and slow up the inside of your thigh. “You’re not going to think about school or papers or grades. You’re going to think about this tongue and the way I make you fall apart.”

Your whole body jumped when his lips brushed your center.

You were already wet—too wet for how little he’d touched you. The stress and frustration of the week was pouring out of you, and Choso? Choso fucking loved it.

“You been holding all this in just for me?” he murmured, nuzzling you, nose brushing your clit as he spoke. “That’s why you’re so tight. So worked up. So fucking desperate.”

You whimpered, thighs twitching.

He didn’t wait any longer.

His tongue licked a slow, deliberate stroke from your entrance to your clit, savoring every inch. Then another. Then faster—flicking and curling as his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull a cry from your throat.

“Oh fuck—Choso—ohmygod—”

He moaned into you, sending vibrations through your entire body, arms tightening around your thighs to keep you exactly where he wanted you. His tongue was ruthless, wet and warm and perfectly controlled. Every movement was precise, intentional. Not messy. Expert.

You were panting, eyes wide, back arching off the desk as he licked and sucked like he’d been starving for you. He slipped a thick finger inside you without warning—then a second. The stretch was immediate, the pressure perfect, his thumb never leaving your clit.

“I want you to cum on my tongue,” he said, voice low and full of heat. “And then I’m going to fuck you. Slowly. Deep. So you remember who you belong to.”

You clenched around his fingers.

“Y-You’re gonna make me—oh, fuck—Choso, please—”

“Let go,” he ordered, tone like gravel and silk. “Let go for me, baby. I’ve got you.”

Your climax ripped through you—so sharp and intense it stole your breath. You cried out, hips jerking, legs trying to close, but he didn’t let you go. His fingers kept moving, pumping in and out while his tongue licked you through it, chasing every drop.

But you barely had a second to recover before he pulled his fingers out, stood, and bent you over the desk.

“You think we’re done?” he asked, voice dark now—commanding. “You’ve been teasing me all week. Walking around in nothing but this fucking hoodie. You don’t get to cum once and be finished.”

He slid his sweats down, cock already flushed and heavy, leaking at the tip.

You tried to speak—some messy breath of “please” or “I can’t”—but he was already lining himself up, and with one slow, controlled thrust, he pushed into you inch by aching inch.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “So tight… soaking for me…”

You gasped, jaw falling open as he bottomed out, the stretch making your knees tremble. He was big. He always felt big—but this? This was unbearable and perfect at the same time.

He pulled out slowly, only to slam back in hard enough to make the desk rattle.

You cried out.

“Use your words,” he growled. “You want more?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He grabbed your hips and set a rhythm that was devastating. Each thrust hit deep, full, rough and measured, hips slapping against you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room. Your hands scrambled for something to hold—his hoodie, the edge of the desk, anything.

And then he bent down over your back, one arm coming around your chest, hand sliding up your throat to tilt your head back.

“I want you to remember this,” he whispered against your ear. “Every time you’re in class… every time you’re bent over a textbook… I want you to remember the way I ruined this pussy while your final was open on the screen behind you.”

Your whole body clenched, and Choso groaned deep in his chest, his pace stuttering.

“Fuck—that’s it—you gonna cum again for me?”

“Y-Yes—oh god—Choso, please—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growled, biting your shoulder just enough to leave a mark. “Cum for me again. Show me how much you needed this.”

You shattered around him—body convulsing, tears in your eyes from the intensity, from the heat of it, from how full you felt, how owned. Choso fucked you through it, barely holding back as you milked him, moaning his name over and over.

And then he pulled you up, chest to chest, one hand around your waist as he slammed into you once more and came—groaning your name like a curse, like a blessing, as he spilled inside you, filling you with slow, heavy pulses.

He didn’t let you go for a long time.

Just held you there, your legs trembling, your body limp, the hoodie half-off, his cum leaking out of you while he whispered against your hair.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “I don’t care how many exams you’ve got. You’re mine.”

And in his arms, you finally stopped thinking.

[emberfrostlovesloki]

Pejoration [Hotch x Reader]

Photo Credits: Left (@vodnoebalo) Center (@wardengrill) Right (@marography)

Prompt: What happens when the reader has a kink that Aaron doesn’t - Pejoration 

Pairing: Aaron x Non!BAU-Reader. The reader uses she/her pronouns. 

