#I will not be doing that again for a long time

[heejamas]

MANCHILD

➢ pairing: cowboy!jake x fem!reader … ﹒cowboy au, strangers to lovers, smut \\ ➢ synopsis: you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. a small-town, slow-burn, filthy little game of who breaks first. ➢ word count: 9.5k

➢ warnings: smut!! minors dni. oral sex (f and m receiveing), unprotected sex (dont do it!!), public-ish sex, dirty talk, possessive!jake, softdom!jake, bratty!reader, spanking, cum eating, praise and degradation, cowboy kink™, jake is a menace but so are you, yeehaw but make it slutty

you’re wiping down the counter when you say it, voice low and lazy, like it’s just another tuesday night and not the kind of sentence that rearranges a man’s brain chemistry.

“i like my boys playing hard to get.”

you don’t mean it to land anywhere in particular. you’re just talking, tossing it out there between gossip, your voice sweet, meant only for the girl beside you. so she laughs, nudges you with her hip. “you mean the ones who ghost you after three days?”

“no,” you sigh, stretching like a cat behind the bar. “i mean the ones who pretend they don’t care. the ones too proud to beg. makes it more fun when they do.”

you say it like it’s a joke, but you mean every word. and across the room, jake sim hears you.

he hadn’t meant to. hadn’t even realized he was eavesdropping until the words tangled around him. he’s not the type to pay attention to chatter. he’s been coming to this place for years, knows how to tune out the flirting and the country drawls and the clink of empty glasses. but your voice is different. and he’s seen you around, of course. everyone has.

you’re the kind of girl people build myths around. the kind they write country songs about, because you have a laugh that could ruin a man. and every guy in town’s tried his luck. most ended up a little poorer, a little dumber, and twice as obsessed. and you never even blinked.

so when you breeze past his table, tray balanced on your palm, perfume trailing like a challenge, jake doesn’t move. doesn’t shift, doesn’t look up from his drink. not obviously, at least. he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. and you notice. oh, you notice. because you’re used to stares, to whistles and clumsy compliments and boys who fall over themselves to hand you things you never asked for. you’re used to the way they sit up straighter when you walk by, the way their words fumble out of their mouths like dropped coins.

but this one? this one just sits there. quiet and unmoved.

you catch him watching only once, just once, when you lean forward to grab a bottle from the bottom shelf, and when your eyes flick up, his are already somewhere else. not pretending, not faking it, just gone. and it pisses you off more than it should.

you don’t say anything. you just toss your hair over your shoulder and smile at the other girl again, louder this time. “i like my men all incompetent,” you declare, tucking a dollar into your apron, “and i swear they choose me, i’m not choosing them.”

jake lifts his beer to his lips, slow. doesn’t smile. doesn’t even smirk. and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control of the game. you hate that, but you also love that.

but you definitely hate rodeos.

too loud and sweaty. too many men with too little brain and too much cologne. it’s just the same loop every time—horses, hats, hollering, and someone calling you “sweet cheeks” like that’s supposed to make you blush instead of gag. normally, you stay far away. but tonight’s different. because you heard jake sim was riding.

so you show up. late, of course, on purpose. your boots crunch over dirt and beer cans as you make your way through the crowd, hips swinging just enough to remind everyone you don’t walk, you arrive. every man you pass straightens his spine like you might look at him if he behaves, and every woman rolls her eyes in that half-jealous way they always do.

but you don’t care. you’re not here for them. you’re here for the man on the horse.

and when you spot him, out in the pen, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting light against his thigh, you feel that slow, low flutter in your stomach that tastes a little like trouble. because he’s wearing that stupid hat again, the same beat-up one that sits just low enough to make his eyes a mystery and his mouth a promise. his shirt’s rolled up to the elbows, collar unbuttoned, forearms dusted with dirt and sin. he looks like sin. he rides like sin.

you lean against the fence, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and pretend you’re not watching. but you are, everyone is. but he doesn’t look into the crowd, not once. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t show off, doesn’t even smile. he just focuses—on the gate, on the bull, on the seconds ticking down before the chaos. there’s something precise about it, almost like he’s not here to perform, just to win.

and you hate how hot that is.

when the gate finally opens and he bursts out, body moving like he’s part of the beast beneath him, the whole crowd goes wild. people scream, hats fly, beer spills. but you just chew your gum and watch. he holds on longer than anyone else that night. and when he lands, smooth and sharp and smug, your stomach does a traitorous little flip.

he still doesn’t look at you. not even when he walks past, later, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt sticking to his back, sweat dripping down his neck like something out of a country girl’s fantasy.

you’re standing by the concession stand now, pretending to look at overpriced chili fries when he walks right past you again. and for the first time, maybe in ever, you don’t know what to do with that. because everyone looks at you. everyone wants something from you.

but jake sim? jake sim doesn’t even blink.

you pop your gum again, louder than necessary. he still doesn’t turn. bastard. so you lick your lips, tilt your head, and mutter just loud enough for the girl next to you to hear—just loud enough for him to maybe hear, too— “god, i hate cowboys.”

except you don’t. you really, really don’t.

so you decide to wear red on saturday. not a soft red. not a muted, tasteful, wine-country red. no, this is bright, dangerous, stop-sign red. the kind that glitters when you walk and blasphemes when you bend. you slip it on slow, knowing exactly what it does to your body and your ego. it’s the kind of dress that starts fights and finishes them.

you don’t wear it for him, not technically. but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t check your lipstick twice before heading to the bar, or if you hadn’t spent a good three minutes wondering if jake sim was the type of man who noticed sequins.

(it turns out—he isn’t.)

he’s already there when you walk in, sitting in his usual corner like a piece of furniture carved from patience and denim. same hat, same shirt, same maddeningly blank expression. he doesn’t flinch when you walk by. doesn’t scan your legs like every other man. doesn’t lean over to whisper something to his friend and then laugh too loud. he just looks. once. and then looks away.

you could scream. instead, you smile. you spend the next hour putting on a show—not for him, of course, never that. just for… the atmosphere. you take extra time leaning over the bar. you laugh a little louder, let your fingers trail longer. you flirt, you twirl, you dance like you’re made of sugar and smoke.

and he just sits there. solid. steady and stoic in the face of sin.

when the jukebox shifts to something slow and sweaty, your friend pulls you out from behind the bar and spins you onto the floor. you go willingly, you always do. you dance with her, and then with some other guy, who’s a terrible flirt but a decent dancer. you laugh as you move, hips swaying, hands up, hair stuck to your neck. people cheer, whistles echo. someone shouts your name.

and still, jake sim doesn’t look. he sits there, beer untouched, fingers drumming slowly against the table. his eyes are on the wall, or the floor, or nowhere at all. you want to throw a chair at him. instead, you press your body just a little closer, let your head tip back, your laughter bubble out like champagne. 

and for half a second, just half, you swear you can feel his gaze. but by the time you glance over, it’s gone.

you finish the dance anyway, cheeks flushed from effort or ego or something worse, and when you walk past jake’s table again, you pause. just enough. he still doesn’t say anything. but his knuckles are white around the bottle, and that’s something.

and ​​you’re not much of a smoker, not really. it’s more about the image. the ritual of it—door swinging shut behind you, the hum of the saloon dulling into background noise, a lighter flicked slowly. you like the weight of the cigarette between your fingers, the way it makes your mouth look meaner. you especially like the way people look at you when you do it.

on sunday, though, the sidewalk is mostly empty. the neon sign above the door buzzes like it’s dying, and your heels click against the pavement. you’re alone, almost. because he’s there. leaning against his truck—of course it’s a truck, stupid and long and matte black— arms crossed, hat low, chewing on a toothpick like he was placed there by god.

you try not to look. but of course you fail.

“you always stand like that,” you say, taking a drag and blowing smoke sideways, “or is this a special occasion?”

he doesn’t turn, god, he doesn’t even smile. “like what?” he asks, voice low and scratchy, like he only uses it when necessary.

you flick ash toward the gravel and shift your weight, one hip out, just enough to suggest: i am here and i am wearing very little. so you say: “like you’re being painted,” you say. “by someone too obsessed with denim.”

that gets a reaction, barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. nothing close to a smile, but you count it anyway. “you don’t like denim?” he asks.

“i like it just fine,” you say, letting your eyes travel up and down. “i just think it likes you a lot.”

he hums, quiet and unfazed. the toothpick shifts from one side of his mouth to the other with devastating nonchalance. “you always flirt like that?” he asks finally, and it’s almost cruel, the way he says it—like he’s calling you out without even looking at you.

you tilt your head. “like what?”

“like you’re bored.”

you take another drag, slower this time. it buys you a second. maybe two. “i’m not bored,” you say. “i’m offended.”

he finally looks at you then. really looks. not a glance, not a flick of the eyes, but a slow, full scan that starts at your boots and ends at your mouth. “offended?”

“yeah,” you say. “you’re the first man in town who hasn’t tried to get a shot with me.”

he raises an eyebrow. your breath hitches, and you curse yourself for it. because god damn it. he pushes off the truck, and he steps forward, just one step, just close enough for you to smell him. smoke and leather and desert heat. “that why you came out here?” he asks. “to collect another admirer?”

“no,” you say, a little too quickly. “i came out to smoke.”

he nods, glances at your cigarette. “you’re holding it backwards.”

you look down, you are. shit.

he walks past you then, amused and infuriatingly tall, back toward the saloon. and just before the door swings shut behind him, he tosses the toothpick into the dirt and says, without looking: “you’ll have better luck with someone who gives a damn, sweetheart.”

you stand there for a minute, blinking smoke out of your eyes, lips parted in disbelief, cigarette still backwards in your hand. you don’t know whether to chase him or marry him. probably both.

the annual summer festival happens a week later, and the whole town’s lost its damn mind. kids run wild, drunk uncles argue, and there’s a man singing country ballads off-key on the main.

and you look stunning, obviously.  short dress, boots too clean to be from here, a pair of sunglasses you don’t need but wear anyway. you walk through the crowd like you’re not sweating like everyone else. and your arm? it’s linked tightly through lee heeseung’s. the sheriff’s son. walking cologne bottle. he thinks calling women “sugar tits” is flirtation and not a felony. you smile like he’s the most charming thing this town’s ever coughed up. and across the lot, jake sees everything.

he’s standing near the fence, drink in hand, chewing on his pride. he looks like a warning sign, his arms crossed so tight his biceps look like they’re planning a mutiny. he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t even pretend not to be watching. you glance at him once, and once is enough.

you laugh louder. lean closer to heeseung, who’s talking about god-knows-what—his truck, his workout, his daddy’s badge—and you nod like you care. every move is calculated. every smile is a weapon. because you know exactly what you’re doing. so you excuse yourself after a while, muttering something about needing another drink, slipping away from heeseung before he can say something else that’ll make your ears bleed. you walk through the back, your boots clicking fast.

you’re halfway to the bar when you feel a heat at your back. 

“fun night?” his voice is behind you. dry and quiet. 

you don’t turn around right away. you let the moment hang. and then you say, “depends,” running a hand through your hair like it’s not dripping down your neck. “you havin’ fun watching?”

he steps in closer. you feel him before you see him, his chest just a breath away from your shoulder. “you always hang off men you don’t like?” he asks, voice low enough to make your knees consider collapsing.

you shrug. “what makes you think i don’t like him?”

“you’re bored. i know what you look like when you’re havin’ fun.”

you hate how that line makes your stomach twist. hate it more that he’s right. so you finally turn to face him, hands on your hips, head tilted with mock sweetness. “what, jealous?”

he laughs. it’s short and dark. “of lee heeseung?” he scoffs. “sweetheart, i’m jealous of his dog before i’m jealous of him.”

you bite your lip to hide the smile, and you fail. “then why are you here?” you ask, eyes locking onto his. 

he leans in, just enough to make you dizzy. his gaze dips—down your lips, down your throat, down your dress—and lingers there, shameless. he looks like he wants to say more. or do more. and you kind of wish he would. but instead, he straightens up, steps back, and lets the space between you fill with heat again.

“because, darling, next time you wanna get under someone’s skin,” he says, “maybe pick a man who ain’t wearin’ daddy’s badge.”

and just like that, he turns and walks off. no touch. not even a goddamn smirk. you’re left standing there, pulse racing, drink forgotten, mouth parted like a woman halfway to disaster.

you fan yourself with your hand, mutter to no one, “fuck my life.”

and over the next few weeks, jake sim makes a habit out of losing his mind quietly.

he tells himself he’s just thirsty. that’s the only reason he keeps showing up to the saloon. he tells himself that every night he parks that stupid truck in the same stupid spot and walks through the same door into the same bar where you’re working, and where you, lately, won’t even look at him.

and that’s what kills him. because you used to look. all big eyes and evil little smiles, like you were constantly cooking up something sinful and he was the poor bastard about to taste it.

but now? now you barely glance in his direction. you walk past him like he’s just another part of the furniture. take other tables. pour drinks with your back to him. laugh at other men’s jokes.

and jake watches silently. desperately. he tries not to, he really does. but his eyes betray him every time. they flick to you the second you walk by—legs bare, hair pulled back with a pen, lips glossed to hell. you smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, and it’s infuriating how much he wants to bite that smell off your throat.

and the worst part is that he knows you’re doing it on purpose. because sometimes, just sometimes, he catches the way your mouth twitches when you pass his table. the way you shift your weight a little slower, lean over a little further when you’re grabbing something. and when he doesn’t look up—when he pretends not to notice—you bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

you’re playing hard to get. which is adorable, really. but it works. fuck, it works.

jake sim, who’s spent most of his adult life being aggressively unbothered, now sits at this bar like a man possessed. he sips beer and imagines things he shouldn’t. he watches your mouth wrap around straws and thinks about how it’d look wrapped around something else entirely. he stares at your hands pouring drinks and thinks about them fisting in his shirt, pressed against his belt, sliding down—

he coughs. shifts in his seat. takes another sip and pretends like he’s not half hard just because you leaned against the fridge five minutes ago.

he doesn’t talk to you. hasn’t, since the festival. because that would mean giving in. and if there’s one thing jake sim is worse at than feelings, it’s losing. but god, the way you walk? the way you smile at the wrong people? the way you drop the occasional “cowboy” into a sentence like it’s not meant to ruin him?

it’s almost sweet, the way you’re trying to get under his skin. but also: it’s working. and he thinks, not for the first time, that if you asked—if you looked at him a certain way—he’d let you wreck his entire life. you could tie him to the back of his own truck, spit on his mouth, call him useless in front of god and the sheriff, and he’d probably thank you. 

but you don’t look at him anymore. you just brush past him one more time, close enough for your skirt to kiss his knee, and say to no one in particular, real sweet: “why so sexy if so dumb?”

and jake swears to god he’s gonna start a bar fight just to calm down.

but the moment you step onto the dirt lot of the fairgrounds, sundress fluttering and sunglasses perched high on your nose, his brain short-circuits. ​​he sees you the second you walk in. he pretends not to, of course. jake sim has made an olympic sport out of pretending you don’t exist. but you’re here, again. and he’s fucked. 

he’s in the chute, adjusting his gloves, boots already caked in dust, chest strapped down tight like it might explode. he tells himself to focus on the ride, on the bull, on anything but the way your thighs are peeking out from under that goddamn dress.

you shouldn’t be here. he was hoping you’d show up, obviously, but now that you’re actually here, it feels like a setup. like god’s decided to make him fail in front of everyone and look good doing it. so he refuses to look directly at you. not while you’re standing near the fence, leaning against the railing like you’re modeling for the “ruin a man” calendar. not while you’re laughing at something some poor bastard just said, tossing your hair over your shoulder. and certainly not when you suck on that red snow cone.

he adjusts his hat lower. counts backward from ten. tries to remember how to breathe.

he’s still got it under control—mostly—until the moment he’s mounting the bull and glances toward the crowd just once. just a peek. and there you are, watching, with your lip between your teeth and a look that could sterilize holy water.

he slips. just a little. just enough for one boot to miss its mark and his hand to falter on the rope. no one notices. not really. but he does.

the ride still goes fine. better than fine, actually. he makes it the full eight seconds, lands smooth, wipes the sweat off his brow like he’s not a mess on the inside. like he didn’t almost fall off a 1,500-pound animal because you were licking syrup off your finger.

later, after the noise dies down, after the dust settles and the crowd starts dispersing into beer and music and gossip, you find him. he’s near the back of the stables, away from the noise. hat off, hair damp, shirt sticking to his back in places that make your hands twitch.

you lean against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted. he sees you coming. of course he does.

you don’t say anything right away. just look him over like you’re checking for bruises. “didn’t fall this time,” you say.

“not for lack of tryin’,” he mutters.

you raise an eyebrow. “the bull or me?”

he doesn’t answer. you take that as a win. so you step closer, slow. toe the dirt with your boot, pretend to be casual. but everything about you tonight is a performance, and he knows it. the cherry lip gloss. the dress with buttons that strain when you breathe. the way you keep shifting your weight like your thighs are begging for attention. you’re trying to get to him, and you are. but he’ll die before he admits it.

“you always ride that well,” you say, voice syrupy and cruel, “or was that just for me?”

“don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.”

“too late,” you grin. “flattered myself the whole way here.”

he laughs at that, but he still doesn’t move. you take another step. now you’re in front of him, barely a breath of air between your bodies. the tension crackles, like something’s about to snap. he looks down at you, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. you could kiss him, you could push him. you could drop to your knees and he wouldn’t stop you. but he stays still. and you know what that means. he’s losing it. slowly and deliciously.

so you just smile, all teeth and trouble, and say: “you gonna say thank you for coming, or do i gotta leave and come back so you can do it right?”

he looks down at you and decides—fuck it. if this is a game, he’s gonna play. so his hand lifts. two fingers hook lazily in your belt in your dress, just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees forget how to behave. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug, just lets it sit there. you blink up at him like you weren’t expecting him to do this. because you weren't.

“thought you came to watch the ride,” he says, voice like gravel and heat. “didn’t know you were hopin’ to start one.”

you’re stunned for a second, flustered. but you recover fast. your hand comes up, trailing a single finger down the buttons of his shirt, slowly. and you giggle. you say nothing, you only giggle and smile. then you step back, leaving him standing there with nothing but the smell of your perfume and a growing problem in his jeans. he blinks once. twice. and you’re already gone.

a few days later, he sees you again at the gas station. you’re sitting on the hood of your car. your car is pink, of course it’s pink. girly in that deadly way. floral air freshener, fuzzy dice, a sparkly steering wheel cover and a bumper sticker that probably says something like “yee-haw, bitch.”

you’re licking a cherry lollipop. wearing the tiniest pair of shorts known to mankind and a tank top that does nothing to hide your agenda. your legs are crossed, one foot bouncing lazily in the air like you have nowhere to be and every intention of being stared at. and people are staring. two guys walk by, heads snapping so fast they nearly sprain something. an old man in a tractor cap gives a long, disapproving look that lasts until he crashes into a trash can.

you? you smile sweetly. wave. keep sucking on that lollipop like you’re not ruining lives. and jake watches from the far pump, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying so hard not to enjoy the sight of you doing exactly what you do best.

and then, just like you’ve sensed him from across the lot, you slide off the hood, sway your hips across the concrete, and approach him with the most dangerous sentence in your arsenal: “cowboy,” you say, “i think i got a flat.”

he raises an eyebrow. looks at your car. no flat. you grin like the liar you are. “could you check for me?” you ask, voice all syrup and fake innocence. “i’d do it myself, but—” you shrug, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “i don’t wanna chip a nail.”

he stares at you and you stare back. he knows what this is. you want him on his knees. and god help him—he’s thinking about it.

“you sure?” he says, tone dry. “seems like you’re the type to pop a tire just to see what crawls out the woodwork.”

“you caught me,” you beam. 

he sighs, but he walks over anyway. you trail behind, delighted, watching him crouch down in front of your car, like he is your personal cowboy-themed thirst trap come to life. he’s in front of you, all strong hands and dirty jeans, touching your tires like it’s a performance.

you lean back against the hood. cross your legs the other way. suck louder on the lollipop, just to be mean. and jake knows the tire’s fine, he also knows he’s losing. and when he looks up—sweat on his brow, eyes half-lidded, gaze landing right between your crossed legs—you don’t say a word. you just smile and keep chewing. you got what you wanted: him on his knees.

and it happens on a thursday. the saloon’s half-full, sticky with the usual noise, and you’ve got a tray in one hand. you spot him before he sees you. or maybe he lets you think that. he’s sitting at the bar, same stool as always. sipping something dark with his hat tipped low and one leg stretched out like the floor belongs to him. he’s talking to someone, a girl you don’t recognize, leaning in just enough to make your stomach twist.

he’s smiling. he never smiles, at least not like that. and that’s when it hits you: he’s doing it on purpose.

your first instinct is to roll your eyes. your second is to walk over there and ruin both their nights. instead, you drop off your tray at the counter, smooth your skirt, and remind yourself that you’re not bothered. not even a little. so you circle around the bar, busy yourself with orders. chat with a guy in a cowboy hat, laugh too loud, lean too close. and eventually, you feel that static buzz that only comes from being watched.

you turn your head, and of course he’s looking. not just looking, jake is devouring. his eyes trail down your legs, up your hips, pause at your chest like he’s making a list of crimes he’d commit if the sheriff weren’t his boss’s daddy. and your heart stutters, your mouth dries. you take a step toward him before you even realize it.

but then he gets up and walks past you, doesn’t say a word. and you think, what the hell?

but then his hand brushes yours, just barely. like an accident that wasn’t an accident. you whip around to say something sharp, but he’s already halfway to the door. and you follow. you don’t mean to, really, but you do. you catch him near the back hallway, one hand braced against the wall, like he knew you’d come after him.

you open your mouth to say something clever, but he steps in real close. close enough that your back hits the wall and your knees almost collapse. “somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” he asks, voice all silk.

“what was that?” you hiss, trying not to stare at his mouth. “flirting with that girl like i wasn’t in the room?”

he smirks. smirks. “didn’t know i needed permission.”

you cross your arms. push your chest up just enough to be annoying. “you’re playing games.”

he shrugs. “so are you.” his hand lifts, not to touch you (the bastard’s too good for that), but to brush a piece of lint off your shoulder. “you looked a little jealous,” he murmurs, voice dipped in sin. “cute look on you.”

your pulse stutters, but you refuse to show it. “you’re gonna die alone,” you say, breathier than intended.

“probably,” he says. “but not before i ruin you first.”

you suck in a breath. his face is right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, you’d taste the whiskey on his lips. you think he might do it, you think maybe this is it. but he doesn’t kiss you. instead, he leans in slow, his breath hot against your cheek, then presses a kiss right there, soft and warm and maddening. the kind of kiss that doesn’t take anything but still leaves you ruined.

then he pulls back. smirking, so smug and infuriating. “goodnight, sweetheart,” he says. and then he walks away, like he didn’t just light a fire in your chest and leave it burning.

and there’s a party on the edge of town on that week—somebody’s cousin’s birthday or maybe just an excuse to drink next to a fire. there’s music blasting out of speakers in the back of a lifted truck, people doing shots, and you’re there, of course, making every poor bastard lose his mind just by existing.

you’re wearing denim shorts and a little white top that ties in the front, and jake sim wants to fight the concept of clothing for making something that looks that illegal.

he sees you before you see him. and he sees heeseung before you do. pretty boy with too-white teeth and too many opinions about his own biceps. he’s been in love with you since high school and never got the hint. but tonight, you’re letting him talk. you’re laughing, you’re standing close. and you don’t even have to look across the fire to know jake’s watching.

you toss your hair over your shoulder. heeseung says something about his new truck and how it “purrs like a mountain cat,” which isn’t a thing, but you smile anyway. you’re about to make some flirty comment just to push it further when a hand wraps around your arm.

not rough, not mean, just firm. you whip around and there he is. jake. his face is unreadable. calm, almost. but his grip says something else entirely.

you blink. “well, hey there, cowboy—”

“walk,” he says.

you try to act annoyed, dramatic. “what if i don’t feel like—”

“walk.”

so you do. he leads you away from the fire, away from the crowd, toward the gravel lot where his truck is. you expect him to say something, yell, maybe. accuse you of something dramatic and delicious. but instead, he spins you around and presses you up against the passenger door.

his hand is still on your arm. the other braces beside your head. his body doesn’t touch yours, not really, but he’s close enough that you can feel the heat off his skin and the tension coiled under it. you blink up at him, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “is this how you treat all your women, cowboy? dragging them into parking lots and pinning them to cars?”

“no,” he says. “just the ones who know better.”

you gasp softly, it’s almost a laugh. “oh, so now you’re mad?”

he leans in, mouth inches from yours, eyes dark and hungry. “you wore that top on purpose.”

you smirk. “maybe i was hot.”

he looks down, pointedly. “you are. and you know what you’re doin’.”

“do i?”

he exhales sharp through his nose, like he’s trying not to combust. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “you really want him to touch you? that what you’re lookin’ for?”

you blink slow and wet your lips. “maybe i just want somebody who actually does it.”

the look on his face shifts just slightly. then he leans in. you think this time it’ll happen, finally, the kiss, the collapse. the moment the game ends. but instead, his lips graze your jaw, not your mouth. his hand dips low, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts like he’s thinking about it.

“you don’t want ‘somebody,’” he whispers. “you want me.” you’re not breathing. he pulls back again, just enough to leave you gasping in the space between what was almost and what still isn’t. “but you’ll have to beg, sweetheart,” he adds, smirking. “and i don’t think you’re ready to do that yet.”

he turns like he’s going to walk away again, like that’s the last word. like he didn’t just light a match and drop it between your legs. but this time, you don’t let him. your hand shoots out fast and grabs his belt loop. he pauses and stills, and slowly, turns his head back toward you.

“you think i won’t?” you ask, voice low and deadly sweet.

he looks down at your hand, still fisted in his jeans like a challenge. then his eyes flick back up to yours—dark, wild, curious. he steps closer, just one step. then another. until he’s right in front of you again, and this time there’s no space. no teasing, no gaps. just you, caught between a truck door and the worst mistake you want to make.

he leans in. both hands come to rest on either side of your head. caging you in and claiming the air between you. “careful now,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re not the only one who likes to play.”

and then his knee presses forward, between your legs. you gasp. it’s not subtle, not even a little. he fits it there, deliberate and slow, until your thighs part just enough to make room for the solid weight of him. his thigh is strong and warm. your breath catches and your fingers twitch where they’re tangled in his shirt.

he’s watching your face. watching your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize the exact second you lose composure. but you don’t, you smile. then, slow and wicked, you roll your hips just a little against his thigh—enough to make him grunt, low in his throat, like he wasn’t ready for it. “you started it,” you say, feigning innocence. “don’t get shy now, cowboy.”

he exhales sharp. one of his hands drops and wraps tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. your shorts ride up. the pressure of his thigh against you gets sharper, filthier, almost unbearable. “you think this is a joke?” he growls.

“no,” you breathe. “i think it’s foreplay.”

his hand tightens. he shifts his thigh just barely upward, grinding it between your legs, and you have to bite your lip to keep the sound in. he leans in, mouth ghosting over your ear. “i could make you come like this,” he says, voice like a sin you want to confess over and over. “right here, against my truck, with nothin’ but my thigh between your legs.”

you shiver, but you smile. “you talk a big game,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “but so far all you’ve done is flex in tight jeans and give me blue balls.”

he lets out a sharp laugh, dangerous. then his hands drop to your hips, grip possessive, and he rolls you against his thigh again. this time harder and filthier. like he wants to see how far you’ll let it go. your knees almost buckle. your head hits the truck window. but your hands are in his hair now, pulling, tugging, dragging his face closer.

and still he doesn’t kiss you. you pant, flushed and desperate and mad as hell. he just smirks. “look at you,” he says. “makin’ a mess on me and i haven’t even touched you proper.”

you glare at him and your lip curls in frustration. “maybe you’re scared.”

he arches a brow. “of what?”

