#but i need to get it at the beginning. and i am at. the beginning

[aldisobey]

THERE HE IS

[iamasaddie]

LET ME CLIP YOUR LITTLE WINGS

Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: when your date with Joel is on the verge of falling through, he makes sure you meet again. even if it means getting his hands dirty. warnings: darkfic, non-con [reader is asleep for a part of it], somnophilia, drugging, gaslighting, age gap [Joel is 61, don't read it and don't @ me about it if it's not your thing, just leave], switching POVs, various explicit sexual content [ironic use of the word 'grandpa' in a sexual situation]. reader description: afab she/her, has hair long enough to be pulled; has boobs and ass; reader mid to late 20s-30s. word count: 5,7k

a/n: thanks so much to my angel @arcane-fox for finding time and proofreading this for me <3 thank you for your interest and support towards this fic! for now it's the last installment that i planned out in the beginning, but the series is not over, i am just in creative search where i want to take it next <3 READ ON AO3

MASTERLIST | part 2 | part 4?

[Joel's POV]

An unobtrusive melody vibrated through the half-empty space of Joel Miller's living room. While his skillful fingers thoughtlessly plucked at the metal strings of his old guitar —mixing notes into one of the many Johnny Cash songs that clung to his mind— the man himself was deep in thoughts about the young girl who so quickly became the reason for his sly smiles and frequent boners.

Everything happened pretty fast this time, you succumbed to his charms and easely woven lies so easily, that for a moment Joel himself thought he had fallen into a trap. But no, there was just something in him that must have pushed those levers inside you that had been previously collecting dust, untouched.

Joel smiled to himself, he would gladly touch every inch of you, inside and out. He would explore the inviolable fields of your skin, become the most devoted and invasive species on the land that is your body and mind. You triggered something inside him, too, he noticed. Something that went beyond the darkest carnal desire to corrupt and taint. Something that felt like possession, the gnawing need to own and claim. To stay in you even when he's done with you, become a part of you that would never die, a stain you wouldn't be able to bleach or cut out with a knife.

His fingers caressed the wooden body of his guitar, mind wandering to the way he caressed you days ago. The supple flesh of your body, the gullible matter of your mind.

He ached to touch you again. An addiction so familiar to him. Something that drove Joel out of his bed where your panties were hidden under his pillow, and into the shower that morning. Made him shuck his striped boxers on the floor and take his rigid cock in his hand that felt too rough after the softness of your mouth.

The images you'd sent, the raspy little voice you’d teased him with, it was all ingrained in his brain, he didn't even need to unlock his phone to see it. He just closed his eyes and there you were, writhing, moaning as your fingers pushed deep inside your pussy that was crying for more. Slick glistened on your fingers and Joel spit on his own hand, imagining your arousal instead. He fisted his cock violently, the rigid thickness of him throbbing in his hand, and with every pump he thought of the tightness of your cunt when he breaks you in. The sweet little cries that would inevitably fall from your lips as he pushed all the way in. The way your breath would catch and you’d bite your lips bloody, maybe even bite him bloody and he would wear that scar with perverted honour.

The thought of you thrashing in orgasm he’d fuck out of you, your eyes rolled back, his name slipping past your lips with both fear and devotion. That was what made him paint his blue tile wall in ropes of pearly cum that morning.

"Fuck," he grumbled, getting up from the couch and putting the guitar aside. His old knees cracked pitifully, contradicting his blood filled cock, which reminded Joel of his college days. But Joel was in no hurry to unbutton his fly. 

It was for the best, he thought. He didn't want to screw up when he finally got the chance to stretch you on his dick. He wanted to prolong it as long as possible, maybe even fuck you a few times. The image of you crying on his cock, tired and overstimulated, almost made him bust in his pants. Yeah, he definitely should go easier with jerking off. 

He wanted to make sure he took his sweet time with you. There was nothing prettier than seeing a girl break under him. Watch her deny every instinct that might’ve told her to run. You’d make it look even better. Joel imagined the color of your eyes changing, growing darker as you accepted your fate of being his dumb little doll. A pretty young body he took for his perverted pleasure. 

Damn it, he loved a challenge, loved to see them struggle and shake off the warning thoughts that crept in their pretty heads. The harder they fight the sweeter they break.

The days went by painfully long for Joel, and his cock reminded him of itself more and more often since the moment he decided to cancel his jerking off session until your date. Even when he grabbed his length to pee, his cock started to harden, making the process less comfortable.