Category: Smut 

Word Count: 844 

A/N:  Hi loves! First off, this story is 18+, minors DNI. Please respect this boundary. Content warning after the cut. I hope you are all doing very well! I liked the idea of Aaron having a different sex preference than the reader, and how he makes it work for both of them so they’re satisfied. Pejoration means that the connotation of a word declines over time (often this is associated with gender).  I hope that you enjoy this fic, and if you do, please like, share, and comment. Love Levi - ❤️ 

List with all stories 

Content Warnings: Sex, pinv, degradation kink [reader] 

y/n = your name 

“You don’t deserve my dick in your hole, you dirty whore, you better thank me for what I’m giving you,” Aaron grunted as he pushed his member deeper into y/n who was squirming on the mattress beneath him. Y/n let out an expectant breath and replied, “Please. I’ll do anything you ask. Just don’t stop.” Aaron pulled all the way out, his dick slick with y/n’s lubricating secretions. Repositioning his member at y/n’s entrance, he paused, not moving for a second like he was frozen in time. Expectant, y/n looked up at Hotch from the bed and said in a soft voice, “Sweetheart, everything alright?” Aaron gave his head a little shake as if resetting, before he slipped back into y/n with ease. He rested his weight down comfortably on top of y/n’s, resting his head in the cock of her neck before he said, “Sorry honey, I can’t keep up the dirty talk. You know, speaking to you like that is hard for me.” 

Y/n hummed, nuzzling her face in the crown of Aaron’s head and said, “That’s okay. We can just make love today, you don’t have to fuck me if you can’t do it. I appreciate you trying again today. I know it’s hard for you to speak to me like that.” Aaron nodded in acknowledgement as y/n placed her hands under Aaron’s ass to encourage him to keep pumping gently in and out of her. y/n relaxed into the rhythm and moved her hands to Aaron’s back as he picked up the pace. 

Hotch and y/n had always had different styles in bed, and much of the time they did an in-between path that worked for them. Y/n had learned in her late twenties that vanilla sex did very little for her. For y/n, the rougher and nastier, the better. It started out when she’d gone to a club that ended up being a bit of a sex dungeon. Much to y/n’s surprise, instead of running and screaming, what she saw had intrigued her, and she even tried a few things with some willing strangers that would never have to witness her ineptitude as she got used to the implements and positions required for the fun they were having. 

Aaron, on the other hand, had grown up straight-laced, Southern, church going family. Not that as an adult, Aaron was particularly religious, but even still, some ideas just stuck with you, even into adulthood. As Hotch reflected on their different sex styles, he kept pumping in and out of y/n, prolonging the experience for her. He would pull almost all the way out and then push deeply back in, resulting in a lovely sigh from y/n as the feeling in her core started to pool like warmed honey. y/n smiled and moved a hand to Aaron’s sweat slicked shoulder as she said, “You know the words slut and whore used to apply to men. If the words disgust you so much when it comes to women, you could consider the fact that they apply to yourself instead.” 

Hotch hummed, forming a plan in his head as he increased his speed and said, “Not to kink shame, y/n, but I’ve never been into the degradation thing, unlike someone I know. Speaking of which I need my bad bad girl to flip onto your stomach. Head down, ass in the air. Now.” y/n was a bit surprised by Aaron’s harsh tone, taking on a bit of the demeanor he had at the start of their sex session. 

Once y/n had assumed the new positon, Aaron grabbed the hair and the nape of y/n’s neck, tapping the tip of his cock at her entrance. Leaning forward so Hotch could whisper into y/n’s ear he said with a rumble in his chest, “I’m going to fuck you into the bed, and you don’t get to move until you’ve cum all over my cock,” True to his word, Aaron was relentless as he fucked y/n into the mattress. Anytime she cried out, Hotch pushed her face into the pillow, careful that she could still breathe easily. With Aaron’s demanding time, y/n’s position, and the pace Hotch had set, y/n came apart quickly. Hotch didn’t push her face into the bed as she came and moaned out his name which was enough to send him over the edge as well; his cock pulsing and letting out his milky seed inside y/n. 