“of me.” you press down hard against his thigh again—your move now, your game—and you feel him tense. feel him curse under his breath like you’ve just won a round he didn’t even know he was playing. you lean in and whisper against his mouth: “i could ruin you.”

he inhales sharp. you swear you hear him mutter fuck. but still, still he doesn’t kiss you. he pulls back, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

and then he steps away. leaves you there. aching and panting. blinking like you just came out of a trance. “one of these days, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his belt like he needs a minute. “you’re gonna be the one beggin’.”

and then he climbs into the driver’s seat and drives away. you stare after him, thighs trembling, heart racing, and mutter:

“i’m gonna set his truck on fire.”

and jake sim spends the week trying not to think about you. which is stupid, because you’re everywhere. in his sheets, in his hands, in his mouth when he mutters fuck at two in the morning and fists his hair like it’ll shake you out of his head.

he sees you in the curve of a beer bottle. in the red of a stoplight. in the fucking grocery store, standing in front of a watermelon display like you invented sin.

he can’t focus. can’t sleep. can’t work. every time he bends over a fence or climbs into the truck, he hears your voice in his ear: i could ruin you. every time he closes his eyes, he sees your thighs wrapped around his fucking leg. he’s losing it. actually, clinically losing it.

and the worst part is that he let it happen. he swore he wouldn’t. told himself he wasn’t like the rest of them—the boys who lined up for your attention like fools in heat. he used to watch you tease and twist and toy with every man in town and laugh. not because he didn’t get it, because he did. but now he’s just another name on your list. and he hates it.

he’s a grown man. a cowboy, for christ’s sake. he should be immune to lip gloss and flirty banter and skirts short enough to send him to jail. but he’s not. and the worst part is that you know, you know what you’re doing. you know exactly how to stand, how to talk, how to glance up with that little tilt of your head like oops, did i break you again?

and he’s fucking gone. he’s a freak for it. a perv. he thinks about your mouth at church. he imagines your legs wrapped around his waist when he’s driving. he’s so far gone it’s pathetic.

so on thursday, when the thought of you cleaning up at the saloon alone hits him like a truck, he doesn’t fight it. he gets in the truck, drives like the devil’s chasing him. when he gets there, the bar is dark, empty. just the faint sound of clinking glasses and a broom dragging across the floor.

you’re behind the counter. sweaty and tired. loose hair falling around your face. still the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen.

the door creaks open. you don’t look up. “we’re closed,” you call out, distracted.

then you lift your head, and you pause. your lips part. 

his boots hit the floor. he doesn’t say a word. just crosses the room in four heavy steps, reaches for your wrist, and pulls you in like he needs you to breathe. and then— he kisses you.

not sweet. not shy, not teasing. hot, open and filthy.

he groans when your mouth opens under his, when your fingers clutch his shirt like you’ve been waiting for this just as long. his hands are everywhere, your waist, jaw, the small of your back. he kisses like he’s mad about it, like this is a punishment.

your back hits the counter. your teeth knock. a glass falls off. and still, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the space between you. 

he pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your cheek. “you win,” he mutters. “is that what you wanna hear?”

you’re panting, flushed. “not yet,” you whisper. “i like my man playing real hard to get,” you whisper, breath ghosting his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to tease.

and that’s the moment he snaps. his hands come up, cup your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it, and he kisses you hard, messy and desperate. and you moan, you can’t help it. he tastes like whiskey and salt and everything you’ve been dreaming about at three in the morning.

his hips press forward, tight against yours, grinding you back into the edge of the counter like he wants to leave a dent in your spine. and you grin against his lips. you reach back blindly, “you gonna keep kissing me like a saint,” you pant, pulling back, “or you gonna bend me over something, cowboy?”

his eyes go dark. “oh, you wanna act like a brat now?” he growls.

you smirk. “what gave it away?”

he grabs you, lifts you right off the floor and sets you down on a table like you weigh nothing. your legs part without hesitation and he steps between them, his hips hard against yours, and his hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to decide which one he wants to ruin first. “look at you,” he mutters, eyes trailing down your body. “pretty little mouth, dirty little attitude.”

you tilt your head, all fake innocence. “you like it.”

he leans in close, mouth against your ear. “i’m gonna fuckin’ break you.”

your breath vanishes. his fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, maddening. he doesn’t go where you want him, but just next to it, brushing the edges, watching you squirm. “i know what you need,” he murmurs. “you need someone to shut that mouth. teach you some fuckin’ manners.”

you wrap your legs around his waist. “you volunteering?”

he laughs, low and filthy. “baby, i’ve been applying for that job all month.” then he grinds forward, slow and mean, dragging a moan out of you that echoes across the empty bar. you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. he grabs your hips, presses them down, holds you there. “no running now,” he mutters. “you been beggin’ for this.”

you roll your hips up into his. “you liked it.”

he groans, kissing down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp again. “liked it so much i nearly wrecked my truck thinkin’ about you.” his hand slips under your top. calloused fingers on your skin, rough and reverent all at once. he palms your chest like he’s claiming it. like he’s mad you let anyone else look. you arch into him, moaning. “so impatient,” he teases, voice a growl. “what happened to makin’ me beg, sweetheart?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

he smirks against your throat. “say please.”

you groan, kick your heels against his ass. “cowboy—”

“say it.”

you hiss, then lean in and bite his lip. “please.”

he pulls back just enough to smirk, breath hot against your lips. “please what?” he asks, voice low, gravel rough.

you glare at him, or at least, you try to. but your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hips aching for friction, and his hand is already creeping up your thigh like he’s got nowhere to be but inside you. so you say it, no shame. no power left to pretend. “please, fuck me, jakey.”

he groans loudly, like the words physically hit him. then he mutters something that sounds like jesus fucking christ, and crashes his mouth into yours. and this kiss is different. it is hungry and starving. he grinds against you, slow and hard, pressing you down into the table with the full weight of his body. your shirt rides up. your back arches. the wood creaks underneath like it might give out, and honestly—if it breaks, let it. you’ll thank it for its service.

his hands are everywhere. palming your thighs, squeezing your ass, gripping your waist like he owns it. “look at you,” he rasps, lips trailing down your throat. “fuckin’ dream girl of the county. all these poor bastards lining up for a smile, and here you are—legs open for me.”

you gasp and whimper and dig your nails into his shoulders. he presses his hips harder, grinds right against where you need him most. your head drops back, your moan echoes. “you love this,” he says, panting now. “bein’ up here where anyone could walk in. where anyone could see you gettin’ ruined by me.” you don’t answer, you can’t. “what happened to that bratty mouth, huh?” he growls, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “where’s all that sass now?”

“shut up,” you breathe. “just—please.”

“beggin’ again?” he taunts. “thought you didn’t do that.”

“i’m making an exception.”

he laughs, dark and hot, and grabs your hips tighter, pulling you to the edge of the table. “you should see yourself right now,” he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. “look so fuckin’ pretty like this. so desperate.”

“you’re the one that came after me.”

“yeah,” he admits, lining himself up, voice breaking a little, “because i’m a goddamn fool for you.”

and then he pulls back. his hand wraps around your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face up to look at him. he’s flushed and panting. pupils blown wide. and his voice, when he speaks, is low and dangerous and thick with control he’s barely holding. “get on your knees.”

your heart stops and your grin widens. “you asking or telling me, cowboy?”

he presses his thumb into your cheek, leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth like he’s being nice before doing something awful. “i’m tellin’ you,” he mutters, “be a good girl and make me feel good.”

you blink slow, mouth open, pretending to think about it. “what’s in it for me?”

his hand slips down, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make you feel it—not choking, just owning. “my cock in your mouth,” he growls. “and maybe if you do it right, i’ll let you come later.”

your knees buckle, but your pride doesn’t. you hum, all fake sweetness. “guess i could use something to suck on.” you drop to the floor, knees hitting the sticky saloon wood like you belong there. he watches you, chest heaving and jaw tight. trying not to come just from the sight of you looking so cute on your knees for him. you look up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “you nervous?” you tease.

he barks a laugh. “just waitin’ to see if the mouth that talks so much can finally do something useful.”

you pout. then reach for his belt, slow and dramatic, undoing it like it’s the last gift under a christmas tree. and when his cock springs free, hard, flushed, huge, your mouth waters. you glance up again. “you been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you?”

he hisses as you wrap your hand around him, thumb brushing the tip. “every fuckin’ night,” he admits, voice ragged. “jesus, i’d wake up hard just rememberin’ how you looked struttin’ around in those little shorts behind the bar.”

you stroke him once, twice, slow and sweet. then you lean forward, kiss the tip. just a whisper of a touch. he groans. his hand finds your hair, pulling it already. you drag your tongue along the underside, all the way down, then back up again. he swears, low and filthy. “look at you,” he rasps. “knees on the fuckin’ floor, pretty mouth full of me. you know how many men in this town would give their right hand for this?”

you hum around him. smile with your eyes, because you do know. and you love that it’s you doing this to him. so you take more of him in, then more. until he’s deep in your throat, and he’s gripping the edge of the table so tight you think he might snap it in half. “fuck,” he moans. “that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

his hips twitch forward. just a little, just enough to make you gag—on purpose, and he loves that. he loves the sound. he loves how messy your mouth is for him. so he starts to move in shallow thrusts. hand in your hair, not rough, but claiming. “you gonna let me come in your mouth, baby?” he groans. “gonna swallow it all, show me how good you are?”

you nod and moan, sucking harder, and that’s it. he gasps, his hips snap forward. his whole body shudders. he comes hard, hot and thick on your tongue, fingers tangled in your hair, voice wrecked. you swallow it all, slowly. wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, like a brat.

you’re still on your knees, lips wet, tongue peeking out in satisfaction like you just finished dessert and might go back for seconds. he looks down at you, utterly wrecked. and then he laughs breathless and disbelieving. “jesus christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair like you just short-circuited every last nerve. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin, smug as sin. but then he leans down, and his strong arms slide under your shoulders, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you squeal, half-laughing, hands flying to grip his shirt. “hey—!”

“shut up,” he breathes. “my turn.”

he sets you down on the table again, right where you were before. but this time, he doesn’t kiss you yet. doesn’t even touch you. he just steps back, eyes dark and hungry. and says, “spread.”

you blink, chest rising. “what?”

he tilts his head, steps back in, hands firm on your knees. “you heard me, sweetheart. open up. now i’m gonna make you feel good.”

you part your thighs slow, watching his eyes drop, watching his breath hitch. you lean back on your elbows, head tilted, and he glances at the wet mark through your shorts. he drops to his knees, his hands grip your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s pulling you into hell with him. he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and reverent, like you’re a prayer and a sin at the same time.

“you wet for me already?” he murmurs, hot breath brushing your core through your shorts.

you nod, breathless. “since you walked in.”

he grins. bites the soft skin just above your knee. “should’ve told me. i’d’ve come sooner.”

he yanks your shorts and panties down fast, like he’s impatient. because he probably is. so then—finally—he licks you. one long, slow stroke that makes your back arch off the table. you gasp. grab the edge and moan his name so soft it sounds like a confession.

and he devours you. not gentle, not slow. just hungry and precise, like he’s got something to prove. his tongue works you open, circles and flicks and drives you fucking wild. he hums when you buck your hips, groans when you moan. his grip on your thighs bruises. his tongue never stops. “so fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against you. “no wonder they all wanna taste.”

you whimper. he slides a finger in, then another. crooks them just right. your whole body tightens. your breath catches. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers. “ride my face. let go. give it to me.”

you do. you shatter, legs trembling, back arched, voice gone. you’re gasping his name, tugging his hair, begging him to stop or keep going—you don’t even know. he doesn’t stop. not until your whole body is shaking. not until your thighs twitch and your breathing turns ragged and your hand slaps the table in surrender.

then finally he pulls back with his mouth glistening with you. his smile is wrecked, his eyes wide and wild. he looks up at you like you just handed him the goddamn meaning of life. “holy fuck,” he whispers, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “you came so good for me, angel.”

you try to glare, you really do. but your limbs don’t work. your knees are jelly. your stomach’s still twitching in aftershocks. and then he stands, towering. glowing like he just found religion between your legs. and then he leans down, kisses your jaw, and says—soft and cocky— “think you can take one more?”

your eyes flutter open, you blink at him. “you’re insane.”

he grins and kisses the corner of your mouth. “that ain’t a no.”

you roll your eyes. but you’re already lifting your hips, already turning. and then his hands are on your waist, firm and steady, spinning you around until you’re bent over the table. your cheek presses to the cool wood. your arms stretch forward. “fuck,” you whisper.

he hums behind you, hands sliding up your back, bunching your shirt at your ribs. “look at you,” he mutters. “so goddamn ready. still drippin’ for me.” he leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “tell me you want it.”

you inhale shakily. “i want it.”

his hand slides between your thighs. fingers glide through your wetness. “tell me who’s gonna make you come again.”

you gasp. “you are.”

“say my name, sweetheart.”

“you, jakey.”

he groans. lines himself up. and then he pushes in. you gasp, you arch and whimper. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, controlling the pace. his hips move slow and deep, dragging a moan out of you every time he bottoms out. “so tight,” he pants. “like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

you moan his name again, cheek still to the table, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laughs low and feral. “no runnin’ now,” he growls. “you said you could take one more.”

his thrusts get faster and harder. the table starts to creak. your moans start to sound like pleas. and he’s loving every second. he leans in, bites your shoulder, mutters against your skin, “gonna fuck you so dumb you forget how to sass.” you gasp and grin. you push back against him just to be a brat. he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him hard. “jesus,” he hisses. “you like this, don’t you? bein’ used like this.”

“i like you like this,” you pant. “all obsessed.”

he grunts, and slaps your ass with a sting that makes your knees wobble. you yelp. and then he laughs, breathless, wicked. “i’m not lettin’ anyone else touch you again,” he mutters, voice cracked open, raw in your ear. his hand comes down to your hip, gripping. “this?” he growls, grinding into you harder, deeper. “this fuckin’ mouth, these thighs, this perfect little pussy— all mine.”

you moan, loud and shameless. he leans in, mouth hot on your neck, and his hand slips around you, fingers finding your clit like they never forgot it. he rubs in tight, fast circles, exactly how your body begs for. “come for me again, baby,” he pants. “show me how fuckin’ pretty you fall apart.”

and you do. you break, and your cry punches through the empty bar, your walls clenching so tight around him it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. your hands scrabble for the edge of the table, your face buried, your voice gone, just moans, sobs, his name like a prayer you can’t stop saying. and then—still shaking, still high on it— you whisper, broken and filthy: “inside. jake. please—come inside.”

he fucking loses it. his hips stutter, his breath catches, his hand grabs your ass roughly. “fuck, baby—” his head drops to your back. his rhythm falters, he’s right there. “you want me to fill you up?” he growls, desperate. “want me leavin’ you dripping with me?”

you nod, frantic. “yes—yes, please—i want it, i want all of it—”

he groans, loud. his thrusts go messy. erratic. wild. “goddamn, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. and then he comes, deep and hard. body shuddering as he spills inside you, hips pressed tight, your name falling from his lips like a sin he’s finally ready to be forgiven for.

his hand stays in your hips. his forehead pressed to your back. both of you panting. shaking. wrecked. and you smile, eyes closed, face against the table, voice barely above a whisper:

“told you you were obsessed.”

he laughs—hoarse, drunk on you—and kisses your spine. “shut up,” he murmurs. “you fuckin’ love it.”

after, at your place, after he wrecked you in every possible way, you watch him fall asleep beside you, arm slung across your waits like he is still trying to stake a claim. cowboy hat on the floor. love bite on his throat. your lipstick on his chest.

you smile to yourself. “i like my men playing hard to get,” you whisper.

lucky for you, he never stood a chance.

author’s note: soooo i saw this edit of jake in full cowboy mode and lost every functioning brain cell i had left. then i watched manchild by sabrina carpenter and went wait what if… so this fic accidentally became the most porn-with-plot thing i’ve ever written. but i regret nothing. cowboy jake has a chokehold on me and the saloon girl in my brain wouldn’t shut up until he was wrecked and begging. anyway, yee-fucking-haw 🤠

my masterlist // perma taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @saeris-world @jayparked @solonenova

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

[fluttrdoll]

⋆˚ ✿ ˖ ࣪ sylus making you squirt for the first time

all you can hear is the squelching sounds of your pussy being stretched out by sylus’ long digits, curling upwards to reach that sweet, spongy spot of yours in all the right places, with sylus chuckling at the way you writhe and moan against his lap, your bare back pressed against his broad chest, “you look like you’re struggling..”

your eyes gloss over from the overwhelming pleasure that’s building up in your core, whining out his name mixed with your high pitched moans and shallow breaths. you can barely form a sentence when you babble out, “i- it’s too much, please..”

“i know, i know.” sylus mumbles against your ear in that soft tone that doesn’t align with the way his fingers continue to abuse your g-spot and slap against your swollen clit. he can feel how close you are with the way your walls tighten around his digits, “just let go for me, sweetheart.”

and when you do, feeling a heavy release of your pleasure that you’ve been so eager to feel with your body writhing and shaking against his with ecstasy you’ve never felt before, you choke out a moan when a long squirt of clear liquid shoots from your overstimulated cunt, causing a gentle gasp to fall from your lips in both surprise and pleasure.

sylus groans at the sight with his large hands caressing your shaking thighs, “that’s my girl.”

you breathe out, still coming down from your high and how you unexpectedly squirted for the first time ever, “i’ve never done that before..”, you mumble, looking up while gently biting on the bottom of your lip to meet with his intense, red eyes.

he hums at your response, a small smirk now making it’s way onto his face when he hears your words, “yeah? well, i’m not stopping until i make you do that again.”

[thenanamis]

BUILT TO BREAK YOU!!?

that's what their dicks are ୧⁠(⁠͝⁠°⁠͜⁠ʖ͡⁠°⁠)⁠ᕤ

KENTO NANAMI

Kento’s cock is long and intimidatingly thick, with a beautiful curve upward and a pronounced vein running beneath the shaft. It feels like being slowly impaled, every inch dragging against your walls like he’s carving his name inside you. When he fucks you, he does it with purpose — precise thrusts, hips snapping in at just the right angle to make your legs shake.

The stretch alone leaves you gasping. He loves missionary, folding you in half, holding your wrists down while he watches every twitch of your face as he sinks in deep and slow.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Let me in. There… that’s it. You’re taking me so well."

When he pulls out halfway and slides back in slowly — just to feel how tight you're squeezing him — you start sobbing. And that’s when he smiles.

SATORU GOJO

Satoru has a cocky, pretty dick — decently thick, but long enough to make you arch away when he first pushes in. It always surprises you how much it stretches your walls — and he knows it. His tip kisses your cervix when he slams all the way in, and he groans like it’s a drug.

"Shit, baby—this pussy was made for me, huh?"

He fucks you with his entire body. Loves when you ride him and struggle to take it all, sinking down inch by inch while he watches your face twist.

He’ll guide you with one hand on your hip and the other on your throat, whispering filthy encouragement while his cock drags against your sweet spot.

"Go on. Take all of it. Be a good girl and sit on this dick like you mean it."

And when you finally bottom out, trembling? He thrusts up, hard — just to hear you scream.

SUGURU GETO

Suguru’s cock is thick, heavy, veiny, and shaped like sin itself. It curves slightly to the side, hitting spots you didn’t know existed. His favorite thing in the world is watching you struggle to take it, shaking, fingers curling into the sheets.

He likes to ease it in while holding you tight against his chest. Whispering into your ear how good you’re doing, how tight and warm you feel, how badly he wants to fill you up until you leak.

"Almost there, baby. Just a little more—ah, fuck, you’re gripping me like you never wanna let go."

And when he’s all the way in? He doesn’t move right away. He lets your cunt pulse around him, cock throbbing inside you, soaking in every twitch and sob you give him.

He lives for overstimulation. He wants to make you cum around his cock three times before he even starts chasing his own.

CHOSO KAMO

Choso’s dick is thickest at the base, with a flushed pink tip and a prominent vein running along the top. He’s not the longest — but it doesn’t matter. The stretch is still mind-blowing, and the pressure he hits you with is deep and unrelenting.

He loves slow, grinding thrusts that keep the head of his cock pressed against your g-spot the entire time. He moans a lot — shaky, choked little whimpers as he watches his cock disappear inside your soaked cunt.

"You’re so tight, I-I can’t… fuck… feels like you’re swallowing me."

He cries when you tell him how good he feels. And when you beg him not to stop? He thrusts a little harder, a little deeper, losing control as your pussy sucks him in.

He cums hard, body shaking, and doesn’t stop even when you start sobbing. He just presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Again…?”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

Toji is hung like a fucking monster.

Thick. Veiny. Heavy. It drops against your stomach when he lines it up — and your first instinct is to pull away. He’s proud of it, too. He grins when you stare.

"Too much for you, sweetheart?"

He doesn’t ease it in. He doesn’t warn you. He splits you open with one brutal thrust, shoving the full length inside you while you scream and writhe beneath him.

Your walls clamp down. You’re shaking. You’re crying. And he fucking loves it.

"C’mon, take it. You said you could. That mouth of yours was running nonstop—let’s see you talk now."

He doesn’t just fuck you — he uses you. Makes you drool. Makes you beg. Leaves you stretched wide open, thighs quivering, ruined and dripping and still twitching around his cock.

And when he pulls out, it’s with a wet pop and a groan.

"You’ll feel me for a week."

RYOMEN SUKUNA

Ryomen has a beast of a cock — long, thick, with a cruel curve and ridges of veins that drag against your insides like he's punishing you. The tip is flushed deep red, and when he shoves it in, it stings — not from pain, but from how overwhelming it is.

"Too much for you already?"

His voice is sharp. Teasing. Drenched in mockery.

He watches your body convulse around his cock like it’s the only thing keeping you conscious, hips grinding until you're sobbing and gushing all over him.

He fucks you like he owns you. Like he’s claiming territory. Your cervix? His punching bag. Your g-spot? Targeted relentlessly until you’re choking on your own moans.

He makes you say thank you with his cock still inside. Spits in your mouth. Chokes you with your own moans.

And when he cums, it’s deep, hot, overwhelming — and he doesn’t pull out.

"If you’re lucky, I’ll give you more."

[screwpinecaprice]

Role reversal but because The Long Quiet is constant, it's just him as is in a princess dress. Lol

[sweetstrawberrysky]

Prompt; The LADS accidentally walk in on you changing.

Caleb - The quick knock at your bedroom door hardly allows you time to respond before the handle turns. “Hey pipsqueak, I know you care about matching, but are you almost d--” He gets exactly one step past the doorway, one quick glance, and he’s frozen in place.

You’re quick to cover yourself and instinctively whip the nearest item, a pillow, at him. “Caleb! Get out!” The pillow hits his leg and snaps him out of his daze, and he hastily removes himself from your space. He can’t even bring himself to apologize.

His back presses to the outside of your door and his knees give out. His breathing is shaky. A hand runs down his warm face and stops at his chest, clutching the area above his racing heart. “Dummy! Jerk!” He hears you cussing him out from within your room, but he doesn’t care, not after witnessing such a beautiful image that’s bound to play in his head over and over again.

Rafayel - In his defence, he wasn’t expecting you to be changing midday, let alone in his own house. “Cutie, do you-- uh…” And just like that he’s rooted to the spot. Are you… glowing? Is that something humans can do, or are you simply so stunning even the sunlight is on your side?

“Cute…” He mumbled under his breath. His eyes trail all over you until landing on your beautiful face. The tense set of your jaw and pretty tint of red filling your cheeks is enough to snap him back to reality. “Ah! Uh… s-sorry, sorry!” He awkwardly fumbles out of his own room while keeping his gaze down, ears bright red.

Once you’re dressed he doesn’t hold up much better considering you’re flaunting around in one of his painting shirts, radiating like an absolute vision.

Zayne - He’s gotten too comfortable with you. In no other universe with anyone else would he dare to welcome himself into a room when the door is closed shut. “I apologize for returning late,” His sentence is cut short at the sight of you. Vulnerable, soft, delectable.

However, just as quickly as he entered, he exits equally as fast. Not a word is uttered, a sneaky glance isn’t taken, he’s just gone. As soon as you’re decent you open the door and poke your head out. He didn’t go far. His back is pressed against the wall across from you and he’s looking down. Dark green eyes shoot up, scan your face, and dart off to the side. He clears his throat, “I… Sorry. I should have knocked.”

Your head tilts to the side. “…Zayne, are your ears red?” He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to.

Sylus - It was your own fault. Sylus wouldn’t slip up like that, because beneath the surface he’s surprisingly strict about respecting your privacy and boundaries. Mephisto is for your safety, not for being a creep. So, when he accidentally stumbles upon you in a state of undress, in his own bedroom, he’s unsure how to react. Is this a seductive teasing attempt on your end? Or perhaps you’re simply comfortable around him?

His eyes widen a fraction. You’re so ethereal. Though he cocks his head at the freeze response you’re giving. “Sorry.” He places a hand over his eyes while leaving. A few minutes pass when you hear a knock at the door followed by a tender, “Can I come in now?” When you tell him ‘yes’, he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. You’re still willing to accept him into your space and that’s more than enough for him.

Xavier - He just wanted to sleep with you, and no, not in that way. He’s tired, he had a long day, and you promised to rest with him. Snuggle, hold each other close, watch something on your laptop while your eyes grow heavy… yet you’re taking so long in your bedroom. He’s aware he should have been more considerate, even in his groggy state, but he doesn’t think twice when calling your name while pushing your door open. It was already ajar, so he wasn’t expecting you to be changing.

He lets out a breath at the sight of you. “You’re… luminous.” His pale features gradually redden. He shakes his head and steps back, clicking the door shut. You hear his muffled voice from the other side, “I’m sorry. The door was cracked open, so I thought you were making your bed.” Despite the heat raising to your own cheeks you sheepishly tell him, “You’re… It’s okay. I should’ve made sure it was shut.” Silence, then a quiet, “…You’re beautiful.” You chuckle, “Thank you, Xavier.” He goes on, “So beautiful.”

[valeisaslut]

thinking about going down on gamer!sub!ellie under her desk while she’s live on stream… MDNI

the stream has barely started.

ellie’s just leaned forward in her chair, tapping the keyboard with one hand, adjusting her mic with the other, that usual awkward tilt in her mouth like she’s not sure how to greet people without sounding stupid.

“uh… hey, everyone. back again. surprise, i guess.”

she laughs under her breath, a dumb little sound that makes the chat immediately light up.

leabianwitch: she's so nervous it’s cute omg elliewhore: QUEEN IS LIVE queenelliesmellie: OMG IM SO EARLY cordycepscuddles: she better be playing ranked this time or i’m rioting

you’re already under the desk.

she saw you slide down just seconds before the stream flicked on — your knees brushing hers, lips curved with something dark, eyes dragging up her flushed face.

you didn’t say much. just leaned in, close enough to feel her whole body lock up, close enough to press your mouth to the shell of her ear and whisper it.

“stay quiet for me, baby.”

and she nodded — red to the roots, hoodie already rumpled around her waist, thighs parting as if it was entirely muscle memory.

and now she’s man-spreading in the chair, trying to act like nothing’s happening. her controller sits loose in her lap, mouth parted just slightly as she scrolls the loadout screen with trembling thumbs. her eyes keep darting to the side, trying so hard to pretend she’s checking the chat and not completely unraveling with your breath already brushing the inside of her thigh.

“uhh, okay—so we’re doing, like, warm-up matches,” she mumbles, words tight at the edges. “not gonna lie, i haven’t played all week, so i’m probably gonna get smoked.”

your fingers are already slipping under the hem of her boxers, soft and cruel. just the pads tracing slow circles against her thighs, dragging higher every second. you can feel her twitch, feel how tense her body’s gotten — the strain in her knees, the way she clenches her fist too hard around the controller.

lesbianfungus: why is she fidgeting already 😭 d1nacheckpoint: you just started. girl BREATHE. ellieswhore: no bc she’s squirming and it’s been 5 minutes

you press your lips to her skin once, then again, higher. and when you kiss just beside the wet spot already blooming through her boxers, she jolts — breath caught sharp, chest rising like she’s about to say something she shouldn’t.

her mic rattles when she exhales too hard, and she fumbles to mute it. her fingers are clumsy now, jerky, knocking into her headset like she can’t remember what part does what.

and when she finally clicks the right key, her voice cuts back in. thinner this time, more fragile. “fuck—i mean—f-fuckin’... these load times, man. so long.”

you smile, lips brushing against the soaked fabric of her underwear.

chaoticneutralabby: tell me you’re getting head without telling me you’re getting head mushroomdaddy: are those TEARS in her EYES????????? elliewfireflies: hey can y’all SHUT UP LMFAO

you pull the boxers to the side.

the air hits her cunt and she jolts — thighs flexing tight, breath hitching sharp in her chest. there’s barely time for her to process it, for her brain to catch up with what’s happening between her legs and what’s happening on the screen. because then you lean in and lick a long, heavy stripe through her folds, from slick base to swollen clit, tongue dragging through the mess.

she’s soaked, sweet, glistening. her cunt is flushed and trembling, glinting wet in the soft blue light of the monitor. her labia slick and parted, twitching around nothing. above it sits that auburn bush, damp with arousal, just the way you like it.

you hum low against her, tongue slipping through her folds again — and this time, your lips seal over her clit, suck it hard, tongue flicking fast and mean.

her hips jerk, knees bucking wide. the controller nearly slips from her hands.

she tries to play. god, she tries — eyes flickering desperately between the HUD and the enemy team closing in. her fingers twitch on the triggers, but they’re too shaky. her aim’s all over the place. her character stumbles sideways, gun swinging up too slow. a shot fires off into the ground, useless.

you fuck your tongue against her harder, and she lets out a strangled little breath that sounds more like a sob than anything else.

she presses forward on the joystick, barely in control, just enough to move — and her character rounds a corner straight into the enemy. two bullets. headshot. dead.

“god—dammit."

sugarpill00: you’re not even trying anymore😭😭😭 mariaismymommy: just end the stream babe. end it. you need help elliefanpage: girl blink twice if there's someone under the desk rn

you hook your fingers and slide two in — no warning, just the stretch and the sudden wet clench of her around you, so tight you can barely move at first. her head lolls to the side like she’s been shot. mouth wide open, hands fumbling for purchase, fingers digging hard into the edge of the desk.

you curl them slow, dragging over the spot that makes her jolt, makes her gasp. her boxers are bunched at her knees now. your mouth is sealed tight around her clit, your fingers fucking her in deep, steady strokes that press into the place that splits her in half.

her thighs clamp down so hard they shake the chair. and her mic — poor mic — picks up the breathy oh fuckfuckfuckfuck that spills out before she can catch it.

the chat erupts.

yourmomsfavoritegay: OMG OMG OMG OMG loveashleyjohnson: THAT WAS A SEX NOISE fungalmommy: YALL SHE CAME SHE FUCKING CAME elliesimp420: im gonna kms this is the best stream ever

but she hasn’t. not yet. she’s close though — fuck, she’s so close, and it’s driving her out of her mind. her hips won’t stay still, her moans are getting higher, tighter, desperate.

you don’t stop. you can’t. you fuck her harder, fingers soaked, clit swollen under your tongue. she’s grabbing at your hair now, hard enough to make your scalp sting.

“i’m turning it off—fuck, guys, i—i’ll be back later—”

she slams a key with one shaking hand. the stream ends mid–stutter, screen fading to black, the final audio clipping on her wrecked, ruined little gasp — half-swallowed, too breathless to be coherent.

and now it’s just you and her.

no chat, no mic, just the hum of the PC tower and the desperate twitch of her thighs as you push her over the edge.

you growl low against her cunt as slick floods your hand, dripping messily down your wrist, the heat of her so intense you swear you feel it in your spine. her hips are jolting up, wild and uncoordinated, no longer holding anything back.