"Fucking shit," he swore, and took the frying pan with the burning potatoes off the stove. He succumbed to the devil's call again and started scrolling through the few photos you’d sent him. 

You haven't texted since then, but Joel wasn't worried, he let the anticipation build in both of you. After all, he already knew how easy you gave into him.

After hypnotizing the calendar for several days, Sunday finally arrived. His cock was no less pleased, so he was rocking a semi since six in the morning. It was now three. He was planning to text you around seven, so you didn't have time to back out — not that he thought you'd want to, but better safe than sorry. That's why when he heard a little ping of a new message, his heart did an unpleasant flip. 

He made sure to turn off the stove and placed the hot pan on the empty cutting board before pulling the phone out of his pocket. The message was from you. You quit texting him first after your first date, which meant that something wasn't going according to his plan.

 Joel’s right leg began to twitch, the nervous tic he had left in his anxiety-filled youth returned. He swiped on the screen and tried to enter the password, but his finger slid on the wrong button and the screen flashed a humiliating "wrong password" message, annoying the man.

"Fuck," he cursed and entered the password again, this time correctly.

The message from you was short, without greeting, and Joel squeezed the mobile phone in his hand so hard that he almost crushed the metal of the case.

[You]: Sorry, gotta cancel. A pipe busted in my bathroom and I can’t get ahold of the fuckin’ maintenance guy. Trying not to flood my neighbors on my own. xo

The blood was boiling under his skin, he couldn’t let you loose, not now. He knew that if he gave it a couple more days, you'd get off his hook. Your mind would overpower your body, and he hadn’t had his fill of it yet.

"Think, fucker, think," he muttered under his breath, his cock still hard in his pants. The corner of his lips twitched up and he exhaled, typing a reply.

[Joel M.]: I know it's not the most romantic idea for a date, but how about I save the damsel in distress and fix your pipe?

[You]: Just so we’re clear, it’s not an innuendo, is it?

Joel couldn’t help but laugh at the message. He shook his head and typed again.

[Joel M.]: No, sweetheart, I told you, I’m pretty good with my hands.

He sent another message immediately after.

[Joel M.]: This one is also not an innuendo.

[You]: I don't even know what to say, to be honest.

[Joel M.]: Tell me your address, and you can thank me later.

[You]: I will *wink*

The message with your address came a minute later. 

"I know you will," he muttered out loud and locked his phone. 

A bag of crushed "Ambien" pills burned through his pocket as he drove to your house. There was a bottle of wine he blindly grabbed from the kitchen cabinet secured on the passenger seat. Joel considered for a long time whether he should just spike his bottle before he took it to your place, but then he wasn't sure if you'd want it, and he didn't want to look weird insisting you drank it.

The white powder in a small zip-lock bag was safer. He knew just how much to pour to make you relax, make you droopy or make you pass out until tomorrow.

He was just planning to make you loosen up, though. It was going to be enough. He could do the rest himself.

From the very first date, you were in his web, and every day it enveloped your fluttering body more and more. It held your weak little wings against your back until they atrophied and could never carry you away from him again. It wouldn’t kill you, just hurt you a little; Joel would take a bite to satisfy his hunger, and then you could run if you wanted to.

[Your POV]

Everything was going wrong from the moment you got out of bed. 

As soon as your feet touched the floor, you yelped and felt your foot tip the glass of water that you had recklessly placed on the floor before going to sleep. You swore softly and threw an old T-shirt on the floor, collecting all the liquid that the soft fabric could absorb.

As if on pins and needles, you failed at your attempt to live your day without paying much attention to the date with Joel that was scheduled for the evening. 

All week you'd been able to ignore the thoughts of meeting him, pushing them far into the back of your mind, and opening that secret door only under cover of night. Memories of him made your heart flutter and your pussy get wet, yet a dark cloud of wariness hung tirelessly above his name.

On the day X, it turned out to be impossible to dismiss the thoughts of him, so you walked around the house in a slight state of distress. 

The coffee boiled out and you threw the cezve into the sink, watching as the brown liquid went down the drain. Maybe it was for the best, your heart was pounding relentlessly, the coffee would only make it worse.

You clenched and unclenched your fists several times, cracking your fingers. You poured warm water into a tall glass and drank it in small sips, trying to collect yourself. The plan formed itself in your head, and you imagined it as a long list, like those grocery lists written on crumpled pieces of paper in your mom's handwriting. She used to give you these when you were a kid before going to the supermarket. 

You were going to take a shower and get ready, then do your hair, put on makeup, choose a set of sexy underwear and chase all of the stupid thoughts out of your head.