In the afterglow of their intimacy, y/n snuggled close to Aaron and said, “I thought you said you didn’t like the degradation thing. What was that last ten minutes if not some form of control on your end?” Hotch nodded and replied, “Sweetheart, I don’t like calling you names. Now giving orders and being rough, well, let’s just say they pay me for that in my day job.” Y/n hummed and replied, “Well, thank god for that.”

Text Break Banner by @cafekitsune

Tag list: @potatovoyager @princessjax @geminitapestry @mandarinmoons @alicewonderao3 @beardedhotchner @michasia24

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[pittsick]

JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY.

summary: your boyfriend is an ass. ignoring you for days, making you cry at every little occasion, and now breaking up with you over text? fuck him. but for dodge, that’s a chance of telling you how he have been feeling for months now.

pairing: dodge mason x afab!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 2.4k words. mention of a toxic relationship. messy makeout. praise. gentle touches. dry-humping. breasts play. nipples play. semi-public. fingering. mutual pining.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist

Dot’s was always too bright in the mornings. Fluorescents buzzed like angry bees overhead, cutting across the diner’s chipped linoleum floor and gleaming off the counter’s old chrome. You’d stopped noticing it months ago. Started moving on autopilot through breakfast shifts: refilling coffee, balancing plates on aching wrists, folding stiff smiles when regulars called you doll.

You weren’t supposed to be here today. You’d picked up the shift because your boyfriend bailed on weekend plans again. Said he had something important come up. Didn’t answer when you asked what. Just left you unread and humming with that sick feeling you always got—like you’d done something wrong by asking.

Dodge had clocked you from the minute you walked in.

He didn’t usually notice much. Not because he wasn’t paying attention—more like, he paid attention too much. Too close. Too careful. He never asked questions, never gave away what he was thinking, just sort of… watched.

But today? You hadn’t done your usual greeting. Hadn’t smiled. Just tied your apron too tight and buried yourself in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes harder than they needed and avoiding everyone’s eyes.

And Dodge noticed that. Dodge always noticed you.

You barely spoke outside of work. Not because he didn’t want to. He just never knew how. Every time you got close enough to talk, he’d clamp up, fumble something stupid like asking for the mop bucket or mumble some sarcastic thing that came out wrong. And you’d laugh it off, kind of sweet, like he hadn’t just tried and failed to impress you. Again.

So yeah, Dodge kept his distance. But not today.

You didn’t think anyone would come out back.

You’d taken the trash to the alley behind Dot’s after close—somewhere you could be alone. Somewhere you could sit with your back to the brick wall and cry into your apron without a coworker asking what was wrong. You didn’t even realize your phone was still in your hand until the screen lit up.

Brett: “stop making everything so dramatic lol.”

Brett: “i told you i was busy, you’re not my mom.”

Brett: “yk what let’s break up anyway i found someone else”

You swiped the notifications away. Then dropped your phone in your lap like it burned.

You’d texted him one thing. “Are we still on for Sunday?” After three days of silence. And now you were the needy one. The clingy one. You hated how your heart twisted even then, how you still wanted him to text something softer. Anything. But breaking up through text? That was low, even for him.

The door clanked open, and you scrambled to wipe your face. It was Dodge.

Of course it was Dodge.

He stopped short when he saw you. Just a long, frozen moment with his hand on the doorframe, his body half-shadowed in the dim alley light. “You alright?” he asked gruffly. You didn’t look at him. You knew your eyes were red, mascara smudged to hell. “Yeah,” you lied.

He didn’t move. “No, you’re not.”

That was the thing about Dodge. He never said the right thing—but he said things. Plain and unsweetened, like black coffee. Sometimes it stung worse than silence.

You sniffed and tried to smile. “Didn’t mean to make a scene.” He finally stepped out into the alley, letting the door shut behind him with a heavy clunk. “You’re not making a scene. You’re hiding.”

“I guess.”

He crossed his arms. His jaw was tight, tongue pressing into his cheek like he was working up the nerve to say something he’d regret. “It’s about Brett again, uh?” he asked finally, nodding toward your phone. You looked away. “How do you even know?”