“fuckfuckfuck— oh my god— baby!” she gasps, the words crashing out of her between broken moans, her chest heaving, fingers yanking at your hair like she’s scared she might float away.

you suck her harder. swirl your tongue in dizzying circles. and then—she breaks.

it rips out of her with a sob, full-bodied and raw, her spine arching off the chair like a live wire, her thighs snapping shut around your head. she’s coming — fuck, she’s coming — her cunt pulsing around your fingers, clit throbbing under your tongue, every inch of her shaking and trying to breathe through it.

you don’t stop.

not even when her legs twitch. not when her cunt tightens again, fluttering like she’s riding the edge of a second wave. not when she whimpers, “please,” like it’s the only word she remembers how to say.

her thighs tremble violently. her entire body stiffens, then collapses — twitching and boneless and wrecked.

and then — silence.

her legs fall open, weak and shaking, arms dropping limp at her sides. her breath comes in jagged, uneven pants, chest rising and falling like she just ran through hell barefoot.

her hand’s still tangled in your hair, loose now, useless, as if she forgot how to let go.

you look up at her and her face is flushed all the way up to her ears. there’s a line of sweat trailing down the side of her neck, and her eyes, when they blink open, are gone, glassy and ruined.

you smirk.

“you okay up there, baby?”

ellie groans, voice completely shot. “i fucking hate you.”

you kiss her inner thigh, tongue dragging up the sweet mess that’s leaked all the way down. “no you don’t.”

“no,” she breathes, hoarse, barely there. “i really fucking don’t.”

you lick her again, just to feel her flinch — mean, tongue curling around her still-swollen clit.

“babe,” she whines, high-pitched and trembling. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin against her pussy. her slick of her coats your chin, your fingers still inside her, her walls fluttering around you like she doesn’t want to let you go.

“good.”

perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @mayfldss @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @sewithinsouls @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater @doodl3b3ans

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine getting married to Caleb ft. non-mc reader.

Imagine you did not even remember when you stopped breathing. One second, you were standing beneath the soft glow of the chapel lights, heart beating inside your chest like something caged but still hopeful and before you even knew it, time simply stopped.

Imagine the string quartet has been playing the same piece over and over again and now it sounds less like music and more like an apology.

Imagine the aisle is long. Beautiful and lined with white flowers and people who love you or at least pretend to and all of them are watching you. Watching as the minutes keep ticking.

Imagine twelve minutes have passes on and then, eighteen. Twenty seven.

Imagine, He's not coming. Thats the thought that slices through you like a blade and you hate it. Hate that your brain dares to whisper it before your heart is ready to accept it. But you’ve already scanned the room three times, and every time your eyes pass over the empty double doors, the weight in your chest grows heavier. Like your ribs are closing in on themselves.

Imagine Leanne's voice, your friend finally cuts through the hush beside you. "Hey." She whispers. "Let's go wait in the back for a minute, okay? Just... Just to breathe. Okay?" You nod or maybe you didn't. Maybe she just leads you and your body follows because it doesn't know what else to do.

Imagine as she takes your arm, you hear the first real whisper that makes your stomach drop. "MC isn't here either." Your legs almost give out. Not from fear. Not from heartbreak. From recognition. MC. Of course.

Imagine she was supposed to be here hours ago. You had texted her when your makeup was done. She did not respond. But that wasn't weird. She had probably been caught up with something. Probably helping Caleb. Helping Caleb. That phrase alone makes your stomach churn now.

Imagine you could feel the crack forming somewhere deep inside. Small. Quiet. But real. More voices follow. "They were at the base together this morning…" "They always had something, didn't they?" "He probably ran to the one person who knows him best." "It's always the best friend."

Imagine the way tbe pain doesn't come in one sudden blow. It comes in pieces. Slow. Deliberate. Like someone's peeling your skin off inch by inch.

Imagine you blink at Leanne as she tries to close the dressing room door behind you, blocking out the whispers. You think she says something, but you're already gone inside your own head.

Imagine as you sat in the middle of the sofa, gown spread out like wasted silk around you. Your hands won't stop shaking. Your bouquet lies forgotten on the floor. Your phone shows one voicemail from this morning.

Apple: No matter what happens, I love you.

5:13 a.m.

Imagine what the fuck does that even mean? Your hands tighten. Your breath comes out in sharp, humiliating gasps. That's not a message from someone running late. That's a goodbye. That's a pre written excuse. That's a coward's escape route.

but Imagine Caleb is not a coward. Is he? God, no. He's not. You love him. You know him. He had never... But she was always there. MC. Always just close enough. Always just understanding enough. Never stepping over the line but never quite behind it either.

and Imagine you trusted her. You liked her. Hell, you thought of her as a friend. She zipped you into this very dress three days ago and told you you looked like a walking promise. And now she's gone. Alongside him.

and Imagine for one gut wrenching second. Just one, you imagine them together. Caleb kissing her temple. MC whispering. "You deserve better than a life that cages you." Caleb agreeing. Caleb choosing freedom. Choosing someone who understands the scars you never earned the right to ask about.

Imagine you hate yourself. You hate yourself for even thinking about it. Because that's not MC. That's not Caleb.

but Imagine the doubt is there now. And doubt, once it takes root, doesn't care how much you believe.

Imagine you slam your phone face-down. You pull at the pins in your hair. You press your hands to your mouth to muffle the sound of your breathing, because if you let yourself speak, it'll turn into a scream.

"Why wasn't I enough?" That's the question that breaks you.

Imagine you hate it. You hate yourself for the shadows in your heart. You hate the silence that Caleb's absence has left behind. And most of all, you hate that you might never get your forever.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: caleb when I catch you-!!!!

[egophiliac]

im sorry SUPER random question but I've been on a twst kick recently and found your blog (side note I love your art sm), and I've noticed this whole "Alfonso my long lost third cousin" bit being brought up a few times, is that an intentional gag or just a coincidence?

thank you! :D it's not anything from canon; I just like to do little self-referential callbacks sometimes! like, there's no real consistency between my Twst comics (the only constant is that These Boys Be Useless), it's pretty much purely to make myself laugh. but also a little bit in the hopes that by doing the same joke over and over again, it might eventually become funny? only time will tell.

somehow, despite the negative continuity in general, this one kind of accidentally evolved from "everyone watches this very dramatic soap opera" into "also it starred Vil as E(vil) Alfonso". though he probably did end up getting replaced when he took his break from acting... 🤔

[gothicfied]

Teen reader who is comforted and taken care by the other players because of her young age?? Father and daughter relationship, big sister and lil sister,etc. btw I love your ficss!! ♡

Squid Game (S2/S3) characters with a teen (18) reader

Pairing: Various characters x teen!fem!reader, !!platonic!!

Warnings: Mentions of killing, gunshots, death, fights, violence (typical squid game stuff), reader is !!18!! years old, slight swearing, this is set in Season 2, other than that it's just fluff, not proof read (English isn't my first language)

A/N: The req is 6 months old, SORRY. But, I still had fun writing this since it's easier to imagine yourself in that position lololol This is also probably the last squid game fic I'll write, either for now or even for longer, unless I get a request again. It's sad that this era is over now, I still remember how excited I was for Season 2 back in 2021 ):

જ⁀➴ For as long as you could remember your parents struggled with debt and you never questioned it when they would disappear the whole day for work just to put food on the table. So, when you turned 18 and graduated secondary school, you didn't go to University, but started to work jobs here and there to help your parents out. Some of them were sketchy, some of them didn't pay enough for the work you were doing, some of them were exhausting.. but an opportunity came when a man made you a strange proposal: Play ddakji with him — If you win, he'll give you money, if you lose he'll.. slap you?

જ⁀➴ Ultimately, the guy in the suit couldn't bring himself to hurt him (maybe because you were so young) and just handed you a card with a number on it. Yeah, turns out participating in this weird stuff was the worst decision of your life. Waking up in this dormitory, suddenly wearing a green tracksuit instead of your usual clothes and finding out you're stuck here with 455 other people already scared you shitless.

જ⁀➴ When other people started to notice you and how young you looked, you immediately became the focal point of their attention. People left and right were asking you all kinds of questions, if you were okay or not, how old you were, what the hell you werr doing there. You quickly understood that everyone here had a debt problem... but everyone here was also at least in their mid twentys.

જ⁀➴ After the gruesome experience that the first game was, with people getting shot and dying because of a game (or so you thought at the moment) there was one particular group that took you in. Two marines, one pregnant lady, a guy that claims to be the winner of one of the previous games and 001 himself, who seriously freaked you out.

જ⁀➴ Jung-bae and Gi-hun became your biggest protectors — Next to Jun-hee, who was carrying her baby, you basically still were a baby. Whenever the pink guards gave out food, those two split it up between you and the other girl, saying that you guys need it more than they do. Particularly Jung-bae was shocked at hearing your reason for being here: "You shouldn't have done this, financial problems are the worries of the parents!" He scolded you, but never meant it.

જ⁀➴ Dae-ho, the other marine, kept telling you how much you reminded him of his sister. Even though he was the youngest child back home, he was fully blooming in this new big-brother-role that he adapted when it came to you. He spoke up for you whenever someone else decided to be an asshole to you, he laid awake in his bed most of the time to watch over you (ever since Gi-hun told him about ambushes at night he's been paranoid) and would actually sacrifice himself in one of the games if it meant you'd be safe.

જ⁀➴ Jun-hee and you were much closer in age than you were with any others. She became comfortable with you in an almost instant, mostly because you were also a woman. She woke you up to ask you if you'd come to the bathroom with her in the middle of the night, to which you were joined by an older lady, Geum-ja, and another woman, Hyun-ju.

"You are so young.. oh, my heart breaks for you, my child." Geum-ja told you once you were escorted to the bathroom, to which you were only able to nod. What else was there to say? You really just wanted to help your parents out. "I just.. you don't understand, we really need the money." Geum-ja looked at you sympathetically, but she was just really disappointed in the world for making someone like you worry about debt. "Hey," Hyun-ju spoke out, "If you need anything, yell for me, okay? I'll make sure nothing happens to you. You have.. so much ahead of you."

જ⁀➴ You mostly felt cringe and maybe also a bit uncomfortable when hearing people talk to you like you were a child. Then again, these people didn't have the humanity to deny participation to a pregnant woman and a teenager, so you were kind of glad to get special treatment from the other players. Even Young-il, the guy that creeped you out the most, had a pity expression on his face whenever you joyfully talked about things only someone at your age would talk about. Video games, the grades you finished school with, friend group drama... it was obvious you didn't know anything about the world yet and it was even sad for him to hear it so clearly.

જ⁀➴ After another failed round of voting, the two idiots from the 'O' side of the dormitory started approaching your bed. Thanos and Nam-gyu, you quickly learned, were the one's causing most of the trouble and now it seemed like they wanted to manipulate you as well. "Hey there, little Dove," the purple-haired junkie started, to which you told him to fuck off, basically. "Woah, hey? Watch your mouth, kid. I definitely didn't know those words when I was your age." For about five minutes these two tried to talk you into voting 'O' next time, because "It would only benefit you!" and "You wouldn't have to work for a bit with that money!" You called out for Hyun-ju who quickly made them go away.

જ⁀➴ In the end, you understood you were doomed as soon as more players started to die due to fights and lights out. There were plenty of others who were there to protect you, who promised you that you'd get out alive, but now you weren't so sure anymore.. the revolution Gi-hun wanted to go through with seemed like the only option for everyone to get out of here.

[viktateapot]

SLEEP

DAMIAN WAYNE X READER

Summary: You're staying up late doing homework in your bed when the window opens. Damian walks in, or technically Robin, because he's wearing his costume.

He snorts but doesn't say anything and plops down on your bed. He watches you silently, when you're about to speak, he raises his hand.

"Shh," Damian soothes. He takes off his mask and rubs his eyes. The two of you continue to sit in silence. This isn't the first time he's come to your room just to sit after patrolling, and then moved on to the Wayne Mansion.

He sits in silence, staring out the window. The night is quiet, almost peaceful. It's a stark contrast to the chaos he usually finds himself in. He slightly unzips his suit, revealing his neck and part of his collarbone. He leans back on your bed, getting comfortable.

"How was your patrol in Gotham today, my dear?"

"Mmm, it was long," he murmurs in a slightly strained voice. He tilts his head to the side, stretching his neck. "Too many idiots trying to prove something." He pauses, shrugging his shoulders. "And too many smart people trying to avoid me."

He notices your lack of reaction and looks at you. "What? No witty remarks or concern for your well-being?" He teases lightly, and the corners of his mouth lift in a slight smirk. He reaches out and pokes you in the side. "It hurts."

You shift the laptop on your lap to one knee and gently pat the other. "Lie down."

Without hesitation, he changes his position and lies back, resting his head on your knee. He closes his eyes, feeling the gentle touch of your hand as you stroke his chest. This simple gesture has a calming effect, and he finds himself relaxing more than he has all night. "Thank you," he whispers.

"Go to sleep, now... I need to get back to work."

Damien doesn't argue, instead allowing his exhaustion to finally take over. As he falls asleep, he rests his head on your lap, and his breathing evens out. His hand rests lightly on your knee, and his fingers twitch occasionally as he dreams.

As you continue your homework, Damian remains still and peaceful. After a while, he shifts slightly, his hand moving from your knee to rest gently on your thigh. His grip is light, almost subconscious. He lets out a soft sigh, clearly deep in sleep.

He shifts again, this time moving closer to your warmth. Even in sleep, he seeks comfort and closeness. One of his arms wraps loosely around your waist as he adjusts his position. His face turns slightly towards you, his dark hair falling across your forehead.

"What, my golden one?" you asked, gently brushing his hair back from his face.

"Mmm..." He makes a soft, sleepy noise, nuzzling instinctively into your [shirt], his lips on your [skin] tightening slightly, but he remains mostly asleep. His long lashes flutter against his cheeks, hiding his expressive eyes. "Don't... go..."

"You're not leaving, I working. Sleep, come on."

He nods slightly, his body relaxing further. His arm around your waist pulls you closer if possible, pressing his face against your stomach. He lets out a contented sigh, finally fully asleep. The room is filled with the quiet sound of his breathing and the occasional rustling of papers as you continue your work.

After some time, you notice that Damian has moved again during his sleep. He's now curled up more tightly against your side, his head resting on your lap again. His arm is draped over your stomach, holding you like a life raft in the middle of the night.

"You cuddle up to me after a tough mission in Gotham, and then in the morning you act like nothing happened, Dami..."

Damian doesn't respond, his sleep too deep to register your words. His face is buried in your lap, his arms wrapped around your waist. Even in sleep, he looks vulnerable and exhausted. It's a rare moment of softness from the typically stoic and cold Batman's son.

Hours later, as dawn begins to break, Damian stirs awake. For a moment, he simply lays there, his face still buried in your lap, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Then, without a word, he suddenly sits up, breaking the physical contact between you two.

"Damian, my golden one. Come back..."

He ignores your gentle call, standing up abruptly and running a hand through his disheveled hair. His expression is instantly guarded, the vulnerable sleepy Damian from earlier replaced with the cold, distant one you're used to dealing with. "What time is it?" he asks sharply.

"Five o'clock in the morning... God, Dami, you've only been asleep for three hours. Lie back down, you're fine, I'm still taking care of you!"

Damian glances at the clock, his jaw clenching visibly. He turns away from you, grabbing his discarded shirt and pulling it on roughly. "You're fine," he snaps irritably. "Don't bother babying me anymore."

You frowned and grabbed his hand, pulling him back into bed. "Sleep, you damn Wayne heir!"

Damian's eyes widen briefly in surprise as you pull him back into bed, his hand captured in yours. For a moment, he resists, his body tense. But then he abruptly collapses back down onto the mattress, allowing you to tug him once more into your arms once more.

"If you don't get at least three or four hours of sleep, you're going to call you Wade for the rest of your life."

Damian's face buries back into your shoulder at the threat, his arms wrapping around you hesitantly. He lets out a huff, his voice muffled against your skin. "You wouldn't dare," he grumbles, but there's a hint of amusement in his tone.

"No, you dare, Wayne!"

He chuckles softly, his body relaxing against you. The sound is rare and genuine, a side of Damian you rarely get to see. He settles back into your arms, his breathing evening out once more as he drifts back to sleep. This time, he holds onto you like you're his lifeline.

[geminiwritten]

worst way ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

notes: this fic took my soul... there's a piece of my soul in this??? so y'all better enjoy! no, but seriously, i can't wait to hear what you think! i giggled like an idiot when i came up with the idea, and throughout the entire writing process... so please, please let me know what you think! (also, i want to hear y'all chanting perv!bob from across the pacific ocean)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, fake marriage (is that a warning?), italics, seemingly unrequited love (but not really), tiny bit of angst, bob is a perv (i'm not sorry), reader is also kind of a perv (don't fight it), bob’s HUGE dick, and SMUT (male and female masturbation, heavy making out, female oral receiving, a bit of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, rough-ish sex, lots of praise) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 22467

Bob Floyd is an incredible husband. 

He’s sweet, attentive, and always knows exactly what to say to make you smile. He fills up your car before the gas gets too low—and checks your tires, too. He leaves sticky notes around the house with cute messages and gentle reminders. He goes with you to any appointment that makes you nervous—including the goddamn gyno. He knows your coffee order and wakes up early every Sunday to make you breakfast. 

He’s perfect. Literally. You couldn’t build a better husband in a lab, because Bob knows how to be an amazing husband better than anyone else on Earth. 

You almost feel bad for taking him away from his would-be soulmate. For marrying him out of convenience—for benefits over love. Not that you don’t love Bob Floyd—you do. Just… more like a best friend. A platonic soulmate. Someone you can rely on. 

You’ve known Bob since he was fresh out of flight school. You met him during his first assignment as a WSO to one of the strike fighter squadrons at Lemoore, back when you were still a civilian contractor in a lowly admin role with the digital systems department. 

For nearly two weeks, you went back and forth with him, troubleshooting and raising tickets with IT every time you found a new bug or glitch in the digital flight-planning or weapons-targeting software. He wasn’t shy, just quiet—and very sweet. He made sure you got recognised for all your work, and straight-up refused to deal with anyone else on the systems support team. 

Work discussions turned into coffee runs, which eventually became quiet moments amid the chaos of military life. You quickly became good friends, confiding in each other things you wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. You came to care for Bob more than you probably should have, and it wasn’t long before you started thinking of him as your best friend. 

Assignments came and went. He moved, you moved—but you always stayed in touch. Bob looked out for you in a way no one else ever did, even when he was halfway across the world. Eventually, you ended up back on the same base again—him crashing on your couch because he hated the barracks. 

You were burning out at the time. Your contractor status was fragile. Insurance was expensive. But you couldn’t even think about moving back home. One night, you were crying, spilling your guts to Bob, stressed out of your mind, when he said it—the two words that changed your life. 

Marry me. 

You said no at first, because of course you did. But after a long conversation and a few more tears… you agreed. Because it made sense. You trusted him—more than anything—and if he was okay with it, how could you not be? 

You promised that if he ever met someone he truly loved, you’d bow out and let him be happy. But every time you said it, he’d just shrug and say he is happy. That you make him happy. And that he’s just glad to be able to look after you. To know you’re safe and cared for, that you don’t have to worry about losing your job, or affording healthcare, or having somewhere to live. 

He just wants to be there for you—in every way he can. Including the benefits of a military marriage. 

So, now you’re here. On North Island. Because Bob’s special detachment just got commissioned as a permanent unit—which obviously means his wife would be moving to be with him. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bob asks, dark blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “I feel bad.” 

“Bobby, come on,” you sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “I’m a very capable woman. A few boxes aren’t going to break my back.” 

“I can call in sick?” he offers. 

You stare at him, deadpan. “Do not call in sick. Get your butt to work. I’m fine.” 

The new apartment is littered with moving boxes and half-assembled furniture. You’ve been here for two days already, but there’s still so much to unpack. Most of it’s yours. Bob barely brought anything from the barracks, but everything you hauled from Lemoore? Definitely not minimal. 

“It’s my shit anyway,” you say, walking him toward the door. “My responsibility to unpack.” 

He sighs as he steps into the corridor, turning back with a look you know too well. The one that says he’d set the sky on fire just to keep you warm. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” you say, exasperated. “Now go, or you’ll be late.” 

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted. 

“Bob Floyd, go to work.” You lean in, hand on his shoulder, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now.” 

His face flushes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m going.” 

You watch him head down the hall toward the lift, cheeks still pink as he presses the button and waits. 

“Don’t lift anything heavy,” he calls, just as the elevator doors slide open. 

“I won’t,” you call back. “Leaving all the heavy stuff for you, my love.” 

He smiles softly, nods once, and steps into the lift. 

You roll your eyes and step back inside, shutting the door behind you. Then you lean back against it, staring out at the mess of boxes and half-built furniture. 

You’ve got the husband-and-wife act down pat after just over a year of marriage—although, at this point, most of it doesn’t feel like an act at all. Just genuine affection. Because you do love Bob. More than anything. And you don’t know what you did to deserve a best friend this goddamn sweet—all you know is that you’re beyond grateful for him. 

You linger there a moment longer, facing off with the chaos of cardboard and scattered tools. Then you take a deep breath, push off the door, and start tearing open boxes. 

You spend the entire day in the apartment—unpacking, sorting, putting things away. You leave most of the furniture alone. Not because you can’t build it, but because you know Bob would be mad if you did. He considers it his job every time you move, and honestly? You don’t mind. The fewer blisters you get from over-twisting stripped screws, the better. 

By six p.m., your limbs are aching, your head is throbbing, and your stomach’s growling so loud you're almost positive the neighbours can hear it. You still haven’t gone grocery shopping, which means the only things you’ve had all day are a coffee Bob made for you and a protein bar he picked up yesterday when he filled your car up. 

You dig your phone out from under a pile of packing paper and shoot Bob a quick text to let him know you’re heading to the store. Then you pull on a hoodie—or Bob’s hoodie, technically—and head out the door. 

The grocery store is only ten minutes away and easy to find. You park, grab a trolley, and start weaving through the aisles. Normally, you’d have some sort of list—scribbled on a scrap of paper or texted from Bob—but today, you’re winging it. On an empty stomach. Great. 

You’re only in the second aisle, gazing at the Pop-Tarts and wondering which flavour Bob would be the least disappointed in when— 

“Excuse me.” 

You whip toward the voice, eyes wide. “Crap. Sorry, am I in your way?” 

It’s a man—mid-thirties, probably—with pretty green eyes and a wide smile. He’s gorgeous in that obnoxious way that makes girls swoon—and yeah, he definitely knows it. 

“No, no,” he says, raising a hand. “I just—I have to ask. Do you always look this good in a grocery store? Because now I have to pretend I didn’t almost walk into a cereal display.” 

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.” 

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?” 

You consider it for a moment, tilting your head and leaning a hip against the trolley. “Hm. No. Not really.” 

“Damn it,” he chuckles. “I’ve been trying to think of something to say for the last two aisles that wouldn’t make you immediately reject me.” 

You laugh softly, giving him a quick—but deliberate—once-over before meeting his gaze. 

“It’s not the line,” you say. “It’s the uniform. I don’t date military, sorry.” 

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—” 

“Dog tags,” you cut in, eyes dropping to the silver chain peeking out from his shirt. 

“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You’re good.” 

“It wasn’t that hard.” 

“Really?” He steps aside to let someone pass, bracing one hand on the shelf beside you. “What else gave me away?” 

Your eyes flick down to his feet. “Boots.” Then his wrist. “Watch.” Then up. “Haircut.” 

He raises his brows. “Impressive.” 

“And your posture,” you add, gaze drifting across his broad chest. “It’s too straight. Too perfect.” 

His eyes narrow playfully. “Did you just call me perfect?” 

You roll your eyes. “I called your posture perfect, pretty boy. Now if you’ll excuse—” 

“So you think I’m pretty?” he interrupts, still not moving. 

“You know you’re pretty. You don’t need my validation.” 

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Alright. What’s it going to take for you to get out of my way?” 

“A number,” he replies, too quick. 

You give him a flat look. “Okay. One. Now move.” 

He smirks. “Clever. But not the number I’m looking for.” 

“Then keep looking,” you say, gripping the trolley and stepping back. “Because I don’t date military. Trust me—it won’t end well.” 

Then you quickly steer around him before he can stop you, pushing the trolley down the aisle. 

“Won’t end well for you or me?” he calls after you. 

You glance over your shoulder. “Really want to find out?” 

“Can I at least get a name?” 

You stop at the end of the aisle, turning back with a small smirk. “See you around, pretty boy.” 

“Oh, you will!” he shouts, loud enough to earn a few puzzled glances from other customers. 

You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn your trolley into the next aisle. You catch glimpses of the man again as you shop, but you keep your focus on the task at hand—filling the cart with things you know Bob likes, and whatever you can throw together into a few easy meals. 

Still, you’re a little disappointed. Because that guy was hot, and he seemed like he could be a bit of fun. But you and Bob have one very strict rule: no military. 

You’re allowed to mess around with other people—because you’re both human, and you still have needs—as long as it’s casual and doesn’t put the arrangement in jeopardy. 

Hence, no military. 

It’s just too risky. Not that you ever really see the same person twice—because even that feels like a gamble—but especially not someone you might bump into at work. You’re still a civilian contractor, and if you hook up with someone and they recognise you on base? God, the whole thing could blow up. 

So you keep your hookups brief, occasional, and with people who have zero ties to the military. It’s just easier that way. Safer. 

Just as you reach the checkouts, your phone buzzes with a text from Bob: 

‘I’m home. Let me know when you are so I can come help.’ 

You smile and reply with a string of nonsense emojis. Then you pay, haul the groceries to the car, and head home. 

Bob is already in the garage when you pull in—because of course he is. He’s leaning against the wall, looking unfairly adorable in a pair of sweats and an old U.S. Navy hoodie, hair still damp from a shower. 

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you say with a grin. 

He steps up to the car, smiling softly. “How was your day?” 

“Productive,” you reply, popping the boot open. “Couldn’t you tell?” 

He chuckles. “Oh, you mean ground zero upstairs?” 

You nod. “Yep. That’s my organised chaos. Just you wait—by tomorrow afternoon, everything’s going to be perfectly put away.” 

He shakes his head, amused, and leans into the boot, loading as many bags as he can into each hand. When he straightens up, there are only two bags left—and it’s infuriating how easily he handles the weight of four bags per hand, like it’s nothing. 

“Show off,” you mutter, grabbing the last two. 

You head upstairs in comfortable quiet, neither of you feeling the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. That’s something you’ve always loved about Bob—being around him feels effortless. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t ask for more than you can give. 

You could sit beside him for hours and not say a word, and it would still feel like love—not real love, obviously, just the safe, platonic kind. The kind that doesn't get complicated. 

You’ve done things in front of him that would make other men blush. Cried with your mouth full. Passed out snoring on his shoulder during a movie. Gotten so drunk once that he had to wash your hair while you sat slumped in the tub, head in your hands. You’d been wearing your underwear, obviously, but Bob? He hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t dared. Just held the shower head and worked the shampoo into your hair like he was defusing a bomb. Gentle. Respectful. Sweet as ever. 

That’s the thing about Bob—he’s never once crossed a line. Never even hinted at it. You’ve been fake-married for over a year, shared hotels and couches and drunk stories and everything in between, and he’s never tried anything. Never looked at you like that. You don’t think he’s even thought about it. 

Which is honestly kind of a miracle. 

Any other man might’ve used this arrangement as an excuse to test the waters. A ‘harmless’ kiss. A comment. A suggestion. But not Bob. Bob’s too good for that. Too decent. He’s respectful to a fault. The kind of guy who would take a bullet for you but apologise if he got blood on your shirt. 

It’s why you love him so much. Not in a romantic way—just... as a person. As a partner. A friend. You trust him more than anyone. You’d trust him with your life, your secrets, your worst moments. And you know, without a doubt, that he would never do anything to jeopardise what you have. 

Honestly, if more men were like Bob Floyd, the world would be a better place. 

“I met a guy at the store,” you say, pausing halfway to putting the milk away. 

“Oh?” Bob replies, not looking up as he carefully arranges the eggs into the little plastic holder. 

“Yeah, but he was military.” 

“Damn,” he mutters, glancing up briefly. “North Island’s small. You’ll probably have to look further north for anyone not Navy.” 

You nod, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. “I figured. But he was hot.” 

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?” 

“Yeah. Bit cocky, but that can be fun sometimes,” you say, turning to unpack another bag. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bugging ‘cause it’s been a while.” 

He hums in agreement, quietly focused as he lines the little spice jars up—in alphabetical order, of course—on the rack like it’s a puzzle that might save his life. 

You sigh, dramatic and long, as you drop a few bundles of fruit onto the bench. “Would it really be that bad?” 

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“A military hookup.” 

His eyes go wide. “Yes. That would be bad. Very, very bad. North Island is small. And my squad? We’re kind of... well-known.” 

“I’m not though,” you counter with a shrug. “I haven’t started my new role yet, but my desk is probably buried in the bowels of some overcrowded office. Who says I’d ever even run into you? Or anyone else?” 

Bob shakes his head, firm. “Still too risky.” 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Fine. But if my vibrator blows up from overuse, I’m blaming you for cockblocking me.” 

He chuckles again, cheeks flushing pink as he turns away to continue putting away the dry ingredients. He doesn’t reply—but he doesn’t have to. You both know the conversation is over. 

And you know he’s right. It is too risky. 

Your marriage might be a secret for now—from his squad and from his CO—but once you start your new role, you’ll have to declare it. And then you’ll have to be even more careful. Not just about what you say. 

But who you do, too. 

- Bob - 

After dinner and an hour on the lounge—scrolling through your phones, only half-watching the Nat Geo doc on sperm whales that Bob put on—you sit up and yawn. 

“Okay,” you say, pushing off the couch. “I’m going to bed.” 

Bob nods, looking up at you with a soft smile. “No worries. Goodnight.” 

“See you tomorrow, handsome,” you call over your shoulder as you walk toward the main bedroom. 