“I heard the notifications during shift. You flinched like they hit you.”

That shut you up.

Dodge sat beside you. Not too close. Just enough to share the same concrete wall, the same dull streetlamp glow. You realized then he wasn’t in his apron anymore—he must’ve clocked out already. He didn’t smell like fryer grease. He smelled like heat and motor oil and faint cologne.

“It’s none of your business,” you said, voice quiet. “I know it ain’t.” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Still pisses me off.”

“Why?” You asked it without thinking. And then immediately regretted it—because he turned his head, looking at you like really looking, and something in his face cracked open.

“‘Cause you deserve better than some piece of shit who makes you cry behind dumpsters,” Dodge muttered. “That reason good enough?” Your throat closed up.

It was too quiet now. No more dishes clattering inside. No more diner music bleeding through the walls. Just you. Him. Your heartbeat thudding loud enough to make your skin ache.

“He–We just broke up but he’s not that bad…” you offered weakly. Dodge scoffed. “Yeah. He’s only a dick when he feels like it. What a prize.”

You flinched. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“I’m not—” Dodge stopped himself. Sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. “I’m not trying to be. I just… I see you every damn day putting in all this work, going home to someone who doesn’t give a shit. It makes me crazy.”

That made you blink. “You… notice me?”

He laughed, short and humorless. “Jesus, how could I not?” It was the way he said it—like you were the sun and he’d been trying not to look too long, scared of getting burned. You stared at him. His throat bobbed. And then something inside you tipped forward, like gravity pulling you closer without asking.

He didn’t stop you.

You leaned in, just enough for your shoulder to brush his. And then his hand was on your knee—tentative, calloused, warm. “I keep thinking,” he murmured, “if you were mine—I wouldn’t leave you waiting around for scraps.”

You felt like the air had gone electric.

He looked up. His eyes were storm-dark, storm-deep, and all that held-back want came surging forward in the space between you.

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” you whispered, breath hitching.

“Why not?”

“Because I want to believe you.”

And then you kissed him.

It was clumsy, at first—needy, uneven, all teeth and ache—but Dodge responded like a dam breaking. His hands found your waist and hauled you into his lap like he’d been dreaming about it for months. You straddled him, knees pressing to either side of his hips, lips swollen and fingers tangled in his collar. He leaned backwards to rest his back against the brick wall.

Dodge groaned when you rolled your hips against his. God, that sound—guttural and rough in your ear like he didn’t mean to let it out. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered between kisses. “Watching you walk around Dot’s in those stupid little aprons. Talking all sweet to assholes who don’t deserve it.”

You gasped as his hands squeezed your thighs, tugging you closer. “Dodge…”

“Say my name again,” he rasped. “Sounds better coming from you than anyone.”

You shivered. One of his hands slipped beneath your shirt, palm dragging slow over your lower back. Not greedy—careful. Like he wanted to feel every inch of skin he could without crossing a line you didn’t ask for.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against your jaw, breath hot. “And I will. But if you don’t…” You shook your head. “Don’t stop.” He kissed you harder.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t some horny back-alley quickie. It was months of longing in a single breath—his mouth moving with hungry tenderness, his hips grinding against you slow, deliberate, like he wanted to leave you shaking just from friction alone.

You whined into his mouth, hips rutting down against the thick press of him through his jeans. He gasped your name this time—sharp, almost broken—and gripped your waist tighter.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good.” Your hand slid up the back of his neck, into his hair. “I wish it had been you,” you whispered. “Not him. I wish it had been you all along.”

That broke him.

“Can I touch you?” He groaned against your mouth and you nodded as a reply; not wanting to pull your lips away from his own.

He surged up and kissed you like he wanted to carve his name into you. Fingers trailing under your shirt, under your bra, rough palms cupping your breasts and groaning when you arched into him.

You cried out softly as his thumb flicked your nipple, mouth dragging down your neck. He was trying to restrain himself. You could feel it—every harsh exhale, every strangled moan pressed into your throat.

“Please,” you murmured.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice cracking. “I’ll give you anything. Anything, baby.” He lifted your shirt up.

That word—baby—made your stomach twist. You rolled your hips down again and he choked on a groan, hands spreading possessively over your hips. “You deserve someone who wants to see you happy,” Dodge said, kissing between your breasts, voice tight. “Not someone who makes you cry alone in the fucking dark.”

You kissed him again, deep and trembling. Concrete bit your knees. But none of it mattered. Not with Dodge looking at you like that—like you were the only thing in the world he wanted to touch without gloves. Like he’d burn himself on you and say thank you.

“Y’really want this?” he asked, voice ragged. His thumbs swept your waist, dragging soft friction under your shirt when it fell down. “I need you to tell me.”

You nodded, too breathless to speak. But he didn’t move. His eyes searched for yours—slow, steady, nothing but honesty. “Not just ‘cause you’re hurting,” he said. “Not ‘cause I’m here. I need it to be real.”

You swallowed, heart stuttering. “It is. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again—slower this time, savoring the shape of your mouth like it meant something. And it did. God, it did. His hands roamed under your shirt with aching reverence, calloused fingertips brushing your ribs, dragging heat through your skin until you gasped against him.

“I think about this all the time,” he murmured into your mouth. “What your skin would feel like. What you’d sound like.”

You whined, arching when his palms cupped your breasts, thumbs grazing the swell of them through your bra. It was clumsy, reverent, his breath catching like he hadn’t expected you to let him.

“Can I…” He trailed off, waiting.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He groaned, low in his throat, and slid your shirt up again—just enough to unclasp your bra. The second it loosened, your nipples hardened in the air, and Dodge’s hands went still. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re so—goddamn. Look at you.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow and shaky. Your breath hitched. The way he touched you—so careful, almost nervous; made your chest tighten.

“You’re shaking,” you said softly.

“Yeah.” His laugh was short, breathless. “Been thinking about this for so long. Thought I’d forget how to breathe.” You kissed him again, messy and sweet. “Then don’t think. Just touch me.”

That broke the last of his restraint.

His mouth moved to your neck, tongue tracing heat beneath your ear, lips sucking soft marks you’d feel for days. And his hands—god, his hands; he cupped your breasts like they were something fragile, something holy. He thumbed your nipples until they pebbled hard, then leaned down, catching one between his lips.

You gasped, your hips jerking forward. He groaned against your skin, suckling greedily, tongue circling, then flicking. You felt a warmth in your stomach, taking over your body. So sweet.

“Dodge—fuck… feels so good.” That lit something in him. He looked up at you, mouth wet, eyes dark. “Say it again.” You whimpered. “Feels so good. You feel so good.”

“Yeah?” His voice was husky, hands dragging down your sides until he found the waistband of your pants. “Wanna make you feel even better. Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the question—but you knew what he meant. You nodded. “Please.”

He breathed out like he’d been punched. One hand slid down, trembling with restraint as he popped your button, eased the zipper down, and slipped beneath the fabric. You felt his fingers slide your panties to the side, digits brushing against your warm skin.

“Holy shit,” he rasped. “You’re soaked.”

You shivered. “Been wanting this since you touched me.”

He kissed you, rougher this time, and his fingers finally dipped between your folds—slow, reverent, like he didn’t want to rush a single second.

You gasped as his thumb circled your clit, just light enough to tease. Then lower, two fingers slipping inside, thick and curling just right. Your body arched, grinding down against his hand with a whine. You felt them rubbing against your walls like Dodge was searching for a treasure inside you.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Take what you need, baby.”

You rocked against him, and he moaned—just from watching you, from feeling you squeeze around his fingers. His other hand came back to your chest, thumb flicking your nipple in rhythm with his thrusts. He pulled on your bud, rolling it in between his fingers all while watching your reaction. After a moment, his digits found your sweet spot, torturing it in the sweetest way.

“God,” you panted. “Dodge, please, don’t stop—” Your eyebrows furrowed from the pleasure.

“I won’t.” His voice cracked. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this. So warm. So wet for me.”

You clenched around him. “F-Fuck, I’m close—” Your thighs shook and your head rolled to the dark sky, lips parting.

“That’s it, baby. Come for me. Wanna feel you fall apart.” He talked before his mouth latched on your nipple again, sucking and rolling his tongue. He was a starved man.