Bob doesn’t mind giving you the bigger bedroom. He knows you like having an ensuite, plus you’ve always had more stuff than him. So every time you’ve moved, he’s happily taken whatever spare or second bedroom is left. 

He waits on the couch a little while longer, until he’s sure he can no longer hear you moving around. Then he quietly turns off the TV and pads into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, removes his glasses, and steps into the bedroom across the hall from yours, where his mattress is still lying on the floor—he hasn’t gotten around to building the bedframe yet. 

He’s about to switch off the light when he hears it. That soft, familiar hum—barely audible, but impossible to mistake. 

Bob Floyd knows that sound. 

The sound of your vibrator, buzzing through the walls like a siren song. 

He groans low in his throat, flicks off the light, then drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He falls forward, burying his face in the pillows, and lets out a long, quiet sigh. 

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just waits—face pressed into the cotton, heart pounding, cock already swelling thick and hot against the mattress. 

Because he knows what’s coming. He always does. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, Bob knows exactly what happens next. And he lies there—unmoving, desperate, strung tight—just listening. 

It starts small. The shift of sheets. A soft sigh. The subtle creak of your bedframe as you get comfortable. 

Then the hum kicks in. Louder now. Higher. The toy you keep tucked in the top drawer of your nightstand—the one he’s heard more times than he’ll ever admit. 

He knows that sound like the back of his hand. Not from seeing it—God, he wishes—but from too many nights lying in the dark, counting every soft rise in pitch, every subtle shift in tempo like it’s a fucking metronome set to ruin him. 

Then your breathing shifts—sharp, shallow, soft. It’s quiet enough to pass for nothing at all. Quiet enough that you probably think no one can hear. 

But Bob hears everything. 

He bites into the pillow, hips slowly rolling down, the friction of the mattress nowhere near enough but still better than nothing. He grinds again… and again, slow and heavy, like he can’t stop himself—and really, he can’t. 

Because he can hear you. All of you. The way you sigh, that breathy little whimper as you press the toy closer. He imagines your thighs parting, your back arching, your free hand curling into the sheets. 

He groans into his pillow, hips pressing forward again—slow and deliberate—pressure dragging against his length while he pictures you wrapped around it. It’s not relief, not even close—but it’s something. It’s the only thing he has. 

And he knows he shouldn’t. God, he knows. This is fucked up. You’re ten feet away, touching yourself, slowly coming apart with no idea he’s lying here, rutting helplessly against his mattress like a goddamn teenager. 

But he can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it when it comes to you. 

Not when he can hear you biting back a moan, shifting your hips under the covers. And then—fuck—that tiny little gasp. The one that always gives you away. That last, wrecked sound you make when you come. 

He’s memorised it. Just like everything else about you. 

And the second it hits his ears, he knows it’s over—and he falls apart too. 

His body locks up, muscles tight, grinding hard into the mattress as his orgasm rips through him—hot, heavy, and overwhelming. He chokes on your name, burying it deep into the pillow like a secret he’ll never tell as he spills into his boxers. 

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s desperate. Messy. Shameful. 

And when it’s over, he just lies there—panting, trembling, sticky and spent. 

Shame curls in his stomach, guilt gnawing at the edges of his hazy thoughts. Thoughts of you, in your room, flushed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze. 

He hates himself almost instantly. 

But this is who he is. This is what he does. Not just since living together or being fake-married—no, Bob has been getting off with your name on his lips for years. 

Because the truth is—Bob Floyd is completely, helplessly, stupidly in love with you. 

God, he wishes he wasn’t. Or better yet, he wishes he’d had the guts to ask you out all those years ago when he first met you at Lemoore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too chickenshit. And now? Now he’s trapped in a fantasy you think is fake—wearing the ring, playing the role, losing his fucking mind. 

And he’s the idiot who signed up for it. Who offered it. 

All he’s ever wanted was to make sure you’re happy. Safe. Cared for. And if he couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t admit that he’s in love with you—then being your fake husband felt like the next best thing. 

Even though it’s killing him. Slowly. And ruining all his boxers. 

Because living with you, pretending to be married to you, is the hardest thing Bob has ever done—literally and figuratively. 

He likes to think he’s good at hiding it. Hiding how he really feels. 

But it’s getting more and more difficult every day, and— 

Fuck. He’s stupid. He left his goddamn bedroom door wide open. 

You could’ve walked out at any moment—you still could. To grab a drink. Check the front door. Or even adjust the thermostat. And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time he’s forgotten to shut it. 

Just like it probably won’t be the last. Because no matter how many times he promises himself he’ll stop getting off to the sounds of you touching yourself, he always lets those breathless little noises unravel him. 

Every damn time. 

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity—and sticky underwear—Bob rolls off his mattress, grabs a clean pair of boxers, and heads into the bathroom. He cleans himself up in the dark, avoiding the lights—and his own reflection—before slipping back into his room and falling into bed. 

Sleep finds him quickly, despite the guilt lingering like static under his skin, and before he knows it, the sharp ring of his alarm is dragging him upright again. He groans quietly and moves through the motions the same way he does every morning. 

First, he makes a fresh pot of coffee. Then he showers, does his hair, changes into his flight suit, and heads back to the kitchen. 

Your door is still shut by the time he’s lacing up his boots. He can’t hear the shower running or the muffled sound of videos playing on your phone, so he figures you’re letting yourself sleep in. 

He fills his travel cup with fresh coffee before finding your favourite mug in the sink, giving it a quick rinse, and setting it beside the pot. Then he digs through his work bag for that little pad of yellow Post-it notes and scribbles out a message: 

Good luck today. Remember, the boxes are more afraid of you than you are of them. ♡ 

He sticks it to the side of your mug, checks his pockets for keys and ID, then slips out the door—making sure to shut it quietly—smiling to himself like a loser at the thought of the text you’ll send him when you find the note. 

He knows it’s ridiculous. He knows he shouldn’t indulge himself. But acting like a real husband is what keeps Bob from going completely insane. Kind of. 

Leaving you notes, bringing you flowers, doing all the little domestic things a good spouse might do for their significant other—that’s what makes Bob happy. And he knows it makes you happy too. So he’s not going to stop. Not until you tell him to. Not until you stop saving all his little Post-it notes in that journal you think he doesn’t know about. The one you keep in the top drawer of your dresser, hidden beneath your lingerie. 

And how does he know that? 

Well—spouses do each other’s laundry. It’s completely innocent. He has absolutely no hidden agenda when it comes to offering to do your laundry. It’s not like he’s ever gotten off into a pair of your panties before. 

That would be insane. Perverted, even. 

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way. 

“Hello?” Natasha waves a hand in front of Bob’s face. “Are you even listening?” 

He blinks, vision slowly refocusing on the brunette standing in front of him. He’s not sure when she walked into the briefing room—or when she even started talking. All he knows is that, before he started daydreaming about your lingerie drawer, he was the only one in the room. 

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?” 

She folds her arms and glances around, as if checking to see if anyone else can hear what she’s about to say. “How’d the move go?” 

Bob straightens a little, subtly shifting in his seat to check the room. Javy and Reuben have arrived and are seated at the back, talking about the flight schedule for the day. 

He turns back to Natasha and nods. “Good. She’s still unpacking. Won’t start on base until next week.” 

“You should tell Mav,” she says, sinking into the seat beside him. “You’re going to have to declare the relationship. It’ll be better coming from you. At least then you can ask him not to tell the others.” 

Natasha knows about you—of course—not because Bob told her, but because she saw his ring hanging beside his dog tags during PT one time. She also spotted the polaroid he keeps of you tucked behind the threat matrix card on his kneeboard, and she put two and two together. 

He hadn’t hesitated to tell her it wasn’t a traditional marriage—because he knew Natasha would understand. What he didn’t expect was for her to immediately clock that he’s in love with you. Or the way she sighed and shook her head when he told her that you didn’t feel the same and asked her to keep her mouth shut. 

He knows she wants to meet you, too. He’d even say she’s dying to. But that can’t happen yet. Not until you’re properly settled on North Island and his CO knows about the relationship. Then Bob will think about telling the rest of the squad. 

Or maybe he’ll just invite Natasha over for dinner and forget the rest of them entirely. Because you’re his secret—his favourite secret—and something about letting that out makes him feel nauseous. 

“Good morning, aviators!” Maverick calls as he walks into the room. “Nice to see that most of you care about being here early.” 

He drops his folders on the desk before powering up the digital display and pulling out his tablet. 

Natasha nudges Bob in the side and tips her head toward Mav. Bob hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mickey has joined Reuben and Javy at the back, but neither Bradley nor Jake are here yet. They’re not late—but they’re cutting it close. Which means Mav won’t start right away. 

Which means Bob has the perfect opportunity to speak to his CO about you. 

Natasha elbows him again, harder this time, her eyes wide with warning. 

“Okay,” Bob mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going.” 

He walks slowly up to where Maverick is scowling at his tablet, tapping the screen harder than necessary. 

Bob clears his throat. “Mav. Can I talk to you for a sec?” 

Maverick glances up, brow furrowing. “Of course. Everything okay?” 

“Yeah—uh, yes sir,” Bob replies, dropping his voice low. “I just wanted to mention something before it comes up.” 

“Okay…?” Maverick says slowly. “Is this private? Do we need to leave the room, or—” 

“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I mean, it is private, but before the others get here—um.” He clears his throat again. “My wife just moved here. She’s a civilian contractor, and she’s going to be working on base.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up, but his voice stays low. “Wife?” 

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“Wow. Okay.” 

“I’d just appreciate if you could keep it quiet,” Bob adds. “We’re not really—” 

“Don’t worry.” Maverick drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I get it. The squad doesn’t need to know. This is your life, your secret. Your wife.” 

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife. 

“Just file the paperwork with HR, and let me know if there are any issues,” Maverick says, letting his hand drop. “If anyone questions it or gives you a hard time, send them to me. I’m not against a—um… convenient arrangement. So I’ll vouch for you, alright?” 

Bob’s cheeks flush. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” 

Maverick nods, and Bob takes the dismissal. He turns back toward the room and is relieved to find the others still deep in conversation at the back. Only Natasha is watching him, her eyes sparkling and lips curled into a knowing smirk. 

“What’d he say?” she asks as he drops into his seat. 

Bob shrugs. “Not much. He understood the situation.” 

“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow. “So he’s all over the fake-wife-who-you’re-secretly-obsessed-with thing?” 

Bob shoots her a sidelong glare. “Shut up.” 

She snorts quietly to herself but doesn’t say another word—just turns her gaze toward the digital display where Maverick is bringing up their latest sim stats. 

Eventually, Jake strides into the room, with Bradley not far behind. They drop into their usual seats, and Maverick launches into the day’s briefing—something about sim times, and how they need to be tighter. Bob tries to pay attention, but his focus is shot. He stares at the screen, nodding at the right moments, jotting down a few notes here and there, but his mind is miles away. 

With you. Wondering what you’re doing. Whether the unpacking is going okay. If you’ve seen his note yet. If you’ve texted him. 

He’s usually better than this—better at compartmentalising, staying locked in—but something about today feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally here. In North Island. In the apartment. In his everyday life, not just in his daydreams and text messages. 

He keeps thinking about last night. The way your shirt had ridden up while you reached to shove a box into the top cupboard above the fridge. The warm stretch of bare skin, the way your hips swayed without you even realising. Or the soft little moan you let out when you bit into your chocolate bar after dinner—like it physically hurt to taste something that good. Or the way your lips wrapped around it, slow and indulgent. He shouldn't be thinking about that. But he is. 

Mostly, though, he can’t stop hearing you. 

That breathy, broken little sound you made in the dark. The one that slipped through the walls when you thought no one could hear. When you were touching yourself. Coming apart. And he was ten feet away, grinding against his mattress, pretending it was you. 

God. What is wrong with him? 

He drags a hand across his jaw and tries to focus, but it’s useless. It’s like something inside of him cracked open during the special detachment—like the distance rewired him. Like missing you for so long left something raw and exposed, and now that you’re here, in his orbit again, he can’t think about anything else. 

You’re everywhere. In his apartment. In his bed—in a way. In his skin. 

And no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, you're still there. Taking up every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart. More than ever. And God, he’s not sure how to deal with it anymore. 

“Not hungry, Floyd?” Javy asks, pausing at the door with a small frown. 

Bob blinks, quickly glancing around the now-empty briefing room—except for Javy. “Is it lunch?” 

Javy chuckles. “Yeah, man. Where have you been?” 

Bob takes a deep breath and pushes out of his chair, gathering his things before following his very sceptical squadmate out into the corridor. 

By the time he reaches the mess hall, everyone has already grabbed lunch and settled around the usual table. Bradley and Reuben are deep in an argument about something Maverick apparently critiqued during their sim flight last week—not that Bob has any idea what it actually was—and Natasha is explaining to Mickey, for some reason, that possums do not, in fact, lay eggs. Why? No clue. 

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Jake says, dropping his tray with a dramatic thud. “I have an announcement.” 

The squad falls quiet—all eyes on him, brows raised, mouths shut. 

“Thank you.” Jake grins. “I just wanted to let you all know that I—Jake Seresin—met the love of my life last night.” 

Natasha frowns. “Are you talking about Penny’s new bartender? Because she literally told you to choke.” 

“Nope,” Jake replies, unfazed. “Different woman. Grocery store. Breakfast food aisle. She was buying Pop-Tarts but looking at me like I was the tart.” 

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.” 

“So what happened?” Bradley asks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did you talk to her?” 

“Yep,” Jake nods. “It was magical. She was so hot, and funny too. The chemistry was insane.” 

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks. 

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—” 

Bob frowns, leaning in. “What was her name?” 

“Didn’t get that either.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Hold on. So she’s the love of your life, but you don’t even know her name?” 

“We had a connection beyond this plane of existence,” Jake insists, eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you. It was spiritual.” 

“Is there anything you did find out about her?” Javy asks, clearly trying not to laugh. 

Jake shrugs. “Well, she clocked me for military pretty quick, and said she doesn’t date military.” 

Bob’s stomach drops. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end and his flight suit feel uncomfortably hot. 

“She wasn’t wearing a ring, was she?” Reuben asks, grinning. 

“Nope,” Jake says. “I checked. Not making that mistake a third time.” 

Bob exhales quietly, relief washing over him. He remembers—very clearly—seeing your wedding ring on your finger last night. He always notices when you're wearing it. He fucking loves seeing it on you. 

“Alright, Romeo,” Natasha says. “How exactly do you plan to find this mystery woman again if you don’t know anything about her?” 

“I trust the universe,” Jake says, leaning back with smug confidence. “I’ll see her again. Soon. It’s destiny.” 

Javy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, destiny. You might want to stop talking before someone calls medical and gets you checked for a head injury.” 

Jake just rolls his eyes and picks up his burger, eyeing the beef patty like it might be radioactive before finally taking a bite. 

There are a few minutes of quiet while everyone starts eating their lunch. Bradley grumbles about how he should’ve picked the burger instead of the sloppy joe, and Javy mutters something to Natasha about trading his vanilla pudding for her chocolate one. 

Then Reuben pipes up, loud and clear across the table. “So, Floyd… saw you whispering something real secretive to Mav this morning. What was that about?” 

Bob stiffens, nearly choking on his sip of water. “What? Oh, nothing. Just… work stuff.” 

“Oh yeah?” Reuben grins. “Looked like top-secret classified info. You trying to get reassigned?” 

“Probably just checking if he could skip night duty next week,” Natasha says dryly, without even looking up from her pudding. “Someone’s got laundry to fold and throw pillows to rearrange.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide. “I’m not—there’s no—” he splutters, flushing red as he waves a hand in mild panic. “It was literally just… paperwork.” 

Javy raises a brow. “Paperwork that makes you blush like that?” 

Bradley frowns, leaning forward to look at Natasha. “What are you talking about throw pillows?” 

She glances up, eyes wide and brows raised—the picture of innocence. “Hm? Oh, nothing.” 

Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Can we just drop it?” 

“Ooh,” Mickey pipes up. “Maybe Bob has a secret love child we don’t know about.” 

Reuben leans in, eyes gleaming. “Blink twice if it was about alimony.” 

Bob lifts his head with a flat stare. “Do I look like I have time for children?” 

“Secret love child…” Jake says slowly—thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d believe it.” 

“If Bob had a kid, don’t you think we’d know?” Bradley says, flicking a green bean across the table at Reuben. 

“Exactly,” Natasha grins. “If Bob had any secrets, we’d know. Right, Bob?” 

If looks could kill—or at least maim—Natasha would already be halfway to medical by now. 

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight. 

“And if anyone had a secret love child,” she adds, gaze drifting across the table, “it’d be Hangman.” 

Jake scoffs. “Why me?” 

Mickey snorts. “Because you have the most sex, hands down.” 

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters. 

“Yeah,” Bradley smirks. “Seresin strikes out more than the rest of us combined.” 

“Well, yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “But only because he flirts with way more women than the rest of us.” 

“Again,” Natasha chimes in, “speak for yourself, Fanboy.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs interlaced with laughter as Mickey rolls his eyes, cheeks going just the softest shade of pink—but Reuben notices. The teasing quickly shifts to Mickey, leaving Bob staring down at his lunch with his pulse pounding in his ears. 

The next half hour passes in a blur while Bob does his absolute best not to think about you—which means, of course, you’re all he can think about. And then just as everyone starts rising from their seats, his phone buzzes with a burst of rapid-fire texts stamped with your contact name. 

‘The boxes are winning. If I don’t make it, tell my husband he was too good for this world.’ 

‘Oh, and he’s not allowed to move on for AT LEAST two weeks.’ 

‘P.S. your wife says thanks for the coffee. Might reward you later with some expertly folded laundry.’ 

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat while all the blood in his body reroutes south. He types out a quick reply: ‘What laundry?’ 

“You coming, Floyd?” Natasha asks, standing on the opposite side of the table with a frown. 

Bob looks up, dazed. “I—uh, yeah. I’m coming—I mean, you go. I’ll catch up.” 

“Okay...” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to follow the others toward the tray return. 

His phone pings again, lighting up with another text from you: ‘Found a pile on the floor in the bathroom and assumed it was dirty? Promise there was no creepy sniffing, and I definitely didn’t notice anything about your boxers!’ 

Bob lets out a strangled noise, drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, and buries his face in his hands. 

Right now, he wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Or if a rogue fighter jet spiralled off course and obliterated the mess hall. Or if a black hole cracked open beneath his chair and sucked all of North Island into oblivion. 

Except for you, of course. He’d want you to be safe. 

But aside from that, he’d gladly disappear right now. Some inexplicable catastrophe would do just fine—anything to keep him from going home and facing the woman who just washed his crusty boxers. Boxers that were only crusty because of her, anyway. 

And— 

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard? 

It doesn’t make any sense. One dumb joke about laundry and boxers and suddenly his body is acting like you sent nudes. He’s not even thinking about you like that—not really—and yet here he is, halfway to a full-blown erection in the middle of the mess hall with zero warning and absolutely no control. What the hell is wrong with him? 

He shifts in his seat, eyes wide and pulse thundering in his ears as his flight suit starts pulling taut in places it absolutely should not. 

If he doesn’t get moving, he’ll be late—and Maverick will ream him for it. But he can’t exactly stand up with a raging hard-on in the middle of the goddamn mess hall. 

With another strangled groan, Bob white-knuckles his lunch tray and holds it right in front of him as he shoves back his chair and stands. He beelines for the tray return, drops his tray without making eye contact with a single soul, and turns sharply toward the exit. 

Once he’s out the door, he yanks down the zipper of his flight suit and adjusts himself as quickly and discreetly as humanly possible. 

Mercifully, there’s no one within ten feet of him—but just ahead, where the squad is walking back toward the squadron building, Bob spots Reuben glancing over his shoulder. Brows drawn. Eyes wide. Curiosity written all over his face. 

And now Bob wants to die. 

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having. 

By the time Maverick dismisses the squad at the end of the day, Bob can’t get out fast enough. He barely mumbles a goodbye before practically running out the door and across base. 

He flicks you a quick text to say he’s on his way, then jumps in his car. But instead of heading straight home, he makes a stop at the little florist he passes every morning and afternoon—the one he’s been wanting to visit for months. He’s been thinking about it since you agreed to move here, picking up flowers on his way home from work like some hopeless suburban husband. It’s dumb. Ridiculous, even. But he can’t help himself. He started doing it the first week you moved in after the ‘wedding’ and now it’s a ritual. A compulsion. 

He grabs a bunch of blood-red roses—because he’s romantic like that—and drives the rest of the way home, parking beside your car in the underground garage. His palms are sweating by the time he’s in the lift, and his heart won’t slow down. He feels twitchy. Wired. Like his whole body has been buzzing with anticipation since he last saw you—which, tragically, was only twenty-four hours ago. 

“I’m home,” he calls as he pushes open the door, trying not to sound breathless. 

The apartment already looks better than it did this morning. Fewer boxes now. The bookshelf is upright and full. The dining table is properly assembled—chairs and all. There’s a knife block, a roll of paper towel, and a candle on the kitchen bench. And right in the middle of the island—an empty glass vase. Almost like you knew. 

“Bobby,” you call, ducking your head out of your bedroom door at the end of the short hallway. “Just showered. I’ll be out in a sec.” 

His breath catches at the sight of you clutching a towel to your chest, damp skin glowing, droplets racing down your collarbones and disappearing between the curves of your breasts. Your hair’s wet. Your legs are bare. And for one unbearable, glorious moment, Bob forgets what language is. 

His cock twitches. 

“No worries,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little too high. 

You’re already gone before he even finishes speaking, but you don’t fully close the door—and his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. Because fuck, you’re naked in there. 

He drops his bag like it’s on fire, kicks off his boots, and sets the flowers on the counter without even looking. Then he starts down the hall toward his room, right across from yours. His head is bowed like he’s deep in thought, but his eyes flick to that sliver of open door. 

And God—he sees you. 

Just a glimpse. Just enough. A stretch of skin. The slope of your back. And then you turn slightly toward the bed and—fuck. Your tits. Just there. Bare. Bouncing softly with your movement. 

He lets out a strangled sound and walks face-first into his closed bedroom door with a loud thunk. 

“Shit,” he hisses, clutching his forehead and praying to every saint he can think of. 

Your door swings open and you step out, now holding a sweatshirt to your chest. “You okay?” 

Bob can’t even look at you, his cheeks burning. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Wasn’t, uh… wasn’t looking. Just tired. Mav really pushed us hard. Long day.” 

“Mm,” you hum, clearly amused. “Well, Lieutenant, maybe wait until you’re in bed before you close your eyes?” 

He half-laughs, half-chokes, and gives you a quick salute. “Noted. Bed first.” 

Then he shoves his door open, stumbles inside, and shuts it behind him in one fast motion. He leans back against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling. 

His cock is hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard. Pressed tight against his flight suit with nowhere to go. 

God, did you notice? 

He’s pretty sure you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d be freaked out. Right? 

With a deep breath, he drags the zipper of his suit down and wriggles out of it. He kicks it off his feet and leaves it crumpled on the floor before turning to face the door. Then he braces one hand against the wood while the other slips beneath the waistband of his briefs. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting his hard length spring free, skin slick with the heat of anticipation. 

His breath catches, shaky and uneven, as he wraps his fingers around himself. He drags slow, torturous strokes up and down, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the vivid, forbidden image of you—wet, vulnerable, just beyond that goddamn door. 

Each stroke draws a ragged gasp, the heat building low in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. His hips start to lift, chasing the mounting pressure, fingers tightening instinctively. 

He imagines your voice—soft, breathy—whispering something filthy in his ear, something that would have him leaking on the spot if he dared to imagine it too loud. 

His skin prickles, pulse pounding in his ears. The world shrinks until there’s nothing but his hand, the hard length in it, and this door separating you from him. 

He fights to steady his frantic breath as white-hot pressure builds at the base of his cock. And just as that delicious snap of heat tears through his body— 

“Hey, did you want the blue Gatorade or can I take it?” you call out. 

His whole body locks up, release spilling in hot, sticky ropes against the door. 

Fuck. 

“A-All good,” he croaks. “You have it.” 

He slumps forward, forearm pressing against the wood as his head drops with a soft thud. His dick twitches in his hand, still half-hard, still leaking. 

God, this has to stop. He can’t just jerk off every time he sees so much as your shoulder. 

Though, what he saw before was much more than that. But he was creeping—looking for it, trying to catch a glimpse. No, this all has to stop. Not just the wanking, but the perving too. Jesus Christ, it has to stop before you find out. Or worse—catch him. 

The thought makes his spine tingle—but... not in an entirely unpleasant way. 

Great. Now he’s turned on by the idea of you catching him in the act. 

Maybe he needs therapy. Or maybe he should be the one getting checked for a head injury—not Jake and his grocery store destiny. 

After stripping off his underwear—using them to wipe down the door, because he’s disgusting—and pulling on a pair of sweats, Bob finally steps out of his room. His cheeks are still hot, his pulse still hammering, but at this point, that’s just baseline when it comes to being around you. 

“You don’t have to keep getting me flowers,” you say, smiling softly as you arrange the bouquet in the vase like you’ve done it a hundred times. 

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.” 

And trying to make up for jerking off to you like a goddamn lunatic. 

“Well,” you slide the vase into the middle of the kitchen island, “they’re gorgeous. Thank you.” 

He gives you a small nod, lips twitching like he might smile—but then he notices what you’re wearing, and it dies immediately. 

“Going out?” he asks, keeping his tone light. 

“Yep,” you reply brightly. “I’ve got a date.” 

His stomach drops. 

“Okay, not a date,” you amend quickly. “Just a hookup. Strictly sex. But I didn’t feel like I could show up in my sweats, you know?” 

Bob thinks you look stupid hot in your sweats. But right now you’re in a pair of jeans that cling to your ass and a shirt he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, and his brain is starting to melt again. 

“Hence, the nice clothes,” you add, gesturing to yourself. “I shouldn’t be late. Probably won’t even eat. So… save me some dinner?” 

Bob frowns. “What dinner?” 

You roll your eyes, sliding one arm into your jacket. “Whatever you decide to make. Because you’re an amazing cook. And I know you’re going to make something, because you cook every weeknight except Fridays.” 

“What if I don’t feel like cooking tonight?” he mutters, feeling petulant and jealous and very much trying not to show it. 

You smirk. “Okay, grumpy. Then order me some extra takeout.” 

He doesn’t answer—just nods once and turns to the fridge, opening the door like whatever’s inside is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. 

“I’ve got my location on,” you say, stopping at the front door to slip your shoes on. “Just in case the guy’s a psychopath.” 

Bob glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?” 

“Nah,” you shrug. “He’s an accountant. Boring as hell. No military ties. Didn’t even know North Island was a Navy base—thought it was Air Force.” 

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.” 

“Nope,” you say with a laugh. “He’s up in La Jolla. I guess when you’re wealthy enough, you don’t have to worry about anything outside your little bubble.” 

Bob shuts the fridge and turns to face you, frown deepening. “La Jolla’s nearly an hour away.” 

“I know,” you say. “But no military, remember? Means I have to travel. And Bob, I know you don’t want to hear this—but I need sex. I’m dying. I’m falling apart. My vibrator can only do so much, but I need a real di—” 

“Okay,” he cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “That’s… enough. Just go. Be safe.” 

He steps up against the kitchen island, grateful that the counter is hiding his growing hard-on. Again. 

You flash him a grin and pull the door open. “If I’m not back by eleven, call the cops and avenge me dramatically.” Then you step out into the corridor, waving. “Love you! Bye!” 

“Love you too,” Bob mutters. 

The second the door clicks shut, he collapses forward, forehead hitting the cool marble benchtop with a groan loud enough that you might’ve heard it on your way to the elevator. 

Bob spends the evening doing everything he can not to be a creep. He cooks dinner, sets aside a container for you, and watches a documentary called Inside The Vatican—hoping some religious guilt might fix him. 

It doesn’t. 

After washing the dishes—and spending a concerning amount of time scrubbing your mug—Bob paces the apartment, trying desperately to think of anything besides jerking off. Then his eyes land on his mattress still lying on the floor, and he decides maybe building his bed will take up enough time. 

Again, it doesn’t. 

Once he hauls the mattress into the frame, he spends the next twenty minutes carefully rearranging the furniture in his room. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand and stalks your location like a man possessed—willing it to move, craving nothing more than to see you heading home. But after ten minutes of nothing, he gives up. 

So he decides to wash his bedsheets. He strips the mattress, hauls the bedding to the small laundry room beside his bathroom, and shoves it all into the washing machine. Once the cycle starts, he checks the dryer—and immediately regrets it. 

Your bedding is crumpled up inside, still a little warm and smelling so strongly of you it makes his head spin. 

He tries—he really does—to pull it out and just dump it at the foot of your unmade bed. But no. He can’t leave it like that. He has to make it. It’s what you would do for him. Because you’re not just housemates—you’re friends, you’re a good fake husband and wife. Making your bed is just a kind, domestic gesture. 

That’s all. 

With a deep breath, he starts unravelling your bedding. He finds the fitted sheet and drapes it over the mattress, stepping carefully around the bed to tuck it in and smooth it out. His hands move mechanically, trying to focus on the task, willing himself to keep it together. 

Even though the scent of you in here is like a drug—sharp and heady, flooding his senses and making his sweatpants feel tighter by the second. But it’s fine. He’s got this. He’s in complete control. 

Once the fitted sheet is on, he picks up your duvet and throws it over the mattress before smoothing it down. Then he finds the two pillowcases, picks your pillows up off the floor, and starts shoving them in. 

He’s almost done—and almost proud of himself—as he drops one of the pillows at the top of the bed, closest to the side he’s on. Then he grabs the other one, leans forward to place it on the far side, and— 

His cock brushes the pillow. 

Just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat pool at the base of his spine, to turn half-hard into fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat. 

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He tries to pull back—he means to—but his body betrays him. His hips roll forward, dragging his length against your pillow in the most delicious, dangerous way. 

He groans. Loudly. And grinds down again—harder, deeper. His cock drags thick and aching against the pillow, trapped beneath the soft cotton and the cling of his sweatpants. The smell of you is everywhere—on the fabric, in his lungs, in his mouth—and it’s driving him fucking insane. 

He leans forward, spreads his legs, and humps the pillow like a dog in heat. Quiet, desperate thrusts. Every inch of his skin burning. His lips part on a shaky gasp as he picks up a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rougher. 

His hands fist your duvet. The mattress creaks softly beneath him. 

He grinds harder, angling his hips until the pressure hits just right, chasing friction, chasing the fantasy. You, writhing under him. You, moaning into the mattress. You, letting him rut against your thigh like a pathetic, needy animal. 

His cock pulses hard against the pillow. He’s panting now, forehead damp, face twisted in agony as he thrusts deep into the softness over and over and over— 

And then he’s coming. Sharp and hot and shameful, grinding through it like he never wants it to stop. His sweatpants absorb most of the mess, but some of it seeps through onto your pillow, warmth soaking into the cotton. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, scrambling upright. 

He snatches the pillow off the bed and yanks the cover off. There’s only a small stain on the pillow itself, barely the size of a dime. He’ll just flip it. 

He grabs the other pillow, strips its case, and bolts to the laundry, shoving both into the washer with his half-finished load. Then he makes a beeline for the linen cupboard and exhales hard when he spots a similarly coloured pair of pillowcases. 

Ignoring the mess in his sweats, he returns to your room and quickly finishes making your bed with the fresh covers—flipping the soiled pillow face down—before fleeing the scene and shutting the door behind him like it might somehow seal in his shame. 

He needs help. He needs therapy. He might even need religion. 

At this point, he’ll take whatever divine intervention he can get, because clearly he can’t be trusted not to hump your goddamn pillow like some desperate, fucked-up freak with zero self-control. 

What the hell is wrong with him? You’re his friend. His roommate. His fake wife. Not his personal fantasy to jerk off to in every room of the apartment. 

But no matter how many times he tells himself to stop, no matter how disgusted he feels afterward, it’s like his body won’t listen. 

It’s not just lust—it’s deeper than that. Obsessive. Addictive. He’s terrified you’re going to catch him one day and never look at him the same again. And that’s what really scares him. Not the guilt, or the shame, or even the twisted desire. 

It’s the thought of losing you. Because as much as he wishes he could compartmentalise the feelings from the hormones, it’s all tangled up now. He needs you like air—like water. 

Romantic or not, sexual or not—he just needs you. 

So he has to stop. He has to figure out how to act normal before he fucks this whole thing up beyond repair. 

After a cold shower—self-imposed punishment—and making his own bed, Bob flops onto the couch and hits play on a documentary about sea otters. Then he checks the time on his phone—and your location. Again. 

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you’re safe, but his heart still leaps when he sees you’re already halfway home. 

He tries to focus on the otters—really tries—but his eyes keep darting to the front door like you might materialise out of thin air. Which is stupid, because he knows exactly how far away you are. He’s watching your little blue dot crawl toward him on his phone screen like a stalker. 

Thirty painstaking minutes later, the dot pulses directly over his own. Right on top of him. 

He holds his breath. And when the lock finally clicks, he forces his gaze back to the TV screen—doing his best impression of someone who is totally, one hundred percent emotionally invested in a family of sea otters and not, in any way, pathetically desperate to see you walk through the door. 

“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary. 

Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those. 

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?” 

You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door. 

“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.” 

Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV. 

“What happened?” 

You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows. 

“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’” 

Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh. 

“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’” 

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. 

You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.” 

He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re thinking it.” 

“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence. 

You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.” 

He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded. 

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.” 

“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.” 

Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.” 

“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you. 

He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret— 

But you cut in first. 

“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.” 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?” 

You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.” 

There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next. 

But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.” 

Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.” 

“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.” 

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years. 

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come. 

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck. 

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.” 

Bob nearly chokes. 

“I’m heading to bed,” you add. 

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.” 

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away. 

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific. 

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close. 

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum. 

- You - 

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you. 

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning. 

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe. 

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out. 

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk. 

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef. 

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is. 

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come. 

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it. 

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones. 

“No way.” 

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice. 

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.” 

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose. 

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless. 

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was. 

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?” 

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.” 

“Isn’t this whole island a base?” 

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.” 

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?” 

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block. 

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.” 

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?” 

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?” 

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.” 

He grins. “And?” 

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.” 

“But I’m worth it.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.” 

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.” 

He frowns. “What does that even mean?” 

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you. 

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake. 

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.” 

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?” 

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.” 

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.” 

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen. 

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone. 

He looks up. “Wait, just—” 

“See you later, pretty boy.” 

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home. 

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way. 

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker. 

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. 

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good. 

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and— 

Freeze. 

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered. 

What the fuck? 

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island. 

He’s home early. 

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches. 

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot. 

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.” 

Oh God. That’s Bob. 

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release. 

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are. 

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing. 

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door. 

And stop breathing. 

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move. 

And fuck, is it moving. 

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead. 

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there. 

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific. 

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious. 

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move. 

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach. 

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper. 

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who— 

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.” 

—who looks so fucking hot right now. 

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on. 

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles. 

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall. 

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight. 

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps. 

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—” 

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing. 

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears. 

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt. 

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles. 

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked. 

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful. 

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin. 

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing. 

God. You need something. Now. 

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate. 

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head. 

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality. 

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big. 

And God, you want it. 

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids. 

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit— 

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate. 

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore. 

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart. 

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base. 

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you. 

You fuck yourself harder. 

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well. 

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes. 

“F-fuck—” 

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come. 

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse. 

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now. 

Well, shit. That’s new. 

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast. 

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy. 

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room. 

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other. 

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone. 

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did. 

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right? 

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen. 

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed. 

Well. He would, after a release like that. 

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.” 

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.” 

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it. 

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board. 

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward. 

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island. 

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.” 

“Oh, that was nice of him.” 

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible. 

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine. 

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?” 

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.” 

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?” 

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip. 

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name. 

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down. 

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?” 

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.” 

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge. 

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that? 

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance. 

- 

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him. 

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue. 

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying. 

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot. 

When the hell did that happen? 

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it. 

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you. 

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth. 

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth. 

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything. 

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together. 

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up. 

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married. 

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day. 

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning. 

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡ 

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to. 

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect. 

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different. 

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today. 

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird. 

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right? 

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling. 

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs. 

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you. 

At this point, you’ll try anything. 

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building. 

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral. 

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week. 

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?” 

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.” 

Her brows lift, as if to say and? 

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.” 

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?” 

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck. 

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—” 

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.” 

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob. 

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’ 

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about. 

Fuck. 

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.” 

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.” 

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.” 

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee. 

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.” 

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.” 

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues. 

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building. 

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land. 

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.” 

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?” 

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.” 

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance. 

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy. 

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner. 

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—” 

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?” 

Oh. This is Maverick. 

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.” 

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile. 

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—” 

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?” 

“Nope.” 

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?” 

You nod. “Works for me.” 

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet. 

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open. 

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?” 

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?” 

“Yep.” 

“And how long have you been in love?” 

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.” 

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate. 

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?” 

You nod, but it’s not convincing. 

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—” 

“No way.” 

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar. 

“It’s you.” 

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut. 

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes. 

Your stomach lurches. 

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin. 

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up. 

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps. 

Bagman? 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze. 

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?” 

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.” 

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside. 

Oh no... Hangman? 

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman. 

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying. 

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests. 

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad. 

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly? 

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking. 

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through. 

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear. 

And then— 

Bob. 

He steps through the doorway— 

And freezes. 

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright. 

The silence is deafening. 

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out. 

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.” 

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face. 

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.” 

Maverick chokes beside you. 

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.” 

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes. 

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.” 

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs. 

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?” 

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.” 

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.” 

“Everything I say is funny.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—” 

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?” 

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either. 

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet. 

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid. 

He looks furious. Downright murderous. 

At first, you thought it might be at you. 

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.” 

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself. 

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest. 

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked. 

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you. 

Your stomach swoops. 

And suddenly, you can’t breathe. 

Because Bob Floyd is jealous. 

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams. 

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you. 

And for a second, you almost believe it. 

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away. 

He loves you. 

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—” 

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?” 

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond. 

You swallow hard and step forward. 

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.” 

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes. 

There’s a gasp. A chuckle. 

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters. 

But none of it matters. 

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop. 

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists. 

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next. 

But you do. 

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down. 

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim. 

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment. 

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers. 

You’re already gone. 

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t. 

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. 

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild. 

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?” 

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.” 

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion. 

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly. 

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.” 

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more. 

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.” 

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in. 

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin. 

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak. 

“Payback,” the taller one says. 

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.” 

You laugh softly, nodding again. 

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in. 

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…” 

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.” 

“Details,” he sighs wistfully. 

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.” 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?” 

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when— 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.” 

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.” 

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door. 

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.” 

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!” 

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door. 

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?” 

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious. 

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.” 

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other. 

Then— 

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again. 

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd. 

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.” 

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.” 

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath. 

- 

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin. 

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it. 

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely. 

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to. 

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate. 

God, you want him desperate. 

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps. 

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him. 

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear. 

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs. 

You want to be sore tomorrow. 

You want him sweaty and wild and undone. 

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does. 

But first—you want him to ruin you. 

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely. 

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce. 

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts. 

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves. 

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then— 

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped. 

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest. 

He steps inside—and your breath catches. 

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner. 

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them. 

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?” 

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you. 

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor. 

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—” 

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.” 

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving. 

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours. 

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours. 

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow. 

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs. 

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips. 

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. 

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.” 

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?” 

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning. 

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips. 

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.” 

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this. 

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts. 

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you. 

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. 

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head. 

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.” 

That’s all he needs. 

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares. 

Because nothing else matters now. 

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.” 

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning. 

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor. 

You flinch. He doesn’t. 

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. 

Then he drops to his knees. 

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin. 

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.” 

His hands urge your legs wider. 

And then his mouth is on you. 

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core. 

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.  

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?” 

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him. 

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.” 

“Say it again,” he breathes. 

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking. 

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.” 

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive. 

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire. 

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more. 

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough. 

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding. 

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough. 

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking. 

And he doesn’t stop. 

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close. 

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.” 

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks. 

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. 

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse. 

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought. 

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you. 

He stares. 

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—” 

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. 

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.” 

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick. 

Your breath stutters. 

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens. 

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper. 

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. 

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.” 

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness. 

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot. 

Your breath hitches. 

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading. 

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.” 

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in. 

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible. 

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.” 

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him. 

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good. 

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.” 

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper. 

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked. 

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.” 

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again. 

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders. 

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.” 

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours. 

You both freeze. 

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life. 

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control. 

And then it hits you. 

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs. 

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.” 

He goes still—completely still. 

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it. 

But then— 

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world. 

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes. 

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard. 

You both cry out. 

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way. 

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything. 

He is everything. 

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself. 

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” 

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost. 

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.” 

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor. 

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone. 

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.” 

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—” 

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest. 

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.” 

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you. 

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.” 

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.” 

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.” 

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—” 

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.” 

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes. 

The vase topples. 

Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile. 

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—” 

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it. 

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh. 

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares. 

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.” 

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide. 

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.” 

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look. 

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing. 

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.” 

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush? 

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel. 

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?” 

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.” 

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch. 

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach. 

His brows pull together. “What is it?” 

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.” 

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you. 

Then he nods. “I thought so.” 

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?” 

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head. 

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?” 

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.” 

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.” 

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters. 

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again. 

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again. 

[kyri45]

✨Spicynoodles Bio Parents AU Q&A! 01/07✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach/Spicynoodles Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

@monkeyqueen2012 ha chiesto: So we get to see when Kai's grandparents absolutely kick the s*** out of the Ninja' villains? Or a scenario where Kai's family has to say him and the ninjas from the villains and get to see the villain s*** their pants?

we will get badass MK and RedSon protecting Kai, yes. Not really the rest of the fam for now.

@lulushadowpeach ha chiesto: I have a question so since Kai is Spicynoodles fanchild wouldn't that mean nya is Kai step sister?

in a way? but they are still sibling, full bio or not.

@jumpy-buggy-33 ha chiesto: I am curious who proposed: MK or Red Son?

RedSon, mostly because MK allowed him to cause he knew that would make him happy.

@cjtuy ha chiesto: Has red son and mk been on any cute dates yet like a movie night with their favorite snacks or a cute dinner date

oh yeah plenty. They prefer cozy dates where both are in bed, sorrounded by snaks and tv drama.

@lulushadowpeach ha chiesto: Question what do you think Mk and Red son will react when they see Kai their son again?

similar to HTTYD 2 in a way

@stonefox1130 ha chiesto: Okay, so, in your Bio Parents UA, have shadopeach officially said they love each other? Other than saying they forgive each other.

not on the comic, but off-screen yeah.

@pettrainer ha chiesto: Wu is peach, Mac is plum, and Ju ( don’t know how to spell the baby name ) is apricot. Does MK have a cute fruit nickname?

Mango?

@asexual-not-asexual-detective ha chiesto: How did the little monkey buddies on flower fruit mountain react to new baby apricot? Do they call her princess? How did they react to Macaque officially coming back as Wukongs mate? Is he their queen? Other King?

Yes they call her princess. Macaque coming back was like a long-awaited tv-drama character return, they all knew Wukong was still simping hard for him

@wolfsonic ha chiesto: Not me realizing Mk and Red Son are gonna have the same situation with Kai that WuKong and Macaque had with Mk. They don't see their son grow up. Like at least they get to spend however many years, so Red and Mk have his younger years with him, but if they ever see Kai again, he's gonna be a grown adult. Not the baby they remember. I know their situations were different, and Macaque and WuKong were not even equipped to handle a kid, but Mk and Red probably prepared for Kai, and then he's just gone. I'm so scared to learn what Mk and Red's reaction to their son just going missing.

yup, but MK more than anyone else will be understanding of his son situation.

@kingofthe7sins ha chiesto: Hey Kyri, what are your thoughts about Kai (through multiversal shenanigans) meeting over ninja teams, like the Ninja Turtles and their dynamics with each other? since the Four Turtles have similar personalities as Kai and the other ninjas

we aren't really going to that specific universe but i guess they would be bonding pretty quickly

@shortstack-pancakes ha chiesto: Hello!! I saw the ask about Kai’s demon features, so I have a follow up question if it hasn’t been asked before. If Nya is Mei’s daughter, would she have some dragon ish features or qualities/aspects?

yes and she already have experienced them all the times after she became a dragon, they aren't a permanent feature on her but they appear when she uses her power a lot, similar to Mei

@doggodonut12 ha chiesto: Hi! I just want to say I love your art- And ask a small question about future MK- like when Redson and MK have Kai- and even after that. Like what do they wear? Do they wear what they wore for the painting usually? I feel like MK would still wear some casual clothes with some traditional elements? I just want to know if their style would ever change in your au

They wear some hanfu and normal training outfit when at home, and their normal modern clothing when hanging out in Megapolis

@sierracarl ha chiesto: For the spicynoodles bioparents au, Kai would probably have a chinese birth name. So may I suggest... Jinfeng. Jin(金): meaning gold Feng(凤): meaning phoenix or wind I like the tie-in to Iron Fan with the wind thing. Thank you for your consideration. Also, your comic got me into LMK because it's so good and I wanted to know what was going on.💛

We are sticking to their canon name. Also Kai is a gender-neutral chinese name meaning victory (凯)

@cheshire61 ha chiesto: Why can my brain just hear Kai going to Redson and MK after a kid like steals a toy or something while at a park "Father, Baba, I crave violence." And MK is just like "No Kai, No Violence" while Red Son just really wants to say go for it?

they would answer at the same time opposite answer and then they would stare at each other like "what?"

@nica0509 ha chiesto: Mei and Lloyd as distant cousins? Perhaps the dragon father/mother of the first spinjitzu master had as a sibling a Mei ascendant dragon.

I mean.... there are tons of dragons, not all of them are related but yeah there can be the possibility

@darkshadow-lightpeach ha chiesto: This has me wondering… and I have a feeling that you already have a Mystic monkey design for Kai😭 or maybe a bull design? Like Redson? But it’s probably gonna be a mix of both and I have a feeling that it is a mix of both😭

yup, slightly more RedSon than MK but still a mix.

@estellardreams ha chiesto: Since your next series is gonna be Ninjago Dragons Rising x LMK I have a question... Are there gonna be ships from Dragon's rising in this or are you gonna keep that under wraps for now?

Not yet. I WILL keep a little bit of canon Jaya since in Dragon Rising is still relevant but other than that nothing too centered.

@shay-bug ha chiesto: How do you feel about the headcannon of kai adopting wyldfyre? Also, do you like wyldfyre? She's my favorite character!

I love wyldfire! even though I'm still in denial over the fact she already has a boyfriend. Like no. She's my baby. she's too young wdym

@amalgamorph ha chiesto: Was Kai's name always Kai or did MK and Red Son call him something different?

other than nicknames, they called him Kai.

[bueckii]

͏✶ FIRE AND DESIRE (PART 2) | PAIGE BUECKERS.

synopsis. things get awkward after that kiss. you try to move on; go on that date, pretend it didn’t mean something, thinking that’s what she would’ve wanted—but, in reality, you’re all paige can think about.

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader content warnings. # 12k words. MDNI. college au. friends to lovers. slight angst. smut. slow burn (ish). uconn!paige. best friend!paige. jealous!paige. student!reader. mentions of alcohol. top!paige. bottom!reader. soft sex. oral sex (r! recieving). hickeys/marking. slight overstimulation. paige cums untouched. tw: a man a/n. finally posting this lol. this is a continuation of the one shot i made a while ago, so i recommend reading that one first. part one here! (this is not proofread lol)

taglist. @iluvbuckets @iknowwhatyoutellyourfriends @cowboybueckers @evanpeterstoe @swiftie4evr @legendaryrebelpersona @the--carousel @pupbistro @dietpepsicorpsebride @cambells0up @isabellesw0rld @yogurtsm00thie

͏✶ talk about you like you’ll never leave his side… but i don’t really buy it …

paige couldn’t stop thinking about you.

she hasn’t seen you all week. not really. not because she didn’t want to. god, she wanted to. only a couple texts here and there. not a lot. half-hearted. nothing like before. and every time she thought about reaching out, her thumbs would hover over the screen, typing and deleting the same shit over and over again.

she figures you’ll probably get upset about the fact that she doesn’t reach out. she knows it’s her fault, really. 

but, lately, she’s been getting stuck in her head. what if you regret it? what if she messed it all up? what if you don’t even wanna talk to her anymore? 

it’d been days since you kissed her, and her mind hadn’t shut off since. she could still feel you. your hands on her neck, the way your fingers played with her hair. the warmth of your thigh under her palm. the way you whispered against her mouth. god, she couldn’t stop thinking about your lips. the way you tasted. the way they moved against hers. she kept replaying it. over and over and over. the way your bottom lip trembled just slightly before you kissed her back. the way gasped when she kissed you a little deeper. the way you let out that tiny, shaky moan against her mouth. 

she hadn’t been sleeping right. laid up in bed every night, eyes wide open, heart racing, thinking of all the things she probably should’ve said.

she kept checking her phone like a damn addict—hoping for a text. anything.

but you don’t say much.

and deep down, she knew she was supposed to say something first. you’d kissed her, trusted her, asked her to show you something you had little experience in.

but all paige had done since then… was freeze. she didn’t know what to say when she wanted to text you. 

everything afterwards felt off.

her routine didn’t feel like her anymore. her days felt too long. her nights too short. food didn’t hit the same. music didn’t sound right. even the gym—basketball—felt too damn loud. or sometimes, too damn empty. she really couldn’t get you out of her mind. no matter how many times she told herself to lock in, to just shake it all off… you were everywhere. in the back of her thoughts during drills. in the corners of her dreams when she managed to sleep. on the tip of her tongue when she opened her phone, just to stare at your name without sending anything.

her body ached for you, and she hated that it sounded that dramatic—but it was the truth. because it wasn’t just the fact that you kissed her. that you let her kiss you. 

it was you. and your lips. your mouth. how you touched her, like you weren’t totally sure what you were doing but trusted her to guide you through it anyway. how you leaned into her kiss, moaned against her mouth, desperate, like you wanted her to keep going but didn’t know how to ask. that moment played on a loop in her head. every time she tried to move on, her mind constantly dragged her back to it. and now, after tasting you—after finally having just a piece of what she’d wanted for so long—she couldn’t go back to pretending she was okay with being just friends.

and honestly, paige used to handle it fine. she’s been doing it for years. 

in the beginning, she thought it was just a little crush. nothing serious. just something that’ll go away eventually. 

and you were pretty. gorgeous. that was part was easy. she used to sit next to you on purpose, just close enough to smell whatever perfume you wore, and maybe ask you for a pen just so that you’d look at her and roll your eyes before digging through your back even though she already had a pen. 

so yeah, okay. maybe she stared too long sometimes. maybe she looked at your lips more than she should’ve. maybe she started thinking about you when she was supposed to be focused on film or practice or literally anything else.

but it was just a crush. right?

yeah, well… it didn’t go away.

and when you kissed her, everything she’d been trying to hold back all came rushing up. 

now, she needed more.

at practice, she was more distracted than she’d ever been. she thinks about you while she’s in the locker room, thinks about you while she zones out in team huddles, thinks about you while chewing her lip raw while coach ran down the plan during practice. 

but there are only three sentences in her mind that repeats over and over and over… i miss her. i need her. i want her again.

paige wanted to tell you how she felt. god, she wanted to so bad.

it sat in her mind, begging to come out every time she thought about you—which was all the time. but every time she even thought about texting you, calling you, seeing you again—she froze.

what would she even say? everything sounded stupid in her head. too much. she didn’t know if it was just a kiss for you. maybe just an experiment. a thank you, even.

and the thought of that—of it meaning less to you than it did to her—it made her sick.

because it meant everything to her.

͏✶

you didn’t think much of the dress you chose to wear for tonight. it was a simple summer dress, the kind of thing you forgot you even had until you started rifling through your closet in a panic. it’s pretty but you weren’t really trying to impress anyone. you just didn’t want to look like you rolled out of bed. you kept telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal—it’s just a movie—but still, you checked the mirror three times. adjusted the hem. made sure the zipper was up all the way. fixed your hair, then undid it and fixed it again.

you told yourself it wasn’t because you were nervous.

you told yourself it wasn’t because of paige.

matt had been texting you all day—mostly sweet stuff. he was nice. respectful. he asked about your favorite movie snacks, said he’d pick you up a little early because he didn’t want to miss the trailers, and even texted you about hitting some off-campus college after to spend more time together. 

you stared at that last message for a second longer than you meant to. you didn’t reply right away. you didn’t know why your stomach twisted when you imagined going.

but you forced a small smile at your reflection, smoothed the fabric over your hips, and told yourself again—it’s just a movie. you repeated it in your head while slipping on your heels.

you’d go, sit beside matt, eat some popcorn, maybe laugh at the cheesy previews, maybe chat during the slow parts. just hang out. just… watch a movie. maybe kiss him.

your chest tightened at the thought. and suddenly it wasn’t matt’s face you saw in the dark theater, leaning in beside you.

it was paige. 

you closed your eyes for a second, but it didn’t help. you could still feel her. you weren’t even touching her anymore, but your body remembered all of it. every detail.

then, you opened your eyes slowly, blinking hard at your reflection. 

just a movie, you whispered to yourself again.

your phone buzzed just as you grabbed your bag. you weren’t expecting anything—maybe matt, saying he was outside, maybe riley checking in. but when you glanced down at the screen, it felt like your heart stopped for a second.

paige: if matt says some dumb shit or makes you uncomfortable or whatever just call me or sumn.

you stared at it, fingers hovering over your screen, unsure what to even say back.

paige was thinking about you.

you lips curl into a soft smile, before replying back. 

you: i’ll call if i need you 

you put your phone away after you sent that message.

the air was cool as matt pulled up outside your dorm, his car parked just in front of the building as he waited. you grabbed your bag, smoothing your dress one last time before sliding into the passenger seat. he greeted you with a warm smile, eyes bright and a little nervous like he wanted everything to be perfect tonight.

throughout the ride, matt was respectful—more than you expected. he kept the conversation light, complimenting you.

“you look really pretty tonight,” he said once. or “that dress really suits you.”

you nodded, forcing a small smile, trying to match his charm, but inside you felt a bit awkward—like you were pretending to be someone who could just go on a date without a million thoughts swirling around your head. the care radio played softly in the back as you both talked about the movie and what you liked, what you were hoping to see, the snacks you planned to grab. matt was a good listener, genuinely interested, but you couldn’t help but feel… unsure. 

when you arrived at the theater, you both found your seats, getting comfortable in the dark. your hands folded neatly in your lap, legs crossed at the ankles, pretending to be at ease.

matt really was nice. thoughtful. his arm rested politely on the shared armrest, close but not touching. every now and then, he’d lean over to whisper something light and you’d smile, nod, let out a soft laugh. he was sweet. polite. exactly the kind of guy people said you should give a chance. he told you that you looked beautiful when he saw you, and he meant it. 

but still… was this really what you wanted?

you sat there beside him, staring ahead, and couldn’t shake the feeling blooming in your chest. like something was missing.

and about halfway through the movie, you felt it—a soft nudge against your hand. you blinked, glancing down. matt’s fingers brushed yours again, hesitant at first, then bolder, letting them settle lightly against the back of your hand like he was testing the waters.

you froze. not out of fear. not because you felt unsafe. but because something about it felt wrong. off.

you tried to stare ahead at the screen. and then, slowly, like it had been planned all night, matt leaned in. you felt his eyes on you. your profile, your mouth. your stomach flipped. not in the same way she made you feel. he was staring at your lips like he’d been waiting for the right moment, and this was it. he tilted his head slightly, and you turned toward him totally out of instinct—eyes wide, not knowing what to say, how to stop it, or if you even should—

and then his lips were on yours.

they were soft, warm, slightly chapped. not rough. not bad…

just… not right.

you kissed him back—barely. more like a twitch of habit than an actual effort. your mind blanked. your hands stayed frozen in your lap. your chest stayed still. 

no spark. no rush.

nothing.

it was awkward. 

and he was trying, being gentle, respectful, careful… but suddenly, your mind was somewhere else.

suddenly, you were back in paige’s dorm, with her fingers resting on the soft skin of your thigh, her mouth coaxing yours open like she’d dreamed about it a thousand times before.

you pulled back first, blinking fast, trying to smile as you reached for the popcorn again like nothing happened.

and matt gave a quiet laugh, sheepish. “sorry, was that okay?”

you nodded automatically.

nothing else happened after that. he didn’t try to kiss you again. he didn’t reach for your hand. he just sank back into his seat. you sat there in silence, eyes on the screen but mind anywhere else as your heart beat too loud in your chest. 

when the movie ended, matt stood up and stretched, put on half of a smile and you followed him out of the theater. 

he asked if you still wanted to head to the party. and you said yes, even though you weren’t sure why. the word left your mouth before you really thought it through, honestly. and he smiled, nodded, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets like it was exactly what he hoped you’d say.

you told yourself maybe it’d be better—less awkward—with other people around. maybe being surrounded by music, chatter, and movement ease the tension. 

you trailed beside him through the lot, your heels clicking against the pavement, the cool air nipping at your arms. you were already dreading the moment it’d be just the two of you again, standing by his car or in the front of your dorm at the end of the night—bracing for the part where you’d have to let him down easy. tell him he’s a great guy. that you’re just not feeling it. that it wasn’t about him.

and no matter how nice matt was, no matter how well he treated you—he wasn’t the one you wanted to feel that way about.

͏✶

paige hadn’t even planned on going to the party.

she’d already half-decided on staying in, crawling into bed, watching grey’s anatomy for the millionth time, and maybe passing out before midnight if her mind would let her. it wasn’t like she didn’t want to be around people… it was just that everything felt kind of dull lately. muted. like no matter how loud the music or how packed the house would be, her brain would still be playing that same memory over and over.

you. your lips.

and she was trying. god, she was trying to get over it.

but now the whole team was going—just another athlete from uconn’s birthday party in one of those big houses just off campus. music, drinks, people from all over the university, the kind of party where no one ever really remembered who invited who.

at first, paige waved it off. said she was going to stay in when when azzi asked if she was going, and again when kk tried to bribe her with her tru fru in the fridge. 

but by the time she was alone in her room, the silence got too loud. and already just a minute alone, she was already thinking about you.

was it going well? were you still out with matt? did he kiss you? did you let him?

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath and sat up, rubbing her hands down her face. 

maybe a party wasn’t such a bad idea after all. at least there’d be noise. people. drinks. a distraction. anything to pull her out of her head for a couple hours. 

so she got dressed. nothing too much—some baggy pants, a clean black hoodie, her chain around her neck. she tied her hair up messily, threw on her sneakers, and left before she could change her mind.

the party was already alive when paige got there. music boomed from speakers too big for the living room, bodies packed wall to wall, red solo cups in every hand.

she stepped inside and felt it all hit her at once.

but she didn’t hesitate.

she spotted azzi and kk first—leaned up by the kitchen counter with aubrey and ice, already halfway into their second drinks, talking with some guys from the track team. azzi waved her over instantly, eyes lighting up as she yelled paige’s name through the noise.

“hey! you finally made it.”

paige grinned, playing it off like she wasn’t two seconds away from bailing earlier. 