And you did—legs trembling, breath ragged, back arching as you cried out his name and he let go of your nipple in a loud wet pop. He held you through it, fingers curling steady, mouth kissing your throat while you rode every wave. It was powerful, and made you see white for a second.

When you finally stilled, he slid his fingers out and kissed your temple, panting. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time you smiled at me,” he whispered.

You leaned into his chest, boneless and warm. “Then do it again another time.” He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.” His arms wrapped around you, strong and sure, and for the first time in a long time—you felt safe. Seen. Wanted. And this time, you weren’t crying behind the diner.

You were falling into someone who wanted you whole. Someone who’d never leave you unread or break with you through text.

[jinjoohaa]

Promises, promises

Older! bf toji x virgin! reader

CW : accidental penetration, virginity loss, breeding kink, rough language, possessive dynamic, degradation, manipulation-flavored dirty talk.

You’ve never had someone touch you like this before.

Not really.

Toji knew that from the start. Knew it when you flinched at a kiss to your cheek, when your whole body went stiff the first time he curled an arm around your waist. Knew it when you shyly admitted you’d never gone past first base with anyone—never even really wanted to.

Until him.

You weren’t used to this. To having a man this big, this blunt, this feral-looking, speak to you in a voice like velvet-coated gravel. You weren’t used to being called doll in that low, lazy way, or having your thighs slowly spread by thick, scarred fingers that moved with dangerous care.

And Toji—he wasn’t the patient type by nature.

But with you? Fuck. You made him want to slow down and devour you at the same time.

“Just here,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as his hand slides under your sleep shorts.

“Let me touch you. Won’t go further. Promise. I’ll stop if you say the word, yeah?”

You’re already squirming, cheeks burning like you’ve been lit from inside.

“Y-You always s-say that,” you mumble.

He chuckles, hand still as you whimper against his neck.

“Because I mean it, baby.” His voice dips. “Just let me play with it a little. Just playin'. Let me see how messy you get.”

You nod.

You always nod.

Because he’s Toji, and you’re you, and when he says things like that you feel like your brain shuts off and your body just listens.

It starts becoming a thing. You don't even know when it happened.

He started asking.

Not for sex.

Just…

“Let me feel it raw, baby. Just wanna rut against this sweet cunt, that’s all. I won’t put it in. Promise.”

You hesitated, whined his name, covered your face.

Toji only grinned like the devil and kissed your jaw.

When he did it, it was slow. Deliberate. His fat cock rutting between your slick folds, leaking against your clit, pressing into that virgin hole without breaching it.

“Feel that?” he whispered against your lips.

Your thighs trembled, your fingers clutching at the sheets like they were your last lifeline. Toji had you pinned under him, body pressed close, fat cock grinding slow and thick between your slick folds.

It was messy. Soaked. Hot.

Each time the swollen head caught your clit or nudged against your entrance, a sob broke from your throat.

You were too wet. Too worked up. Too full of him, even without him being in you.

Toji’s breath was ragged, sweat dripping down his temples. His jaw clenched, arms caging you in. Still, he moved. Hips rolling with purpose—like he meant to fuck, but kept just barely stopping short.

“Fuuuuck,” he grunted, voice rough and fucked-out. “This is nice, yeah baby? I ain’t puttin’ it in, like i promised. Just rubbin’ this fat cock all over your cute little cunt. You're fine with that, right?”

You could barely answer, face burning. All you could do was nod, whimpering, your body jerking up to meet him.

“I said I’d behave, yeah?” he rasps, breath hot against your cheek. “Just rubbin’. Just keepin’ your cute little cunt warm, that’s all. But fuck, baby—d'you feel that? How you suck me in even like this?”

Toji chuckled darkly, hips stuttering again.

“Shit. You’re so fuckin’ wet, it’s makin’ it hard to not slip in,” he groaned, kissing your cheek as you squirmed under him.

“You hear that? So slippery, I can’t even stay in place—keep slippin’ left and right like your pussy’s beggin’ for me.”

He pulled back to press his forehead to yours, and with a desperate rut of his hips, his cockhead caught right at your entrance.

You moaned. Loud. High-pitched. Your entire body jerked under him.