“you thought i was gon’ let y’all have fun without me?” she said, slipping into the circle, dapping up ice and throwing her arm around kk’s shoulder.

“look at you tryna act like you weren’t just in your bed watchin’ greys,” ice teased, already laughing.

paige rolled her eyes, smirking. “first of all, grey’s anatomy is peak. put some respect on meredith’s name.”

they cracked up, and just like that, paige settled into room. she kept the energy up, laughing, talking shit, hyping up her girls, taking playful shots at aubrey’s outfit, nodding her head and doing the little shoulder bounce when a song she liked came on.

but no matter how much time she spent here, paige couldn’t stop checking her phone. she kept it in her pocket, fingers brushing against it every few minutes like muscle memory to pull it out and glance at the screen—just to see nothing. she shoves it back. tries to focus. laughs at something dumb kk said. nodding along to azzi’s story about some freshman trying to flirt with her after class.

but her hand always drifted back. she didn’t even realize how often she was doing it until aubrey gave her a look and nudged her playfully.

“you waiting on a text or something?”

paige forced a half-smile, eyes back on her screen. still nothing from you. just a couple random notifications—snapchat from someone she didn’t care about, an instagram tag, but nothing that made her excited the way your name would.

“nah,” she lied. “just checkin’ the time.”

but it was late now. later than she thought it’d get without hearing from you.

she just… wondered if you were okay.

if you were having fun. if he was being good to you. if he said something stupid, or tried to touch you, or kissed you when you didn’t want him to.

she hated how easily her brain jumped to those things. hated how it made her chest feel tight and itchy, like she had to dosomething even though she couldn’t.

you weren’t hers.

but thirty minutes later, just as paige was halfway through sipping a cup of shirley temple that azzi shoved into her hand, she saw you. 

you walked in through the front door with matt beside you, his hand sliding smooth around your waist and paige—she froze.

the cup hovered midair for a second before she blinked, slowly lowering it. her friends kept talking around her, but their voices blurred and faded away instantly the linger she looked at you. 

you hadn’t seen her yet. but she saw everything.

she saw the way you hesitated the moment you stepped further into the house, eyes darting around like you weren’t sure where to stand, or who to greet first. she saw the way matt leaned in to say something close to your ear, the way you tilted your head politely and nodded, but didn’t smile the way you normally did when something made you laugh.

but god—you looked so good.

paige couldn’t stop staring. she told herself to look away. just once. just for a second. but she didn’t. she couldn’t.

that sundress on you—fuck.

it was soft, a color that made your skin glow under the dim party lights, and it moved when you walked, swaying around your thighs. it hugged you in the right places, loose in others. your hair was done, your lip gloss shimmered under those tacky party lights, and your arms were crossed loosely in front of you. 

she had to drop her eyes for a second, tongue swiping over her bottom lip, jaw tight. she gripped the cup in her hand as if she could stop herself from imagining how your waist would feel in her hands.

because matt’s hand was there now. on you.

and it made her sick.

paige felt heat crawl up the back of her neck. jealousy wasn’t even the right word. it was something worse. something bitter. because matt wasn’t even doing anything wrong. not really. he was just… holding you like you were a trophy. like you were some prize he’d earned just by asking. like he knew every guy in the room would be looking and that was the whole point.

and you looked beautiful and uncomfortable all at the same time. paige saw it in the slight downturn of your mouth. the way you shifted in his hold, fingers fiddling with the strap of your bag.

she knew that face. she read you.

you weren’t having fun. you were pretending.

and then—you found her.

your eyes met hers and paige went still, all the bitterness on her face melted. completely gone. she straightened up slightly, tilting her head, raising her eyebrows to say hi silently.

then, she mouthed, “you okay?”

your mouth curled into the softest smile. not a big one, but paige saw it.

you nodded.

she returned it with a smaller smile.

then, paige watched matt lean in toward you as he said something near your ear. she saw the way your body tilted away slightly, your shoulder pulling back, your smile going a little stiff.

matt left you after that, saying something with a crooked smile before disappearing through the crowd, headed toward the kitchen. 

and unfortunately, that was where paige had already parked herself—leaned up against the counter with some of her teammates, her friends, trying her best to stay out the way, out the conversation, out of everything before she did something dumb.

she minded her business. she really did. sipped her drink, stared down at her phone, played it cool. 

until one of matt’s friends walked up next to him.

they dapped each other up and started talking sports, class, exams, who was pulling who this weekend—nothing she cared about.

she didn’t mean to hear the next part, but she did.

“yo,” one of his friends said, patting his back, “that girl you came with… she’s hot as fuck, man. you hit it yet?”

and matt—he fucking laughed. laughed like it was funny. like it was just a matter of time. 

he leaned his elbow onto the counter, lifted his drink to his lips, and said, “not yet… working on it, though. i think she likes all that romantic shit.”

like you were a job to finish. like you were just some easy bet.

paige didn’t even realize how fast her face dropped.

she stared at matt for a second, silent, clenching her jaw hard, her fingers curling tighter around her cup. she blinked once. then twice.

then she set her drink down on the counter and walked away.

her eyes scanned the room until she found you again. she found standing by group next to your friend riley, fiddling with the hem of your dress. 

you didn’t see her coming.

but paige was already pushing through the bodies, not even hearing her name when kk—was it kk? or azzi? or aubrey? she doesn’t know—called for her across the room. her hands were still shaking a little as she walked. she didn’t know what she was going to say. didn’t even care. she just needed to get to you. all she knew was that you didn’t deserve to be talked about like that. not by him. not by anybody.

you didn’t even seen her coming. 

one second, you were standing there half-listening to a conversation you weren’t really part of—and the next, paige was there, standing close.

you blinked, a little startled, heart skipping. then, paige leaned in, just enough that only you could hear her.

“can i talk to you for a sec?” she asked. 

her brows were slightly pulled together you felt your heartbeat tick up, and slowly, you nodded.

“… yeah,” you said, looking at her a little confused. 

paige didn’t smile. she just nodded once and gently reached for your wrist as she tilted her head toward the hallway.

and you followed without question.

paige led you down some hallway, away from the crowd. the hallway lights were dim, flickering slightly from a shitty bulb overhead, but she still looked nervous under it.

you leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, heart still fluttering as you looked at her. and paige just stood there for a second, hands stuffed into the front pocket of her hoodie, jaw clenched, staring at the floor before she finally spoke.

“i—” she started, but her voice cracked. she cleared her throat, looked up at you. “i saw matt in the kitchen. he was… he said—“

she stopped and looked at you. would this hurt your feelings if she told you?

your furrowed your brows together as you waited. but paige just swallowed the lump in your throat, shook her head a little like she was trying to talk herself down.

you blinked. “he what?”

“i don’t wanna piss you off,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. “i just—i just wanted to check on you.”

you stared at her. “you pulled me aside for that?”

paige flinched a little at your tone. she opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“you haven’t talked to me all week. this is the second time, paige,” you snapped at her, trying not to raise your voice. “i haven’t seen you, i barely even hear from you, and now you wanna show up and act like you care?”

“i do care.” paige winced and shook her head. “i wasn’t tryin to be like that, ma, i just—”

“then, why’d you disappear?”

paige couldn’t answer. she had it in her head, but saying it aloud was… different. she didn’t know how to say i’ve been losing my mind over you. or i want you so bad, it’s messing with my head.

she looked cornered. guilty. her lips parted, but the words didn’t come fast enough.

you shook your head, heart beating fast as you turned away. “forget it, paige.”

“wait—”

but you were already walking towards the door to the bathroom in the hallway and before paige could follow—the door shut right in her face.

she stood there, blinking. stunned.

then, she reached for the handle and tried to twist it open. locked. fuck.

“(y/n), open the door.”

she tried the handle again.

“c’mon… please.”

but you didn’t answer.

paige let out a long sigh and leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against the door. after a moment, she stepped backwards, dragging a hand down her face, then leaned her back against the wall across from the door… and waited.

she didn’t care who walked past, who saw her, who might start whispering about how bueckers looked all spaced out and weird in the hallway.

she was gonna wait.

her friends were probably wondering where she was by now. azzi had texted her a little while ago, but paige hadn’t checked her phone. she hadn’t even moved from the spot since you slammed the door. not one step.

ten minutes passed. at least, she thought it was ten. it felt longer. way longer.

her long legs stretched out in front of her and her fingers tugged at the strings of her hoodie over and over, just to keep herself busy. to keep from knocking again. she didn’t want to push. but god, she hated how long it was taking. not because she was impatient—but because she was scared that she’d really blown it.

but then, the door clicked softly, opening just a crack.

paige’s eyes snapped toward it. for a second, she didn’t move, unsure if she imagined it. but then the door eased open another inch, and she could finally see you. she stood up straighter instantly, her back pulling off the wall, her feet taking a few steps closer. 

you blinked at her, cheeks tinted pink as you murmured, “i… i need help with my zipper… it got stuck.”

paige stared for half a second longer, her brows raised in surprise, lips parting just slightly.

then she nodded, almost too quickly.

“y-yeah, yeah—i got you.”

she followed as you opened the door just enough for her to slip inside, stepping into the bathroom with you and quietly closing the door behind her. the bathroom was small. 

you stood in front of the mirror, not looking at her, just reaching up to gather your hair and move it to one side, exposing the line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your spine.

the zipper sat halfway down your back, caught just where the fabric curved around your waist. your dress gaped slightly on your back, exposing the lace trim of your black bra underneath—

paige froze for half a second. she swallowed hard, eyes dragging up the length of your back, then back down again.

her fingers twitched at her sides.

“paige,” you said, bringing her back to reality. 

you watch her through the mirror. her eyes met yours through the reflection and you notice the way she clenches her jaw before stepping forward slowly. 

“sorry.”

her hand hovered for a second before she finally let her fingers graze the cool of the zipper. she let out a breath and brought her other hand up to steady the fabric, eyes focusing on your back, lips parted slightly as she tried to tug it gently. 

but her hands were shaking. just a little. 

paige tugged the zipper up slowly, and when it reached the top, she didn’t step away. she just stood there, eyes fixed on the back of your neck.

your hair was still swept to the side, skin exposed. her gaze lingered there for a moment, and then she looked up at the back of your head, the curve of your jaw, the slope of your shoulder and then back down. to your dress. to the way it hugged your body.

her hand moved before she could stop herself, her fingers trailing down softly along the center of your back, following the shape of the zipper. she felt the curve of your spine beneath her fingertips.

and when her hand reached the small of your back, paige let it rest there for a second—her palm flat, sliding to hold your waist gently. 

“i like this,” she murmured.

you still didn’t turn around.

she could see your eyes in the mirror, a little wider now, a little softer. you blinked slowly, your lips parting like you were going to say something, but nothing came out.

paige was losing her goddamn mind.

she blinked, her thumb gently rubbing a circle into the dress, fully letting her large hands rest on your waist. she shouldn’t be touching you like this, not when she still didn’t know what you wanted, but she couldn’t help it. 

she couldn’t stop looking at you. 

then, she leaned in. just a little. and her voice dropped again, barely above a whisper.

“you look really good tonight.”

your breath hitched—paige almost didn’t notice. 

and then finally, you turned around slowly. and paige’s hand dropped to her side like it didn’t know what to do now. you looked up at her and she swallowed hard, trying to so hard to fight the urge to just… close the gap.

“…i’m sorry,” she said quietly, looking into your eyes. “for earlier. for this whole week.”

and for a second, you forgot where you were—forgot about the party still going on just outside the door, about matt, and everything else outside this room.

all you could focus on was her.

paige stood in front of you, taller by just enough that you had to tilt your head back a little to meet her eyes. and you always liked that. you always liked how tall she was. more than you probably should’ve.

“i missed you,” you tell her. 

paige licks her lips again, “me too.”

you stared at her, your eyes searching hers, trying to figure out what she was thinking. 

and then, you asked, “what did matt say?”

her breath caught in her throat, her shoulders tensed, and for a second, she looked like she might lie again. like she might protect you from it. but then she inhaled sharply, her eyes dropping to the floor, and she let out a breath through her nose, clearly frustrated.

she shook her head gently.

“he’s a douche bag,” she muttered finally, glancing away from you. 

the way her jaw clenched again said enough.

the way she didn’t want to look at you when she said it.

she wanted to say what he actually said. she wanted to say how she nearly lost it right there in the kitchen. she wanted to say she hated seeing you with him, hated the thought of his hands anywhere near you.

she furrows her eyebrows before looking directly into your eyes again.

“he doesn’t talk about you like he should,” she added. “like you’re some fuckin’ checkbox on a list.”

her stomach still twisted just saying that much. because it didn’t matter how polite matt was to your face. paige knew the second she heard him speak behind your back—he wasn’t worth one second of your time.

“i wasn’t gonna tell you. not like that. i didn’t… wanna make you feel like shit.”

another pause.

“but i also didn’t wanna let you stand there thinking he was some nice guy. you deserve better than that. way better.”

she was standing so close now, you didn’t even notice when she took a step closer.

“you deserve somebody who looks at you like…”

she stopped herself.

you could feel your heart thudding under your ribs, louder now. paige stared at you, throat moving as she swallowed.

“like i look at you,” she finally said, eyes darting down to your lips.

you stared at her.

then, to her surprise, your fingers found her hand, slipping between hers, intertwining your fingers. paige looked down and a slow smile tugs at the corners of her lips. 

“you’re an idiot, you know,” you say, shaking your head with a small smile, your eyes soft as you watch paige’s face.

she doesn’t miss a beat—she nods her head immediately, obediently and a little sheepish, her grin spreading wide enough to light up the whole room.

“i know,” she mumbles, eyes locked on your soft lips.

her fingers tighten around yours just a little as she takes one more final step closer to you, trapping you between her and the bathroom counter. 

paige’s eyes flickered back up to yours, before whispering, “did you kiss him tonight?”

you looked away for a moment, swallowing hard.

“yeah,” you admitted softly. “i did.”

you can clearly see paige clench her jaw when you said it, but she didn’t say anything else—just waited for you to keep going.

“but… it didn’t feel like—” the heat spread all over your cheeks, blushing hard as she stared at you. “it didn’t feel like when you kissed me.”

paige’s lips curved up even more. it was the kind of smirk that started in one corner of her mouth and made its way up like she couldn’t hold it back even if she tried. she was getting cocky. you could tell. the kind of cocky that came from hearing exactly what she wanted to hear.

“yeah?” she said, a little smug, eyes dropping again to your lips, then back up. “that right?”

you rolled your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at your mouth. her free hand brushes gently against your hip. 

“could’ve told you that. ain’t no way he kiss you better than me.”

you smiled at how smug she was being. 

then, you noticed it before paige did—the way her face kept inching closer to yours, just a little bit at a time, with each passing second. and you could feel it. her soft breath on your lips. it sends a shiver down your spine. you could see it clear as day in her eyes—the way they darkened with want, the slight part of her lips. 

she wanted to kiss you. 

your eyes flicked up to hers, catching that glimpse of need swirling behind her gaze. the way her pupils dilated ever so slightly, the way she licked her her lips. the way her hand slides a little lower on your hip to pull you closer, pressing your front against hers.

paige was so close now. closer than she had any business being. 

you could tell she was trying to talk herself out of it—trying to be smart, respectful, hold back like she always did around you.

you feel her breath against your lips as she asks, “can i?”

her eyes didn’t leave yours. she didn’t lean in all the way. she waited. paige didn’t move. not even a twitch. she was frozen in that quiet anticipation, standing still like she was afraid the smallest shift might scare you off.

you saw it in the way she looked at you. how much she wanted you. how much she was trying not to take anything from you.

she wasn’t trying to rush into it, even though she wants to. as if kissing you again was a privilege. 

your throat felt tight, and you nodded before you even realized you were doing it.

“please…” you breathed.

paige’s lips parted slightly, her eyes searching your face like she needed to make absolutely sure. 

she smiled. and then, slowly, she leaned in.

her forehead brushed yours first like she still couldn’t believe this was real. for a second, she just stayed there, nose nudging yours, her hand sliding up to the small of your back, holding you in place, your body pressing against hers. you could feel her breath fan across your lips, and when she finally tilted her head just enough for her mouth to meet yours—

she kissed you. 

and you melted into it.

paige kissed you slow. so slow it almost didn’t feel real at first. her lips barely brushed yours as if she was giving you the chance to change your mind. her mouth pressed into yours again, deeper this time. soft. deliberate. her other hand found your jaw, cradling your face gently, her thumb brushing your cheek.

and her lips… god. her lips were everything.

pillowy and warm and just the tiniest bit chapped like she’d been chewing on them nervously all night. they moved slowly with yours. her nose bumped yours a little, and then, she smiled into the kiss, just barely, smiling like she couldn’t believe she had you this close again.

your arms lifted until they wrapped loosely around her neck, fingers brushing the stray hairs at the nape of her neck, right beneath her bun, and her body reacted before her mind even caught up. her breath hitched. her hand gripped your waist tighter. she kissed you deeper then, her lips parting just a little more, her mouth moving against yours like she couldn’t hold back anymore.

you pulled back just a little—barely an inch—to catch your breath, lips parted, chest rising and falling as your fingers still rested gently behind paige’s neck.

and before you could even fully take a breath, paige was already chasing your mouth. 

her lips followed yours instinctively. desperately. her mouth brushed yours again, a little clumsy this time. her hand on your waist tightened just the slightest bit. 

her nose bumped yours as she whispered breathlessly, “mm-mm, don’t pull away, ma.”

your lips were barely apart when she kissed you again, but this time, she moved faster. needier. rougher. deeper. her mouth opened just slightly against yours, and her tongue slipped in, moaning softly as she tasted you. like she was afraid it might be the only chance she’d get. and you kissed her right back. didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. your lips opened for her like it was natural. like you’d been waiting for her to get brave enough to do it.

and when you moaned into her lips—paige feels like she’s losing her mind. 

your hands at the back of her neck gripped just a little tighter, pulling her in, and paige let out a breathy noise against your mouth. a sound she didn’t even mean to make.

she kissed you like she couldn’t stop. like she didn’t want to stop.

your lips were so damn warm, soft, and addictive in a way that made her head spin. every tilt of your head, every breathy sound you made, every slow drag of your lips over hers just pulled her in deeper.

then, you pulled away again, breathing hard, lips tingling and slick from the kiss. your eyes fluttered open, barely able to think, let alone speak—and before you could say anything, paige was already moving, leaning in slow, her breath grazing your cheek, and then you felt the soft press of her mouth against the line of your jaw.

one kiss. then another. then another, lower, just under your ear. 

her hand flattened at your waist as her body pressed closer until you could feel every inch of her against you, still trapping you between her body and the cool edge of the bathroom counter.

it made your knees feel weak.

outside the door, you could still hear the muffled music pounding through the walls, but it all felt far away. like none of it mattered. because paige’s lips were moving down your neck now, brushing that sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, her mouth open just enough to let her tongue flick gently against your skin.

you gasped, your hands clutching the fabric of her shirt, and she smiled against your throat, smug breath fanning across the wet spot she left behind.

“mm,” she hummed, “you smell so fuckin’ good.”

paige kept kissing your neck, her lips moving over the curve of your throat like she needed to taste every inch of you. your jaw dropped open as you breathed out, eyes fluttering shut, your head tilting just slightly to give her more space.

and paige felt it. the way your breath hitched.

the way your fingers dug into her shoulders, holding on to her. the way your chest rose against hers like you couldn’t get enough air. she groaned low against your neck just thinking about it. 

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath. 

and then, you felt her hand sliding down your side, past your waist, then back behind you, her fingers gripping fabric of your dress. you gasped when you felt her hand bunch it up, inch by inch, pulling the hem higher and higher. her palm smoothed over the back of your thigh, fingers spread wide, grazing the top curve of your ass and—

“paige,” you breathed out, voice soft but firm, your heart racing, “paige… wait—”

you pulled back just a little, your hands pressing gently to paige’s chest, and the second you did, she froze.

her lips hovered by your jaw, parted and flushed pink as her breath came out shaky. she looked at you, eyes half lidded, blinking slow like she was trying to process what was happening, her pupils blown, lips slick and swollen. she looked drunk on you. high on your skin. your taste. your breath. your lips.

paige let out the softest sound, a little whine, as her brows knit together, a little frustrated. her lips parted again like she wanted to argue, to beg you for just one more minute, one more kiss, one more second of being that close.

but she didn’t.

instead, she exhaled hard through her nose and dropped her forehead gently against your shoulder, her hands now resting at your waist, loosening her grip. 

“i like kissing you,” she murmured, her lips brushing your collarbone. 

the party was still loud outside. muffled bass thumped through the floor beneath your feet, and someone laughed down the hall. but all of that felt so far away.

she turned her head just slightly, nose brushing your neck again, “been thinkin’ about it since that night.”

she pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands still on your hips, thumbs brushing slow over the fabric before her eyes found yours. 

“can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” she said.

you reached up slowly, your hands trembling just a little as they cupped paige’s face, fingers settling along the sharp line of her jaw beneath your palms. your thumbs brushed over her cheeks, soft against the slight roughness of her skin. paige’s eyes fluttered closed at the touch as you held her face. 

“i’ve been thinking about you too.”

paige’s eyes slowly opened, dazed as she looked st you—like she couldn’t quite believe you were really there, really saying those words. god, she feels like she’s dreaming. fuck, she’s been dreaming about this for years. 

then, she let out a soft breath and a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. her tongue darted out quickly to wet her bottom lip, that nervous little habit you’d come to recognize whenever she was trying to hold herself together. 

without breaking eye contact, her hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. then, her fingers slid lower, sliding over the curve of your hips before cupping your ass with her hands. you felt the breath hitch as paige’s hands gripped you tighter. her lips hovered near yours, her eyes drinking you in, wanting more, needing more. 

“my roommate’s… out of town this weekend,” you said. 

her eyes darted down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, her fingers flexing slightly against you, not sure if she’d heard you right. 

you felt the heat rise in your cheeks and tried to glance down, away from her eyes, but her hand on your lower back pulled you gently forward again.

“yeah?” she asked.

you nodded. 

and paige smiled.

then, her forehead dropped to yours, breath brushing your lips.

“you tryna tell me somethin’, ma?” she murmured.

you nodded.

her thumb brushed along your waist and she leaned in to kiss you again—just once. and when she pulled back, barely, her voice dipped into a whisper again, lips brushing against yours. 

“you wanna get outta here?”

͏✶

the walk back to your dorm was a blur.

you don’t really remember most of it—just the way paige held your hand the entire time, her thumb brushing soft circles against your knuckles.

paige didn’t say anything when you fumbled for your keys, just stepped in close behind you as you reached for the door.

her breath was warm against your neck.

and then, her hands. they slid around your waist, pulling you back gently, and her mouth found your jaw before you even registered it, soft lips pressing open kisses along your skin, trailing toward your ear, your neck, to your jaw again and again and… 

you gasped, your keys trembling in your hand.

“p-paige—”

“shhh,” she mumbled into your skin, already kissing lower. “just keep goin’. i got you.”

you barely got the key in the door. your fingers shook from how close she was, how her body pressed firm and slow against your back, her hands smoothing over your hips like she needed to feel every inch of you.

you tried to unlock it. you really tried—

but paige kissed your neck again, a little harder this time, nipping your skin with her teeth, and you moaned before you could stop yourself.

“fuck,” she whispered, “i could listen to that all night.”

finally, the lock clicked. 

you pushed the door open and she followed you in, still kissing you, turning you around with her big hands to lean down and kiss your lips. you stumbled inside and she kicked the door closed with her foot. her mouth never left yours.

and soon, her hands were already at the hem of her hoodie, yanking it up over her head in one swift motion.

you broke the kiss for just a second, lips parted and dazed as you watched her—her chest rising fast beneath the tight black tank top clinging to her, her hair messily loosened from the bun it had been in, some strands sticking to her forehead.

she looked wrecked already.

and god, she hadn’t even started.

she dropped the hoodie to the floor and before you could say a word, she was on you again—her hands finding your waist, then your back, then your thighs, like she didn’t know where to touch first, just that she had to. you kissed her back just as hungrily, the momentum sending you backward until the backs of your knees hit your bed.

she pulled back just enough to breathe, her lips swollen and her eyes dragging over your face like she couldn’t believe that you were real. that she was hovering over you. kissing you. in your bed. 

“take this off for me, baby.”

paige’s hands were already moving, sliding around your waist, fingers dragging down your spine until they found the zipper for the second time tonight. you stood still in front of her, chest rising fast, lips parted from where she’d just kissed. and then you felt her pull the zipper down. inch by inch.

her fingertips grazed your bare skin as the fabric loosened around your body, and the way she touched you sent heat rushing up your neck.

her eyes never left you as she lowered it. the air feels cool across your skin as the dress gave way, sliding down your shoulders, slipping over your hips, and pooling silently at your feet.

paige froze when she looked at you. completely still.

her eyes dragged over every inch of you like it was the first time she’d ever really seen you.

she didn’t say anything for a second. just let her eyes trail down the curve of your neck, your chest, the lace of your bra, the lines of your waist, your thighs.

you loved how she looked at you. 

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty,” she stepped in close again, her palms finding your hips. 

your voice barely made it out. soft, breathy, your heart thudding so loud you swore she could hear it.

“paige, i… i don’t really know how to—”

paige leaned in, her hand coming up gently to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so softly it made your stomach twist.

“i know, ma,” she murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth before you could say another word. then again, lower—your jaw. your neck.

she looked up at you as her thumb stroked your cheek.

“i’ll take care of you,” she says, smiling. “you don’t gotta worry about a thing.”

then she stepped even closer, her nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth.

“imma take my time. imma treat you real good. you trust me, right?”

you nod and she pecks your lips.

“tell me, mama.”

you reach up and wrap your arms loosely over her shoulders as she leans down, her hands still on your hips.

“i trust you.”

paige smiled again. 

her lips still trail over yours, then down your jaw. when she kissed the side of your neck this time, it was slower. less hungry. more… intentional.

“tell me if you wanna to stop,” she told you. “say the word, and i’ll stop. for real.”

you shake your head, “i want you, paige.”

you didn’t want her to stop.

so you leaned up just enough, your hand sliding into her hair, messy and a little loose, almost falling out of her bun. 

you kissed her first this time.

and paige melted into it.

for moment, she pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes searching your face like she needed to  make sure you were sure again. and when she saw the way you were looking at her—her breath caught in her throat. 

she leaned down, kissed you slow once more, then gently guided you back, laying you down across your bed. she was gentle. like she was lucky just to touch you.

you sank into the mattress, heart pounding as paige hovered above you. her hand brushes lightly over your side, watching your eyes, then she sat up. 

without a word, she reached for the hem of her black tank top and pulled it over her head, revealing her sports bra, the muscles in her arms flexing as she did. she tossed the shirt aside, then brought her hands to the button of her jeans. 

you watched, barely breathing, as she popped it open. slid the zipper down. slowly. 

and eased the denim down her hips.

she watched your eyes as she undressed, making sure you were watching her. you see her smirk, a soft chuckle leaving her lips when she sees you roll your eyes at how smug she’s being right now. 

soon enough, she stepped out of them, now left in just her boxers and her bra.

god—she was beautiful. tall. lean. strong.

“still okay?” she asked. 

“yeah,” you nodded. barely a whisper. “i want you.”

and paige smiled softly, a little crooked, “aight then.”

she couldn’t help but stare for a moment. 

paige hovered above you, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of your hips, her hands planted on either side of your head like she was caging you in. 

she looked down at you—laid out beneath her in nothing but that fucking black lace, the same one she’d gotten a glimpse of in the bathroom, the one she hadn’t stopped thinking about since—fuck.

it was like the air had been knocked clean out of her chest.

her eyes dragged over every inch of you. the rise of your chest. the curve of your stomach. the way your thighs pressed together nervously, your fingers twitching against the sheets.

her mouth parted, lips still swollen and glistening.

“goddamn,” she whispered, voice barely there.

she ran a hand over her face and licked her lips, like she was trying to wake herself up.

her eyes dropped again, slowly tracing every detail—how the lace hugged your curves, the way your skin looked in the dim light of your room. 

how absolutely perfect you looked beneath her.

she shook her head like she couldn’t believe it.

“so gorgeous, baby,” she murmured, leaning down again, her lips dragging over your neck. “so fuckin’ fine.“

paige kissed lower—her mouth pressed soft, lingering kisses across your chest, your shoulders, the valley of your breasts, a hand coming up to cup them and squeezing softly before sliding down to your waist once more. her fingers traced along the side of your hips, thumb slipping just under the lace of your panties, and she groaned against your skin, her breath hot.

“this what you wore under that dress?” she asked. 

she kissed you again—even lower this time, just above your stomach. and you nodded, cheeks pink, and she grinned against your skin, her teeth catching your hipbone gently.

“you wore this for him?”

you opened your mouth to explain, to say no, but paige looked up at you then, eyes locked with yours. desperate. possessive.

she leaned up again, her hand sliding up your side, over the curve of your ribs until she reached your bra strap. she toyed with it a second, then whispered—

“nah. you wore this for me.”

you couldn’t even argue.

“right, baby?” she murmured, her thumbs playing with the waistband of your panties. “tell me who you wore it for.”

you could barely breathe, let alone speak.

your chest rose and fell under her, every inch of your skin burning where she touched, where she looked. her body was so close, heat radiating off of her like fire, and god, her voice was doing something to you you didn’t have words for. her hand stayed right there on your hip, fingers slipping under the lace edge again, teasing you. her eyes stayed locked on yours, waiting, mouth parted. 