You tried to protest — barely. “T-Toji… you said—only rubbing…”

Toji gritted his teeth. His hips bucked once more.

And then it happened.

That "unintentional" , slick slide.

“…Oops.”

The heat. The stretch. That shocking, instant fullness.

Both your mouths dropped open at the same time, frozen.

His cock had sunk into you. Halfway. Your soaked virgin pussy sucking him in like it had been waiting.

Toji’s breath hitched. His arms tensed. He stilled completely, eyes wide, jaw slack as his cock pulsed inside your tight, untouched heat.

“...fuck,” he whispered, like he was seeing god. “Fuck, baby…”

Your eyes fluttered, overwhelmed.

You were just… full. Full of Toji.

He let out a shuddering breath, looking down at where you were connected.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “You feel that, baby? Goddamn. So tight… so hot...shit—shit. . I wasn’t even tryin’ and your cunt just ate me up.”

You whimpered his name, face flushed, arms tightening around his back.

“I-I didn’t—Toji…”

“Oh, you didn't?” he murmured, but he didn’t move.

“Didn’t mean to? Too bad, doll, now that I’m inside…fuck, I dunno if I can pull out. Ain't doin' that, doll.”

His voice was gravel, raw and low and dangerous.

Toji was still for just a second longer, deep inside you — his cock twitching, your walls pulsing around him like your body already knew what it needed.

But his grip on your hips tightened.

And then—

“Fuck it,” he hissed, voice low and gritted.

"Yo. . you're so mean. . .You promised."

“I’m sorry, baby. Can’t hold back anymore.”

He started moving.

"Toji. . . Ah!. . . Ss' too much. ."

You cried out.

"Sorry doll, Fuck. . . I. . . I'll go slow, yeah?"

He started moving again.

Slow at first — hips dragging back, then pushing forward again, grinding into that tight heat. Your back arched as a loud moan tore from your throat. The stretch, the pressure, the fullness — it was overwhelming and too much.

“Shit,” he groaned, dropping his forehead against yours as he fucked into you with slow, thick thrusts. “Fuck . . . tight little hole. . .God. . ..”

Your thighs shook around his waist. Your nails dug into his back.

“Every fuckin’ time I rubbed on this cute cunt, I knew,” he growled, thrusting a little deeper, “I knew this pussy was made to be filled.”

You whimpered, gripping him tighter, brain hazy with pleasure.

“I-I —Toji, please—!”

He let out a dark chuckle, speeding up, the wet slap of your bodies echoing in the room now.

“Like how I fuck you, baby? Huh? Like how I stuff you so full?”

You cried out again, nodding frantically, tears stinging your eyes from how good it felt.

“Mmm. So fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, lips ghosting over your ear. “And this pussy? All Mine. No more rubbin’. Gonna stuff it full, always.”

He slammed into you harder, and your legs wrapped around him tighter, helpless under the pace.

“Gonna breed you, doll. Gonna fuck you full,” he moaned against your mouth, “Make this shy little cunt remember my cock.”

Your breath hitched.

“That what you want?” he whispered darkly, voice soaked in lust. “Wanna be bred by me, doll?”

You nodded, sobbing his name.

“Ah! T-Toji—please!”

He buried himself deeper, grunting, sweat dripping from his jaw as he pounded into you, his restraint snapped in two.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

Your climax crashed through you, leaving you clenching around him, shaking, moaning his name again and again — and Toji wasn’t far behind, chasing his high with fevered, relentless thrusts.

Your entire body seized, gripping him with a fresh moan that made his hips stutter — and then he came, deep inside you, groaning like a beast finally unleashed.

His hips slowed, fucking his release deeper as he panted against your neck, voice low and possessive:

“Next time… I’m gonna cum in you and push it back all in. Gotta make sure it stays.”

You gasped, clenching around him again—and he smirked like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

This one was a request ☺️ 🫶

Comment down to get tagged when i post any JJK content. Also I started a backup account in case something happens to my current one - just to be safe lol, So if y'all are interested, @jinjoohaa-blog - do follow !

This is an 18+ blog. If you're a minor, do not interact or follow — you will be blocked. If your age isn't in your bio, I’ll assume you're underage.

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