“you.” you swallowed, lips barely moving when you whispered, “i wore this for you, paige.”

paige smiles, her cheeks burning more than ever as she moves to bury her face into your neck, hiding the blush fanning over her skin. 

when she lifts her head up, her lips crashed into yours again, hungrier this time. her hand slid up your thigh, her body lowering to press more firmly against yours. 

you whimpered into her mouth, wrapping your legs loosely around her waist without thinking, pulling her in closer, needing more. she gasped at that, hips rolling slow against yours once, once, and her whole body stiffened like she couldn’t take it.

she kissed down your neck again, right against your skin. her hands a quick to pull that bra off of you, desperate to feel your tits in her hands. she squeezes them lightly, dragging her lips over the soft flesh, smiling at the feeling of your hard nipples under the pads of her thumbs. you whimper quietly as she gently wraps her lips around one of your nipples and sucks, licking them softly as her hand toys with the other. she switches when she felt like it, giving each nipple equal attention, kissing and marking your skin.

she kisses you down the valley of breasts again, giving each of your boobs a gentle squeeze, before making her way down to your stomach, where she meets the waistband of your lace panties again. paige does well to tease you, skipping the fabric and traveling lower. she kissed the inside of your thigh, slowly, savoring the way your body responded—how you tensed and softened at the same time. how your hand reached blindly for her shoulder. 

she kissed higher. then higher.

her breath hot. her lips soft and maddeningly slow.

her fingers spread along your thighs, thumbs brushing upward toward your hips. 

she wanted you to feel safe. wanted you to feel everything.

soon enough, paige finally pulled your panties down your legs, throwing them somewhere behind her. her eyes never moved away from your body, watching as you squeezed your thighs together, shyly looking at her, you eyes half-lidded. you laid there, bare, hair fanned out on the mattress, over the sheets of your bed, waiting for her…

paige’s knees nearly gives out. her cheeks burning as she stares, her hands absentmindedly reaching to put her hands on your thighs, gently nudging them open.

“spread your legs, mama,” she says, mouth parted, almost as if she was drooling. “lemme see you.”

“paige…” you whimper softly.

“swear, imma make feel you so good.”

there’s a soft shuffling of the sheets as paige urges your thighs apart with her big hands, settling herself onto the bed. with her head between your legs. mouth practically watering. big blue eyes locked onto that perfect pussy of yours. she smirks when she sees how wet you are. fuck, you drive her crazy. she slicks a finger between your folds and hums, leaning closer, nudging her nose against your clit. 

when her mouth finally met where you needed her most, your back arched. your and paige—god, she moaned when she tasted you. her tongue moved slow at first. learning you. she was taking her time. wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere. like she just wanted to worship you. you whimpered, your hand flying to her blonde hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as her mouth moved against you, licking deeper, firmer, then softer again, teasing.

“p-paige, hah--!”

paige groaned into you, your moans only feeding her ambitions, gripping your thighs tighter, and when you gasped and your hips bucked gently, she held you down with one strong arm, never letting up. and you could barely think. she was relentless. so tender. so focused. like she’d been dreaming about this exact moment. she has been, actually. she’s dreamt about having you in her bed. legs spread open. body writhing. screaming her name. leaking all over her sheets. 

“you taste so fuckin’ good,” she whispered against you, her mouth still working between your legs. 

your eyes fluttered shut, head falling back against the pillow, thighs shaking. and when paige covers your entire clit with her mouth and just sucks hard—you can’t help but moan her name out all over again. 

she fucks you slow, her mouth and tongue watering as she eats you out, absolutely obsessed with the way you roll your eyes back in pure ecstasy, your soft thighs closing in around your head, trapping her there. 

paige thinks she’s in heaven. fuck, she could die happy right now. her face buried and tongue buried deep into your pussy. sucking. slicking. slurping. you taste so fucking good. 

and you were already close--god, how long has it been? you could barely breathe. every sound slipping from your lips was soft. desperate. with your hips moving against her mouth without even realizing it. and paige groaned again. she loved that. every time you moaned, every twitch, every whimper—she needed more of it. she fucked you deeper, licked faster, her mouth dragging over your most sensitive spot in a way that made you cry out.

she wanted you to fall apart.

“you close, ma?” 

you only moaned in response. 

paige smiles. her eyes fluttered open for a second, catching your face twisted in pleasure, and she swore under her breath before closing them again, diving back in.

“oh, fuck, that’s it, baby,” she mumbled against your cunt. “just like that. lemme hear you.”

your legs tightened around her shoulders, your hands still tangled in her hair, and she didn’t stop—god, she didn’t even slow down. she licked you through every sound you gave her.

you were close. she could feel it. you could feel it.

and fuck—she was close, too. paige has never felt anything like this before. but, it’s so hot watching you come undone. her whines against your pussy turn into fervent moans and groans, absentmindedly grinding her hips into your bed as she continues to fuck you faster with her mouth. paige feels so fucking good. you taste so. fucking. good.

“f-fuck yes--(y/n)—“

and then you’re cumming right on her tongue.

but paige keeps her head buried between your thighs, her mouth relentless as she fucks you more through your orgasm. your hands flew to paige’s head without thinking—fingers tangling tight in her blonde hair, not sure if you wanted to push her away or pull her closer. you gasped, back arching off the bed as you let out a choked sound. your fingers tightened, tugging gently, but paige didn’t budge. she just groaned, moaning into your slick cunt, eyes half-lidded as she continued to eat you out. 

god, paige was practically drunk on you. as if this was more pleasure for her than it was for you.

“paige—fuck, paige—wait—” you gasped, trying to speak through the stimulation.

you moan her name again, already nearing your second orgasm. you can feel her strong, big hands clinging onto your thighs, keeping you open, pushing you down onto the bed in case you even think about trying to push her away. but she just slurps. and slurps. everything is just so sloppy. so lewd. she laps at your cunt, her hips needily grinding into the mattress at the mere thought of you cumming again. 

she held you through it, her mouth never leaving you, her arms never loosening, like she needed to feel every single second of you breaking apart in her hands.

she didn’t lift her head.

she didn’t even pretend to stop.

before you know it, you practically gush onto her face, crying her name out once again. 

and while you came on her tongue, her hips jolted forward on instinct, her boxers sticking damp against her skin, and then—

a low groan tore from her throat, muffled into your skin, her mouth still on you as she cums in her boxers, untouched. paige clung to your thighs, her fingers digging in slightly, her body rocking forward once, then twice.  she shakes slightly, resting her forehead against your lower stomach as she catches her breath. she could feel how wet and how hard she came. 

her face stayed pressed against your skin, breath shaky, heart pounding, teeth sinking into her lip as she tried to collect herself.

you were breathless. completely spent. your chest rising and falling fast. she didn’t say anything at first. with your body still buzzing, you blinked up at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling slowly as you tried to breathe. 

“hah--fuck, i…” paige pants quietly. 

“paige,” you breathed, “d-did you just…”

her whole body stiffened.

you watched as her back rose with a deep breath and then stuttered when she exhaled. she turned her face slowly, pressing it into your stomach to hide, her arms tightening around you in embarrassment.

her voice came out muffled, “y-yeah.”

you blinked, your mouth parting slightly in awe. 

and then—god, she groaned into your skin, clearly mortified, clearly red as hell even if you couldn’t even see her full face.

“fuck, don’t make it a thing,” she mumbled shyly into your belly. “i didn’t mean to… i wasn’t—”

she stopped for a second.

“you just… sounded so fuckin’ good. i couldn’t help it.”

your heart fluttered. 

then you smiled and reached down, your fingers gently threading through her hair, feeling the damp warmth of her cheek against your stomach.

“paige…” you whispered.

her cheeks were so red. flushed all the way up to her ears, lips parted, her breathing still shallow like her body hadn’t come down yet. strands of her hair clung to her forehead, lips swollen, and her lashes fluttered as she finally met your eyes.

“come here.”

paige obeys immediately. 

she kisses you along the way, dragging her lips across your skin. she just kissed the inside of your thigh, soft and slow. then again. then she pressed her lips higher, just above your hipbone, her hand brushing gently up your side.  her mouth trailed along your stomach in a line of soft kisses,

she took her time.

soon, her lips found your ribs, the underside of your breast, your nipple, the dip beneath your collarbone. and when she finally reached your mouth again, she hovered for a second, her nose brushing yours. 

your eyes opened slowly, just enough to see her looking down at you like you. 

not a word left your lips as she watched you smile softly. 

you just leaned up and kissed her, slow, and she melted into it immediately, sighing into your mouth like she’d been waiting all her life for it.

and immediately, your breath hitched.

because you could taste it. yourself. on her. 

the heat in your cheeks spread quickly. you felt it the second your tongue slipped against hers. 

paige groaned quietly into the kiss when she felt your body react, her hand slipping to the side of your neck, holding you there gently. like she couldn’t stand the space between you. she kissed you deeper. slower. and you kissed her back. you wrapped your arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer, your fingers sliding over the tight muscles in her back, feeling her breath stutter against your lips as you parted your mouth for her again.

her lips were so soft. warm. still a little swollen. and the taste of you on her tongue was intoxicating. you whimpered softly without meaning to, and she pulled back just an inch, barely enough to speak, her forehead resting against yours.

then, without warning, she just… blurted it out. 

“can i take you out?” 

you blinked up at her. once. twice. before your brows lifted in surprise, heart skipping hard in your chest.

“what?” you whispered, almost laughing, partly stunned, like maybe you’d misheard.

like maybe she didn’t really just say that with her body still pressed to yours, both of you naked in your bed.

but she nodded. serious. face still flushed. 

“like… on a real date,” she said. “like dinner. or… whatever you want.”

she swallowed the lump in her throat, eyes scanning all over your face for any sign of doubt.

“you’re seriously asking me that… right now?”

“well… i’ve been wantin’ to ask. i just…” she smiled a little, sheepish. “kinda figured maybe i should do it after i made you cum first.”

your jaw dropped. 

and all you could manage, through the haze of disbelief and the tiredness through your body, was--

“you… are so annoying.”

paige blinked.

then grinned. wide. mischievous.

“c’mon,” she laughed, burying her face into your neck, her body shaking as she clung to you and laughed. “don’t play me like that—i was tryna be romantic.”

“that was romantic?” you deadpanned, though you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

“pretty sure,” she muttered, voice muffled against your skin. “i made you cum so hard you forgot how to say yes. that’s gotta count for something.”

you rolled your eyes, cheeks burning as you smacked her shoulder lightly.

“paige!”

“what?” she grinned, finally lifting her head, eyes shining, face flushed and soft with affection.

you rolled your eyes again, but your hand moved and stayed in her hair, your thumb idly brushing the edge of her ear. dazed at the feeling of your touch, paige leaned in again, pressing the gentlest kiss to your collarbone, then your shoulder, then the corner of your mouth.

“i meant it, though,” she said quietly. “about the date.”

“yeah, i know,” you say, smiling softly, noticing how nervous she’s gotten all of sudden. 

paige looked at you. really looked this time. it was dark in your room, but she could see your face clearly. her smile lingered, but it faltered slightly around the edges. and then her eyes dropped to your lips, then your collarbone, then back to your eyes again like she couldn’t settle.

“i really like you.”

she swallowed hard. like the words tasted too big in her mouth. like they’d been sitting there for years and this was the only way they’d come out. 

“i have for a long time,” she admitted. her voiced cracked the tiniest bit. she smiled again, but it was nervous. “i didn’t know how to say it before. or if i should. or if you’d wanna hear it. but… i do. i really… really like you.”

her thumb brushed your hip gently, her body still pressing against yours, scared you’d pull away.

you didn’t say anything at first.

you couldn’t. you just looked at the pink dusted across her cheeks, the way her lashes fluttere, the way her mouth twitched at the corners like she was trying to smile through the panic.

paige bueckers, who was usually so calm. so goofy. poised… looked terrified with you.

“paige,” you whispered, barely getting her name out.

her eyes moved up to meet yours, and for a second she looked like she regretted everything she just said. like she wanted to pull the words right out of the air and take them back.

you shook your head slowly, blinking back the sudden heat behind your eyes.

“why didn’t you ever tell me?”

she gave a weak, breathless laugh, rubbing the back of her neck.

“shit, i don’t know,” she said, shaking her head softly, eyes dropping again. “i honestly didn’t think you’d even consider me. and i didn’t wanna mess up what we had, too, so...”

she paused before speaking again. 

“but when i kissed you that night, i… fuck, i couldn’t stop thinkin about you.”

immediately, you reached for her slowly, cradling her face in your hands, thumbs brushing over her hot cheeks.

“i couldn’t stop thinking about you either,” you admitted. 

paige’s lips curved up into a crooked smile. she let out a small huff through her nose, her forehead resting against yours. 

she couldn’t believe this was real.

then she pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a hand moving to your waist, her thumb brushing gently over your skin. she couldn’t stop touching you even if she tried.

“so…” she mumbled, lips twitching up into another grin. “you’ll go on that date with me?”

you roll your eyes first, but you could see it on her face that she was trying to play it cool, trying not to seem too eager, too in her feelings. but she was. she wanted this. wanted you. and not just like this.

she wanted more.

“yeah,” you nodded. “i’ll go on that date with you.”

paige beamed, practically glowing, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“bet.”

you barely had time to breathe before she kissed you again. gentle. smiling against your mouth like she couldn’t help it. in truth, she really felt like her heart was overflowing and kissing you was the only way to keep it from spilling out everywhere. you kissed her back, laughing a little through your nose when she nosed at your cheek afterward, all soft and affectionate, like her whole body had relaxed for the first time in weeks.

you though about the party. how you left matt without even saying goodbye to him. paige pulled you out of the door before you could even look at him. she didn’t want you to look. but she spotted him back in the kitchen as she walked you out. gave him a glare as she pulled you through the party, a hand low on your waist, pulling you close to her body, making sure he saw.

and god, did it make her feel good. 

“you really are annoying,” you mumbled again, your fingers sliding through her hair at the nape of her neck.

“mhm,” she murmured, mouth moving against your jaw. “you already said that.”

her lips traced a lazy path down your jaw, then dipped to your neck, pressing gentle kisses and licks that made your skin shiver. her mouth found your collarbone next, sucking softly, stealing your focus a little more as she marked up your neck with light bruises. 

“i meant it,” you said, suddenly shaky. 

“i know, baby.”

finally, breath hitching in your throat, you whispered, “paige…”

but she only hummed in response, her lips continuing to explore your delicate skin. her lips pressed against your skin again.

you tried again, little more desperate now, “p-paige…”

but she just smiled against your skin, humming like she was saying i hear you, even if she had no plans to stop.

her hands slid up your sides, warm palms trailing, fingers dragging lightly along your ribs, and your whole body shivered. you felt her nose brush your neck, and her mouth found the spot just below your ear.

another kiss. slower. then another. and another.

you tried to speak again. tried to say something, anything—but your breath stuttered again the moment her mouth opened just a little against your neck, her tongue tasting the edge of your pulse, where your skin was sensitive.

“paige,” you exhaled, almost scolding, but it came out as a whisper.

“mm?” she hummed. 

her lips never leave your skin. your fingers curled gripping her shoulders. you weren’t even sure what you were trying to say anymore. your head tilted back without even thinking, inviting her in, chasing the feeling of her mouth. she kept kissing you. lazily. hungrily. like she had all the time in the world and none at all. you felt her tongue graze your neck, felt her hand slide up the back of your thigh again. 

you felt dazed. as if she were kissing the thoughts right out of you. as if she’d made up her mind that she was going to kiss every single inch of you until you couldn’t think straight.

and fuck, it was working.

“i wanna fuck you again,” she confessed quietly against your neck. 

“please,” you whispered, almost too quiet for her to hear. “don’t stop.”

you feel her smile against your skin. 

and just like that—she was yours. and you were hers.

for real this time. no more pretending.

just… you. and her.

finally.

masterlist | © bueckii.

[buckysleftbicep]

bent and bruised (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dub-con/non-con sex under HYDRA's captivity (flashback), unprotected sex, non-consensual experimentation (flashback), physical violence, sex in captivity, forced scientific experimentation, very heavy angst, longing, unresolved tension (tw: ptsd, some scenes of sexual violence)

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 5.5k

author's note: hi loves! i finally am done with chapter 3 and gosh, am i excited for you guys to read it 🥰! i am falling ill and i injured myself rock climbing today, i'll still do my best to write as much as i can! 💓 i hope you enjoy this chapter! love ya guys and please stay safe out there! 💌

series masterlist

The darkness felt alive, thick, almost viscous, like it was clinging to your skin, crawling into your lungs with every breath you took. 

It didn’t feel like fantasy, not even a nightmare. It felt like something stolen—something real.

A memory sealed deep beneath your skull, pried open when your defences were at their weakest.

You were cold. Naked, spine pressed to metal, breath rising in fast, fogged bursts. 

And he was there, his weight above you, surrounding you, moving inside you with a slow, trembling urgency that made your eyes sting. You couldn’t see his face, not fully. It was shadowed, blurred around the edges like someone had smudged your memory, but your body knew him. 

Every inch of him.

The stretch of him inside you wasn’t rushed or cruel. It was slow, deliberate, almost like he was afraid to let go. Like he was carving your shape into himself one thrust at a time, just in case this was the last.

His mouth hovered over your shoulder, breathing hard, jaw tense. You could hear it—the effort, the control. The need shaking just beneath his skin.

His hand chilled and sure, cupped the side of your jaw with gentle care, thumb brushing the edge of your lip. The other hand, trembling, held you steady at the hip.

He moved deep. Deep and slow and careful, like he was trying to stretch time thin around you. Each grind of his hips into yours was a silent plea: remember this, remember me.

Your hands clawed at him, not out of fear. But out of desperation. Your fingernails sank into the muscle of his back, dragging down warm, sweat-slick skin. And he welcomed it. Welcomed the pain, welcomed the proof that you were still here. That you wanted him.

“I can’t…” His voice was a rasp in the dark. “I can’t let them take you.”

“You won’t.” Your words were a whisper, wet with tears, barely audible over the wet slick of bodies moving. “Don’t think about them. Not now, just stay with me.”

He kissed you, messy, shaking, like it hurt him to let go even for breath. And you swore you tasted salt.

“You have to leave,” he said against your mouth, each word catching on a thrust. “If I don’t come back, you get out. I told you the route.”

You shook your head. “I’m not leaving you here.”

His breath hitched. You felt it, his entire body tightening, hips pressing harder, deeper, slower.

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t give them a reason to take you too.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered, lifting a shaking hand to his cheek. You could feel the heat of his breath there, the slight scratch of stubble, the single tear that slipped free and landed on your wrist.

He stilled, just for a second, his forehead came to rest against yours as he rocked into you again, slower this time, deeper, as if he wanted to live inside your body. 

As if this was the only place he’d ever been safe.

“Don’t forget me,” you whispered, barely holding back your sob.

He kissed you again. A sound tore from his chest.

“I won’t,” he said. “I don’t care what they do. I won’t forget you.”

You came first, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t explosive. It was quiet and shattering, a raw, full-body tremble as he moved inside you, as his name fell from your lips in a cracked whisper. He followed with a low, pained moan, spilling into you with a final, stuttering thrust that felt like goodbye.

His arms wrapped around you like he could keep you there. Like if he held tight enough, the world wouldn’t come crashing down.

But it always did.

Before he could breathe your name again, before you could kiss him one more time, the dream split open.

A hand. Rough. Grabbing your wrist.

The warmth of his body vanished in an instant. The metal table beneath you went cold.

You didn’t struggle. Not yet. You were too stunned, too afraid that fighting would mean punishment for him. 

For both of you. You were yanked backward, your hands clawing toward him in instinct, but never reaching.

He reached for you. But you never quite touched.

You turned your head, mouth parted in a soundless cry, but even then—even in that final, searing moment—you couldn’t see his face. Something was blocking it, blurring it.

Like it had been taken from you on purpose.

Like they’d forced you to forget the man you once would’ve burned the world for.

The light above you was too harsh. Cold and artificial, buzzing faintly with that fluorescent whine that made your molars ache. 

For a long moment, you didn’t move. The air felt thick in your lungs, heavy and clinical, laced with antiseptic and faint copper. 

Your vision swam, your skull throbbed in pulses. A bandage tugged at your temples when you shifted, the gauze rough against your skin. And you were drenched in sweat.

The fabric of your medical gown stuck to your body in damp patches, clinging like a second skin. The sheets beneath you were twisted, tangled around your legs like you’d been fighting ghosts in your sleep. 

And maybe you had. Because even as the dream, no, the memory started to fade at the edges, the ache didn’t. The echo of him, his weight, his breath, his hands, lingered like bruises beneath your skin.

Your breathing stuttered.

Your thighs trembled slightly, just like they had in the dream. You blinked again, harder this time, trying to separate reality from the remnants of sleep.

But then you felt it. The pressure.

A weight.

Your right hand. It wasn’t free.

You turned your head, slowly, cautiously, as pain bloomed sharp and hot at the base of your skull and saw him.

Bucky was slouched in the chair beside you, body folded forward like gravity had been pulling him toward you the whole time. His vest was still streaked with ash and dried blood, flecks of dirt clinging to the grooves.

His shoulders were tense even in sleep, the faint tremor of exhaustion still clinging to his limbs. And his hair—dark and damp—hung forward over his face in a tangled curtain.

But his hand…

His hand was wrapped tightly around yours.

Like it was the only thing keeping him in this reality, like letting go would send him spiraling back into whatever hell he’d barely crawled out of.

You shifted beneath the sheets. The sound of the fabric must’ve been enough.

He jolted awake.

His head snapped up, eyes wild at first—blinking rapidly, trying to shake off whatever nightmare he’d fallen into—and then his gaze locked on you. Just you. Like the rest of the world didn’t matter.

“(Y/n)…?”

Your name sounded like a prayer in his mouth. Half-broken. Disbelieving. His voice cracked, catching on the syllables like they hurt coming out. He leaned forward, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “god, you’re okay.”

You tried to sit up, instinct more than anything, but the world tilted sharply. Your head spun. Pain flared in your ribs.

“Hey—slow,” he murmured, his hand sliding behind your back without hesitation. Gentle, careful. He helped you up just enough to get your bearings. His touch was steady, familiar.

Too familiar.

You blinked up at him, and for one, heart-stopping moment, something stirred in your chest.

Recognition.

It wasn’t clear, it wasn’t clean, but it was there, a flicker of knowing, almost like your soul remembered something your mind couldn’t quite reach.

You stared at him—at the shadows beneath his eyes, the worry carved into the corners of his mouth. At the quiet desperation in the way he watched you, like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

“Where am I?” you asked, voice dry, barely more than a rasp.

He cleared his throat, gaze flickering down to your wrapped head, then back to your eyes. “The compound medbay. You were airlifted in after the explosion, you hit your head pretty hard, you, uh, you’ve been out for hours.”

You swallowed thickly. The memories were fractured at best—gunfire, smoke, heat. The sound of your own pulse thundering in your ears as something collapsed behind you.

Then nothing. Until the dream.

You nodded slowly. The silence stretched between you, heavy and uncertain.

So you did what you always did when things got too quiet.

You cracked a joke.

“Guess I’m not getting a bonus, huh?”

It came out weaker than you’d meant it to, but his lips twitched. Just slightly. A half-smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was there.

“I could talk to HR,” he said softly, smile still on his face.

You let the silence return after that. Just long enough to find your breath again. To sit with the way your hand still rested in his, and how neither of you seemed in a hurry to let go.

You looked at him, really looked at him. And once again that strange flicker stirred in your gut. 

Like déjà vu with teeth, your chest ached, but not from the fall. not from the wound.

From absence. From the quiet kind of longing that made your skin itch with need.

You exhaled slowly. “Thanks,” you murmured.

His eyes dropped to your intertwined hands, then back to your face.

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” he said.

But he didn’t let go.

You let him hold you. Because deep down, something in you whispered, 

You’ve always let him.

The hours passed strangely.

The kind of sluggish, liminal time that only existed in sterile places like hospitals, where the world outside kept spinning and you stayed still. 

A nurse had come and gone, checking your vitals, scribbling notes on a clipboard, murmuring something about mild concussion symptoms and rest. 

None of it stuck, your head was too full. Not of pain, not of fear, but of sensation.

Like the memory hadn’t faded. Like it was sitting just beneath your skin, simmering.

Bucky had barely moved. He sat again at your side, no longer gripping your hand like a lifeline, but still near. Watchful. His gaze flicked to you every few minutes like he didn’t trust the machines to tell him whether you were breathing.

He’d changed out of his vest at some point. Worn joggers now, a black t-shirt that clung to him like a second skin, sleeves tight around his biceps. His hair was pushed back from his face now, slightly damp, as if he’d splashed cold water over himself just to stay conscious.

You didn’t say much. Neither did he.

Eventually, he stood. Moved to the far counter where a plastic jug and a few styrofoam cups were lined up. You watched the flex of his shoulder, the quiet way he moved—efficient, unthinking, like he was forcing his hands to be useful. Like if he stopped, even for a second, it would all catch up to him.

He came back and held the cup out toward you, waiting until you were steady enough to reach.

Your fingers brushed.

It was so small, a blink of contact, the backs of his knuckles against yours. 

The barest slide of skin.

And it hit you.

Like a crack of lightning across your spine.

Your breath caught—sharp and involuntary—as heat flooded your system. It wasn’t just a reaction. It wasn’t random, it was familiar.

You saw it—felt it—all at once.

The weight of his body between your thighs. His mouth hot and wet and relentless, tongue curling just right, the muscles in your abdomen tightening as your hips bucked into him. 

His hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider. His hair gripped in your fist, the way he growled low in his throat when you tugged just a little too hard.

That voice—familiar and foreign all at once—rasped your name like a secret drawn between your thighs, aching with recognition you couldn’t explain.

You gasped aloud.

The cup slipped.

Water splashed across the sheets, cool against your thigh.

Bucky froze mid-step, half-turned to sit again, his eyes snapping to yours instantly. His brow furrowed, voice low and careful.

“You okay?”

Too fast—too sharp—you nodded.

“Yeah. Just dizzy.”

Your hand twitched.

He saw it, your fingers, still trembling.

You reached down to adjust the cup with a shaky grip, turning it upright, avoiding his gaze even as the weight of it pressed into your chest like a stone.

But he didn’t move, didn’t sit.

You weren’t sure what he saw in your face. But you felt what was in yours—confusion, panic, a quiet desperation to understand why your body remembered the shape of his tongue and the sound of his groan like it was etched into your DNA.

He stepped forward finally, slow and careful, retrieving the cup from your hand.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t speak.

The pulse between your legs hadn’t faded. Neither had the echo of that voice in your mind.

“Don’t forget me.”

He turned back to the counter, as if giving you space.

But he’d seen it.

The flicker in your eyes and the truth in your trembling hands.

The next day passed in pieces.

You weren’t cleared to leave the medbay yet, not with the swelling still lingering behind your eyes, not with your vitals climbing and dipping like a body trying to remember how to live. Time moved slow, blurred at the edges, but it didn’t stop the visits.

The first to arrive was Yelena.

You heard her before you saw her—the distinct thump of combat boots against linoleum, the door creaked open on a soft hinge, and there she was, dressed in her vest and scuffed jeans, holding a plastic cup of electric-green jello like it was some prize.

“Bob swears this shit will fix everything,” she said, plopping it down on the table beside your cot. “I don’t believe him, but you know, points for optimism.”

You managed a tired smile. “If I eat that, I’m pretty sure I’ll die for real.”

Yelena grinned. “Yeah, but then you’ll stop scaring the shit out of everyone.”

You were about to respond when she looked past you, brows lifting slightly, head tilting just enough to catch the shape of him where he stood near the window.

Bucky.

Leaning against the far wall, arms folded over his chest. Silent, watchful. The kind of still that looked practiced, but wasn’t neutral. 

Not around you.

Yelena’s gaze bounced between the two of you, her mouth twitching at the corners.

“You know he hasn’t left, right?” she said casually, tearing the plastic lid off the jello and handing you the spoon. “Not even for a piss break. Bob started taking bets about whether he’s just pissing in the corner when no one’s looking.”

You snorted weakly. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re blind,” she retorts playfully “Seriously, it’s like you’re his long-lost soulmate or something.”

You looked over at Bucky.

He was pretending not to listen, but the way his jaw twitched told you otherwise.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. “I don’t think he even knows me.”

Yelena didn’t argue. She just shrugged, popping a piece of your jello into her mouth with a grimace.

“Doesn’t look that way to me.”

There was something unsettling about her tone. Not teasing anymore. Not really. Just, observant, sharp.

And she wasn’t the only one.

You noticed it later, when you were being wheeled through the corridor for a scan.

John stood near the breakroom, munching on chips like he didn’t have a care in the world, but his eyes tracked Bucky as he hovered at your side, never more than a step behind.

Ava was more subtle. She paused mid-sentence when she saw the way Bucky steadied your elbow as you slid back into bed. 

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. No comment.

No one said it out loud.

But they all knew.

And Val noticed too.

She found Bucky in the supply wing an hour later, sorting through gear he didn’t need. He was coiled tight, shoulders hunched, like he’d been bracing for the inevitable.

“You’ve been distracted,” Val said sharply, her heels clicking to a stop behind him. “You sat in that room like the world fucking ended.”

Bucky didn’t turn around, his knuckles were still bruised. A cut on his cheek hadn’t fully closed.

“She almost died,” he said, voice low. “I’m just watching out for her.”

Val crossed her arms. “Bullshit. That wasn’t concern, that was clearly something else.”

He was silent.

“I pulled her file.”

That made him pause. Not move. But pause.

Val’s eyes narrowed. “You knew her back when you were still with HYDRA, didn’t you?”

Still, he didn’t answer.

The silence was an answer in itself.

Val’s voice softened slightly. Not with sympathy, she didn’t traffic in that, but with a clinical sort of caution. Like she’d stumbled too close to something that still had fangs.

“She doesn’t remember you, James.”

He tensed.

“Don’t make it worse,” she said, voice low now.

You hadn’t meant to hear it.

You weren’t eavesdropping, not exactly.

But the door had been left partially ajar. You had wandered out of the medbay for a walk, trying to shake the strange hum beneath your skin. 

And now you stood there—just outside their view, barely breathing—as the words echoed like a gunshot in your skull.

“She doesn’t remember you, James.”

Something inside you cracked.

You stepped away before they could see you, the hallway narrowing around you, colder somehow than it had been before.

And still, despite the ache in your skull, the tremble in your fingers—you couldn’t help but remember the way his hand had stayed wrapped around yours. 

All night. All morning.

Like letting go might undo something neither of you knew how to name.

It always started the same.

Darkness and god, the cold, that silence between screams, the kind you could only hear inside a HYDRA cell.

He didn’t dream of it often, not fully. But sometimes, when he blinked too long, or sat too still, the memory crept back in, a loop stitched beneath his skin.

This time, it hit harder.

Because he’d seen you again. And this time, you didn’t remember him.

Bucky was outside the medbay, back against the corridor wall, jaw clenched, trying to get a handle on his breath. But inside, his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere deeper, somewhere they’d taken from him piece by piece.

It came back in fragments. 

You were beneath him.

Not now.

Then.

Laid out across the metal table they left in his cell because it was easier to clean. Your wrists bore the faint marks of the cuffs they usually kept you in. 

But they were gone now. Gone because he was inside you, moving slowly, carefully, desperately, like every second mattered.

“James…” you whispered. Not a question, a plea.

His name in your mouth broke him open.

He bent lower, breath trembling against your cheek, the rhythm of his hips slow and uneven, like it hurt to let himself feel this much.

And it did. It fucking did. But it was the only thing left that made him feel human.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, metal hand sliding up your jaw. He cupped your face like you were something sacred, thumb brushing your temple. His flesh hand gripped your hip, anchoring himself to the warmth of you. “I’ve got you.”

You touched his face—shaking fingers against stubble and sweat.

Your voice was thick, near breaking. “They know.”

He nodded. A single, broken motion. 

HYDRA hadn’t said it aloud. But they didn’t need to, but the punishments had changed.

The monitoring increased. The “exercises” became more frequent, more violent, the moment emotion slipped through the cracks of control, they pounced.

“We can still lie,” you whispered, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, like if you could just hold him close enough, none of it would matter. “We can act like we don’t—”

“I can’t lie about this anymore,” he choked. “I can’t watch them hurt you and pretend I feel nothing.”

“Then don’t,” you said, fingers slipping into his hair. “Then don’t, James. Just—stay. Just be here. With me.”

He kissed you—long, shaking, open-mouthed. Not possessive, not frenzied. Just full. Full of everything he never got to say. Of all the ways he’d memorised the slope of your throat and the shape of your breath.

When he came, it wasn’t with a groan, it was with a whimper. His entire body shuddered, forehead pressed to yours as he spilled inside you, whispering your name like a confession.

But the second he collapsed against your chest, it changed.

The door slammed open.

Bright lights. Boots. Orders barked in Russian.

“No—no, wait—” you started to sit up, but rough hands grabbed you.

Bucky’s arms were yanked from around you before he could blink. “Leave her alone!” he shouted, struggling against two guards who held him by the arms.

You were still bare, skin sticky with sweat and cum, legs trembling from aftershocks when they dragged you upright by the shoulders.

He fought harder.

One of the guards pulled a gun, pressed it to your temple and he stilled instantly.

The other looked at you, then laughed. “Told you they’d get fucking compromised.”

“Guess it’s chair time for the whore,” the first one muttered. “The freak’s next.”

“No—” Bucky’s voice cracked, panic splitting wide in his chest. “No, don’t—”

He lunged. Got one arm free. Reached for you.

You reached back.

Your fingertips brushed.

And then you were gone.

Bucky flinched so hard he nearly dropped the gear in his hands.

Back in the present, he braced his palms on the table, eyes squeezed shut, breath tearing in and out of his lungs.

They’d dragged you from him, taken you straight to the chair. Just like they always threatened, just like he always feared.

And the worst part?

HYDRA thought it worked.

They thought they’d erased you from him, wiped the memory clean, rinsed out every whisper of your softness with static and steel and blood.

But they missed something.

Because the first time he saw you again, the real you, alive and free and standing in that hallway with your eyes full of fire, something inside him lit up.

He didn’t just remember you. He felt you.

And every time you spoke to him now, every time you looked at him with that faint glimmer of recognition you couldn’t place, he felt it again.

The very thing HYDRA tried to kill.

The thing they called weakness.

The thing they were sure could never bloom in men like him.

Love.

The dreams didn’t stop.

If anything, they got worse.

Every night you fell asleep, your body betrayed you. Pulled you under like it wanted to remember. Like it had been waiting.

And every time, the darkness greeted you the same way—with the chill of metal under your spine and the scent of damp concrete. Skin against skin, heat blooming in places that made you wake up shaking.

You still couldn’t see his face. But your body knew him.

The dreams weren’t violent. Not in the traditional sense.

But they were unbearable all the same—soaked in desperation, soft moans that made your throat ache when you woke up with them on your lips. 

You’d feel him above you, inside you, every roll of his hips slow and aching, like he was trying to memorise the shape of you before someone took it away.

His voice, “I’ve got you.”

And then it would shift. The air would change. Cold fingers gripping your arms, dragging you backwards.

Always the fucking chair.

You’d wake drenched in sweat, chest heaving, thighs trembling, your own voice caught somewhere between a scream and a sob. 

Some nights, you could feel the phantom press of his body against yours for hours after. You’d flinch at your own reflection. You couldn’t explain it to anyone. 

Especially not him. Because Bucky had started looking at you like he knew.

Like he remembered something you didn’t. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

So one night—when the compound had gone quiet, long past midnight—you slipped out of your bunk, barefoot and sweating through your tank top, and padded your way down the empty corridors.

 Every flicker of light made your skin crawl, every camera made your stomach churn. 

But you kept walking until you reached it:

The archive room.

It was locked, of course, but you’d seen Ava punch in the code before and your fingers moved on instinct.

The light buzzed overhead as you stepped inside.

The room was colder than you expected, humming with the low static of electronics. Rows of drawers. Digital logs and hard backups. Most were encrypted. 

But the old paper files? They hadn’t been touched in years.

You found yours quickly.

The folder was thin. Too thin.

You pulled it out, sat at the dusty metal table, and opened it with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

It read like a blueprint. 

The first few pages were the usual medical entries, redacted fields, scans of your brain with parts blacked out entirely, notes in tight handwriting you didn’t recognise.

“obedience pattern successful.”

“tactile tolerance linked to subject B.”

“adjustment complete. subject remains compliant during post-coital monitoring.”

Your blood ran cold.

You flipped faster now, pages blurring—until you stopped on one that made your stomach drop:

SUBJECT: (REDACTED) STATUS: modified PURPOSE: designed for compatibility with subject B. Both neurological and physical responses show optimal pairing rates under induced stress. "Recommend continued dual-conditioning."

You weren’t just a prisoner. You were a match.

Not by accident but by design.

You were altered to match someone else’s frequency. Someone whose name had been blacked out. 

You pushed back from the table hard enough to make the chair screech.

Your hands were cold and your legs moved before your thoughts could catch up.

You found him alone in the gear bay.

It was 1:42 a.m and Bucky didn’t see you come in.

He was sitting on one of the crates, hunched forward, a disassembled rifle across his lap that didn’t need cleaning.

His hands moved out of habit, not necessity, almost like he needed something to do or he’d lose his mind entirely.

You didn’t clear your throat. Didn’t announce yourself.

“James,” you said softly.

He went still.

Not startled. Just… quiet.

He didn’t turn. “Yeah?”

You stepped forward. Just a little.

“Did you know me?”

A pause, then a breath that didn’t sound right.

“Why do you ask?” he said without looking up.

“Because I’ve been dreaming of a man I can’t see.” You swallowed hard.

His jaw twitched, you could see the tension in his spine, the way his fingers stilled against the rifle’s frame.

He didn’t speak right away.

“Please,” you breathe, the word trembling. “I just… I need to know.”

When he finally did, his voice was lower. Rough.

“I did know you,” he said. “Back then.”

You blinked.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet.

“Because I didn’t know if you remembered. And I didn’t want to trigger something. Or… hurt you. Again.”

He set the rifle aside.

Your throat tightened. “What exactly did HYDRA do to me?”

He looked at you then.

Eyes shadowed, haunted.

But more than that—ashamed.

“You mean what they did to both of us.”

You didn’t speak. Just let the silence thrum between you. Let him fill it on his own.

Bucky’s hand curled into a fist on his thigh, his thoughts moving behind his eyes like storms.

“They took us,” he said slowly, voice thick. “People they thought would survive the process. Then they rewired us bit by bit. Broke us open and built us into something they could use.”

You didn’t move.

“They paired us.” His voice cracked slightly. “They said we were compatible. That we wouldn’t fight back, that if we were conditioned together, we would obey them together.”

“Did we… did we know each other?” you whispered. 

“Not exactly,” he said.

Your chest twisted, a cruel kind of ache, not quite grief and yet not quite rage.

You nodded once. Just to show you heard him.

But the silence that followed said everything else.

Because there were things he wasn’t saying. You could see it—flickering just behind his eyes.

He was holding something back. And still, even with all of it swirling inside you, all you wanted to do was reach out and touch him, just to feel if your body still remembered what your mind had forgotten.

But you didn’t.

The hallway was dark when you stepped out.

Not silent, nothing in the compound ever really was, but hushed, like even the walls had quieted to let the night breathe.

A low mechanical hum pulsed through the air from somewhere deep in the infrastructure, the soft whirl of vents sighing overhead. 

The lights had dimmed to their after-hours glow, casting the corridor in washed-out blue and gentle shadows. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like the only person left in the world.

Most of the others had long since gone to bed. Earlier, you’d heard Ava’s laughter drifting up the stairwell, John’s heavy boots crossing the upper floor. But now, the compound had settled. 

The soft click of your door shutting behind you echoed. Bare feet touched cold tile, and your body gave a small involuntary shiver.

The cotton hem of your shirt brushed your thighs, the oversized sleeves half-swallowing your hands. You hadn’t bothered to grab socks, you hadn’t planned on going far.

You didn’t know why you’d gotten up, only that the stillness in your room had started to feel suffocating. The bed too empty and the quiet too damn loud. Something had been pressing against your chest all evening, some aching weight that wouldn’t name itself, but throbbed just beneath your ribs.

And that’s when you saw him.

He was sitting on the floor just outside your door.

His back was against the wall, legs folded in front of him—one drawn up, the other stretched out. His jaw shadowed with stubble, damp strands of hair curled behind his ear, like he’d showered but hadn’t cared to dry all the way. 

He looked tired. Not in the way people did after long days—but the kind of tired that burrowed in. 

He didn’t move when you opened the door, didn’t shift or scramble or explain.

He just looked up at you slowly.

No surprise, no embarrassment, just quiet recognition, like this was exactly where he was supposed to be.

You didn’t ask him why.

You simply stepped forward—and sat.

The floor was colder than you expected. Your knees drew up close to your chest, hands resting loosely over your shins. You sat beside him, not touching, not speaking, but close enough to feel the shape of him in the silence.

You both stared ahead for a while.

Not at anything. Just… forward. Breathing.

The silence between you wasn’t empty. It wasn’t awkward anymore, not sharp with hesitation the way it had been in the beginning. 

It felt full now. Comfortable. Heavy with everything that didn’t need to be said, and everything you were still afraid to ask.

After a long stretch of stillness, you heard him exhale softly beside you. A sigh, but not a frustrated one. A releasing one, almost like he’d been waiting for you to speak first.

And eventually, you did.

“It’s funny,” you whispered. “You make me feel safe, and I don’t know why.”

Your voice barely carried, but he heard it. 

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

But his head turned slightly, just enough to shift the air between you. Just enough to let you feel the full weight of his attention settle gently on your profile.

You stared straight ahead.

“It’s like I remember you,” you said, your throat tightening around the words.

He still didn’t speak.

But he shifted. Just barely.

You felt the subtle movement first—then saw it. His right hand, which had been resting palm-down on the floor, curled slowly into his lap. His fingers flexed once, then stilled. 

Your own hand was resting beside you, limp and open, your knuckles brushing against the edge of your sweatshirt.

Then, slowly, so slowly it made your breath catch, he reached.

His hand drifted toward yours.

Not fast, not accidental, but deliberate.

You watched, frozen, as his fingers hovered for a breath—just a breath—before his calloused ones slid beneath your palm.

And then he threaded them between yours.

A single, quiet interlocking.

No squeeze. No pressure.

Just presence.

It was the gentlest kind of intimacy, just his fingers laced with yours, as though your hands had always been meant to fit like that.

And maybe they had.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Because the moment he touched you like that—quietly, openly, with no expectation and no fear—something deep in your chest stopped shaking.

And for the first time in days, your breath came easier.

You didn’t look at him.

But you let your thumb press the faintest pressure against his. And still, he didn’t speak.

But his hand stayed in yours. Warm and steady.

As though letting go was not an option.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed this chapter, if you did, please leave a comment or reblog! i appreciate your support <3333 💌

taglist: @poisntree @moth-maam56 @ravenswritingroom @heymydearheart @secretdiaryofzai @whitelaxe @ficmeiguess @its-in-the-woods @chronicallybubbly @stell404 @overwintering-soldier @emilyswortwellen @vampirehimejoshi @chimmysoftpaws @herejustforbuckybarnes @s0urw00lf @cheeseman @onlyforyuto @hibiscy

[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: withdrawal of care and death of an infant in NICU setting

Tess was a rodeo queen.

She could answer “what do you do for a living?” with “I’m a professional barrel racer.”  She had the ribbons and the trophies and the money to prove it.

It’s where the farm came from, all the earnings. She and Liam had big dreams, a legacy, a plan. They had it all, and you had travel nursing contracts, vacations to the BVI, and long nights you only remember half of. Every time you came home, worked a few months in the ED here before skipping out again, she had a new title, a new sponsorship, or a new project. And there was pressure. So much of it.

“If you come home for good you can stay in the house with us. Blue misses you.” The swing’s metal chain creaks as you push off with the toe of your boot. Life is so different here. It’s slower. Sweeter. Dustier. Still, it’s hard to look at everything you grew up with and say you want it back.

“I’m too young to settle down.”

“We’re ten months apart!” You snicker, and she chucks one of the strawberries from the bowl at you. “You could build a house on the land if you wanted.”

“Yeah, with all my house building money?” Build a house. It sounds so… domestic.

“Maybe if you stopped taking vacations everywhere you’d have something left over.”

“So sorry I’m living my life.” It’s a dig and you both know what you mean, but she’ll still bite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You don’t mean to hurt her. You don’t like hurting her, but she expects something from you, something you can’t give. At least not right now.

“You didn’t leave Tess. You stayed here, bought land thirty minutes from where we grew up. I mean, you did it better for sure. You’re barrel racing like you always dreamed but… I didn’t want it. You can’t fault me for that.” She wipes her hands across her thighs as she stands, smears strawberry seeds across her jeans and shakes her head. Conversation over.

“Let me know when you’re ready to grow up.” You let it go. It’s not worth the fight.

“You’re not going to win you know.” She pauses in the door way, and flashes you that know it all smile over her shoulder.

“Don’t I always though?”

Jokes on you. She won in the end.

“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it. Anything I can do to return the favor, I’ve got you.”

“Do you have pictures?” Isa gives you a kind smile. Her interest warms you, and you nod, pulling your phone out to scroll through the too many photos of Riley you took this morning at her first day of school, smiling big with a missing front tooth. “She’s precious.”

“Yeah. She’s something. First day of third grade, crazy.” Keona slows in front of you with Doctor Riley right behind her, and there’s a confused wrinkle marring her brow.

“I didn’t know you had a kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh I… it didn’t come up I guess.” Lie. There were so many times you could have brought Riley up, but you dodged or ignored each one. You glance up and what a surprise… Doctor Riley is staring at you, studying like he’s picking you apart in his brain. Key looks genuinely hurt though and guilt twists your heart. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little stressed and so focused on learning.” She nods, and you think she’s going to push it but you’re saved by an alarm, all of you taking off at the sound.

Saved was the wrong sentiment.

You weren’t saved from a conversation by this, this moment. This moment is hell.

“She’ll breathe on her own for a little while after we take the tube out, and you can hold her.” Doctor Riley tells the parents softly. Ryan and Alexa. They’ve been here for weeks, watching Rosie fade while holding out hope. So much hope. You’re devastated for them.

“Do you want to sit down?” You’ve already turned off all the sounds, anything that beeps or dings or blares, and disconnected all the leads, the lines. The only thing left is the vent.

“How long will she… how long will it be?” Ryan’s voice is broken. Shattered.

“We can’t know. Not long.” Doctor Riley looks to you, to where you’re waiting to flip the power, and then he’ll pull the tube. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Alexa sobs, shaking in the rocking chair she’s been sitting in since they got here, but Ryan nods, gives the go ahead.

“Okay.” You do it fast, as fast as you can. It’s like ripping off a bandaid, and you don’t want them to see it, don’t want them to remember the sound of the machine powering down. Doctor Riley frees her from the tube and gently lifts her to pass her to Ryan, cradling her head, supporting her neck and her little body, all of her so small in his arms, so fragile.

“Thank you Daisy.” He’s giving you permission to bolt, but you stand stuck to the floor. It feels wrong to run, it feels like you’re bailing on them, on Rosie.

So you don’t.

You pull her blanket out of the crib and tuck it around where she’s now resting in Alexa’s arms. It’s hand knit by Rosie’s grandmother, pink and yellow, little elephants artfully woven across the bottom, and once you’re done, you turn on the soft lamp behind the chair, angling so it’s not harsh but still enough they can see every little detail of their daughter’s face. So they can memorize her, every little wisp of her hair, the curve of her nose, each tiny delicate eyelash.

And then you leave.

You don’t run from the room. You keep your spine straight, chin lifted. You don’t stop at the nurses station, where Isa and Key are waiting to comfort you as they promised they would be. You don’t stop at the break room, or the bathroom or the empty call rooms. You keep walking, down the end of the hall until you reach the double doors and burst through them into the sun.

You breathe as deep as you can, and hold it. You hold it until you can’t anymore, and then do it again. And again. You try to burn them from your mind, Alexa’s face, Rosie’s weak little cry, but it’s no use. You hate this place. You hate it. You hold your breath again, this time longer, long enough until you start to feel like you might die. It’s better, it’s worse, so you do it again. You’re holding your breath against burning lungs when the doors bang open.

“Daisy.” He’s never said your name like that before. It’s not harsh or acidic or impatient. It’s the opposite. You hate that too.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” It’s said on the exhale released from your sternum, an explosive rush of air punching free from your mouth.

“Take as long as you need.” You don’t answer because you’re too busy patching up the cracks, focusing on breathing in and holding it again, controlling it. You block him out, which is why you don’t realize right away that he’s now standing in front of you, close enough you can see the stitching on the sleeve of his scrubs. “These moments are hard. It’s okay if it affects you, it should affect you. It’s okay to let it out.” You keep your eyes fixed on his chest. Focused.

“I know.” The control is unwavering. Unrelenting. You are a machine. And for good measure, you offer a succinct nod and smile. See? I’m fine.

“There’s no shame in-”

“I know, Doctor Riley. Thank you.” You cut him off, dismiss him. Or try to.

“Daisy.” This fucking man. Something about him is trying to shred your control. Make you weak.

“I’m fine.”

“Let’s go inside.” A minuscule flicker of need ignites in your soul. It begs you to listen, to trust, let the control slip, let go, just for a second. You close your eyes and dangle over the abyss.

If you fell, would someone catch you?

Would he?

It’s a sweet dream, a lovely fantasy. But not for you.

“I’m due for my break actually, so I’m probably going to go down to the cafeteria. Can you let Key know?”

“Daisy,” he murmurs, wraps your name in velvet. “Look at me.” You do it in defiance, to get him off your back. You don’t even know why he’s out here in the first place. What does he care? He hates you. You take a breath, hold it, and meet his eyes, surprised when you don’t see the usual anger or irritation. There’s something else in them instead, something tender and understanding, concerned. “You took great care of Rosie and her parents. They-” No.

“Doctor Riley. I’m on my break. It’s my personal time. If we need to speak about work, we can do it once I’m back.”  The muscle in his cheek flutters as the masseter flexes. The average PSI of the human jaw is around one hundred and twenty. His must be triple that.

“If that’s what you want.” The words are cold. Back to baseline, squashing that tiny blossom of need.

Good.

“That’s what I want.”

[that-one-girl2020]

Role Reversal!

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader

A/N: Honestly? Might make this into another short series when I’m done with a few other things. I haven’t seen a role reversal fic yet but let me know if there is actually one out there! You don’t need to read the original series I based it on but I encourage you to do it because I think I did good on it!

Comment name ideas for the fire dog and three legged crow!

TW: Mentions of death, discrimination, toxic parental figures (not just Celine this time), insecurity, etc.

Word Count: 1,592

Master List

• You and Rumi were born as twin sisters several centuries ago.

• You and Rumi were raised by your Aunt since both your parents were killed shortly after your birth. Your mother was a human and your father was a demon. You both were scorned by your village for being born as half demons, your Aunt being the worst offender.

• Rumi and you enjoyed singing and dancing together out under the moon, in a clearing that none of the village knew about.

• Rumi wanted to be rid of her patterns so she could sing before others without being treated as a monster, so she made a deal with Gwi Ma.

• Gwi Ma agreed and glamoured your sister’s demonic pattern for a time. Rumi happily left the village and you behind to follow her dream of singing and being a performer.

• You were heartbroken to be left behind in the village that hated you, your demon pattern creeping further and making you begin scratching at them anxiously

• Just wanting to be safe and loved, you wished for your patterns to disappear so you could find someone to love you. Gwi Ma answered.

• You left the village too, traveling in search of someone that would accept and love you.

• You ended up falling in love with a Hunter. A man with a golden voice.

~ His name was Haon (can mean ‘great and kind’) and he did love you. You wanted to tell him about your demon patterns, often scratching as if you could feel them crawling beneath your skin, beneath the glamour Gwi Ma had put on you. But he was a Hunter.

~ You didn’t tell him, you didn’t get the chance before your patterns began showing up again, spreading faster than they ever had before.

~ Haon’s fellow Hunters, even though you avoided them as best you could, found out about you and saw your patterns. They told Haon and the male Hunters went to kill you. The patterns completed and Gwi Ma summoned you to his realm before Haon could strike you down.

~ The last thing you remembered was Haon’s teary eyes as he raised his sword.

• Rumi and you reunited in the demon realm but your relationship was much more distant.

• Rumi acted as if she hadn’t left you behind for her own dreams and you remained in her vicinity because she was the only offer of comfort you had there.

• For centuries, you mourned Haon and the fact that no one would ever love you for you, never accept you.

• Mira grew up with two harsh parents who were disappointed in not having a son. So they prepared her to be married since she was young but she was too wild and rebelled.

~ Mira asked Gwi Ma to help her escape her parent’s expectations. He agreed. Her parents died not long after.

• Zoey was born to an interracial couple, which was not accepted at the time. Her parents couldn’t handle the contempt and separated but they fought over who would raise Zoey as a neurodivergent girl when the term hadn’t even been invented yet.

~ Feeling like too much and yet not enough at the same time, she accepted Gwi Ma’s help in finding a way to express herself by becoming a poet and lyricist. She chose neither of her parents and ran away.

• Modern times come around.

• The Saja Boys had trained and finally debuted several years ago, quickly growing in popularity until they topped the charts.

• They named themselves the Saja Boys due to both the lion motif, but also in irony. Saja also references the grim reapers of Korean folklore, thinking of it as them coming to reap the demons.

• Jinu came from a poor family in a small village, he ran away from his family when he was young to sing in the city streets, abandoning them.

~ Scouted by the Hunters, he claimed his family was dead.

~ When he was older, he started sending money back to his family anonymously once he debuted but it was too late as his mother died from overworking herself.

~ His weapon is a broadsword.

~ He has a cat that he named Derpy and a magpie named Sussie. He made a hat for Derpy once but Sussie stole it. Now his fans make hats for the two and give them to him.

~ He has a whole social media page dedicated to the two.

• Kwan, stage name Abby, was an underground dancer when he was young with a small group. he was attracted to the stage, but was sure his appearance wasn’t fit for being a performer. Then he was scouted by the Hunters.

~ His weapon is a battle axe.

• Chungae, stage name Romance, grew up with his relatives after his parents died. They didn’t care for Chungae much, focusing on their own children and their matchmaking business. Chungae felt invisible and used visual art to express himself, posting online and feeling better the more likes he got. He was scouted by the Hunters.

~ His weapons are a pair of fans.

• Hyeon, stage name Mystery, was often hounded for his pretty face, which made him dislike spending time with people. He turned to gaming and staying home but his parents got him various modeling gigs. He was scouted for his looks by the Hunters.

~ But he became skilled in music production and ended up covering most of his face with his bangs.

~ His weapon is a whip.

• Jum, stage name Baby, made his name, originally in underground rapping circles. Despite his soft, youthful features, Jum had a rich, deeper voice and a killer rap style which got him scouted by the Hunters.

~ He chose his stage name out of irony because he knew the industry would have a certain view of him as the maknae and with the soft features he has.

~ He’s bitter because he believes that no one will take his lyrics and overall self as a person seriously with his soft face.

~ His weapons are shurikens.

• Jinu is the main vocals, Kwan is the main dancer, Jum the rapper, Chungae the visualist (he deals with visuals and their wardrobe), and Hyeon is the main producer.

• One of their songs would probably be ‘Blood, Sweat, Tears’ by BTS.

• Rumi presents the idea of a demon girl group to steal the Saja Boys’ fans before they can seal the golden Honmoon.

~ She pretends she didn’t leave you behind because otherwise, the guilt and shame would consume her whole.

• In return for doing this for Gwi Ma, she requests that she be allowed to remain in the human realm, trying to escape her demon side.

• You haven’t sung in centuries and you feel bitter about using something you love to help Gwi Ma consume innocent souls.

• You have a fire dog (bulgae) that looks like a regular dog but with glowing amber eyes and will spew fire every now and then. You also have a three legged crow that can create complex illusions.

• You girls go with the name Huntr/x to return the irony that the boys created when they chose Saja as their name. The hunted will become the hunters and all that.

• Your debut song was probably ‘The Baddest’ by K/DA

• I headcanon that demon Huntr/x would basically be K/DA

• After the equivalent of the bathhouse battle, Gwi Ma sensed that the boys had strong shame and greed, just a little push away from falling into his grasp.

• You and the girls split the boys between you with Rumi getting Jinu, Mira getting Kwan and Chungae, Zoey getting Hyeon, and you getting Jum.

~ You kinda ended up taking on all of them because the girls were raging bisexuals for each other.

• You betray all the boys, unwillingly, using their weaknesses and fears.

~ Jinu abandoning his family.

~ Kwan’s insecurity over his rough appearance.

~ Chungae’s need for love and attention.

~ Hyeon’s fear that no one will see him beyond his outer beauty.

~ Jum’s belief that no one will ever take him seriously.

• The demon Huntr/x version of ‘Your Idol’ would definitely be ‘Villain’ by K/DA. It’s perfect.

• You and the girls perform in your demon forms.

~ Nine-tailed foxes, or Gumiho. Specifically the Korean version of nine-tailed foxes, I feel like it fits really well as all the girls, in some way, are trying to become more human or accepted among humans or, in your case, looking for love.

~ Quick Google it, I swear it’s perfect.

• The boys all come, whether they were mixed into the crowd or came from their brooding thought sessions, they all come.

• They sing their version of ‘What It Sounds Like,’ I’m not sure what it would be, maybe ‘Life Goes On’ by BTS or something…?

• The boys know that you don’t believe anyone could ever love you for you, could ever accept you.

• Even in your human form, you and Rumi still have your patterns, just hers are iridescent like the end of the movie and yours is a light purple, a side effect of being half-human, half-demon and then making a deal with Gwi Ma.

~ Along with the whispers in your heads, the patterns are a reminder of your shame and insecurities that you can’t escape from.

• They came to save you.

• You give them your soul to save Jinu and Jum when they were almost overwhelmed by Gwi Ma’s power while Kwan, Hyeon, and Chungae fought Rumi, Mira, and Zoey.

• Rumi, Mira, and Zoey, in their grief, are defeated by the boys but their souls are given to the boys as well.

Outtakes:

You: *Walking down the alley in slow motion, hearts glowing around you as you dramatically flip your hair*

The Saja Boys: *Having their Kdrama moment*

…

You: “How did you get to this point…?”

Jinu: *Looking around the room that had been converted into a closet for Sussie and Derpy’s hats* “… I honestly have no idea.”

…

You: “I am unlovable. No one will ever accept me for who I am.”

The Saja Boys: *Currently looking for Haon’s gravestone in the Hunters’ cemetery*

…

Tag List: @brights-place @itmechaosartist @reni502 @chin-chii @cultish-corner @enerofairy @mama-m1na @akariis4snowball @gremlinartstudio @shynotded @shadowmoonlight0604 @omgsuperstarg @neigesprincess @sleep-7372 @hurts-my-brain @kiwibackie @gh0stied3ath @naysha140 @theferretkids @lelantyuu @sexyindependentdowntospendit @hornehlittleweeblet2 @moonymoo1 @moochiwoochi @cheolright @crescent-z @prorpy @mey-archive @cami1qx @nerdalicios @xxsadlovexx @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @blackheart34 @anonymousewrites @scarletrosesposts @justanindiangirl12 @beexboo @tatsuri-zomushiki @call-me-nyxx @queenofviolenceandnerds @randomfan218-blog @jaybbygrl @unholycheesesnack @ocean-mochi @iviorienne @confusedparticle @otakusimp1 @nosbaby07 @fries11 @ri-eveowe @1950schick @libdarkheart @yourjustassaneasiamx @the-bookish-artist @anduinandwrathionlover @eternallyrosyfire @lysira340 @lansy-4 @strayharmony943 @maximumtrashchild @bleufu1 @minepugs @valeriele3 @arieslucy @nisarelle @suzieq1948374 @esposamultifandom