And then Joel would come and you would feed him dinner and ask all of the questions that bothered you before finally letting him in your bed.

"You've got to be fucking kidding," you were on the verge of tears as you watched the stream of water flooding your bathroom floor. You just got out of the shower, a light green bath towel towel was wrapped tightly around your body. 

The plumber's phone, which you found in the list of necessary numbers on a piece of paper attached to your refrigerator with mismatched magnets, continued to laugh at your tragedy with long beeps of its voice.

Remembering everything your father once taught you, you decided to turn off the water, immediately stopping the flood. At least you'd had time to wash up. Apparently, you wouldn’t be able to do that for some time.

You pulled an old towel out of the laundry basket and tried to absorb as much water as you could from the floor and squeeze it into the sink. 

It took you a while, and after the plumber ignored you again, you typed a message to Joel with wet fingers, disappointment stuck deep in your stomach.

When he suggested to come over, for a moment you thought that you were in a cheap romcom. Seemed near impossible that a man who didn’t owe you anything or didn’t try to get anything out of you would just come to the rescue.

Of course, you knew that he was counting on a certain ending to the evening, but on the other hand, you were counting on the same thing, so it was a win for you either way.

A slight touch of anxiety overshadowed the joy of the news, you weren't sure if you were ready to let Joel into your space, however, when you heard the sad moan of a broken pipe, you quickly sent him your address.

When someone knocked on your door, you already smelled like your favorite perfume, and your favorite jeans paired with a cute blouse hugged your body comfortably.

The anxiety of meeting Joel faded away since this time it happened on your own territory. The aroma of pasta and shrimp tantalizingly filled the small space of your apartment, and you took one last appraising look around the place before opening the door. 

You didn’t even have time to say hello when a strong arm wrapped around your waist and hot lips covered yours. You cry out softly into the kiss, but quickly give in, your body melts in the confident grip of the man who stepped inside your apartment and blindly slammed the door behind him.

The taste of his lips was as addictive as the taste of his cum. You thought you'd be able to recognize him in a row of dozens now. His stubble prickled your chin and his thumb drew circles on your lower back.

He didn't try to deepen the kiss, gently nipping your lips and soothing the bites with his tongue. You felt your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, while your core blazed with a different kind of flame.

"Wow," you said breathlessly when he finally set your mouth free. Your eyes struggled to focus on Joel’s lips, swollen red and shiny with your combined saliva.

"Hello, sweetheart." He whispered back, his thumb gently caressing your cheekbone. 

"Hi," a silly smile pulled your lips apart and you almost forgot about the pasta until Joel complimented you.

"Something smells amazing," he still didn’t let you out of his arms and the heat of his body became almost unbearable, but you didn’t dare to take a step back. He finally allowed some distance between the two of you and held a bottle of wine in front of your face. "Hope this will go with it nicely?"

You inspected the label with curiosity, "white is better with shrimp, I have a bottle." 

And you give yourself a moment to study his face, but Joel just smiled and nodded.

"So, where should Noah build his arc?"

You didn’t distract Joel while he was tinkering in your bathroom. Only a couple of times you quietly glanced at him, and your gaze slid over his ass and thighs, hugged by black jeans. The fact that your staring went unnoticed made you shameless, and you played with a strand of your hair while you watched his muscles tense without shyness. 

When you peeked into the bathroom again, Joel was lying on his back and grumbling something, whispering obscenities at your sink, and for some unknown reason it almost made you laugh. But when he spread his legs apart, your laughter got stuck in your throat. 

Something about this man, fixing shit, saving the day with his hair in a beautiful grey mess sticking to his sweat soaked temples. Damn, you felt the familiar moisture gathering in the gusset of your panties, you could just sink your teeth in his thighs, press your face in the straining bulge of his cock right now. You could almost smell the sweat and musk of him, feel the wiry grey hair tickle the skin under your nose as he slips his cock deep into your…

"Fuck," you didn't notice yourself whispering out loud.

"You said something, sweetheart?" His head popped out from under the sink and embarrassment flooded your chest. He beamed at you with a soft smile, the dimple in his right cheek seduced you with its adorableness. Joel picked up the small towel you gave him beforehand and wiped his hands.

"I said dinner's ready."

"Perfect timing, I'm done here, too."

"Really?" Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, he was there for less than twenty minutes which seemed unfair compared to the amount of stress you’d gone through hours ago.

With a slight creak, he got up from the floor and dusted himself off, then came up to you and held your chin between his fingers, pressing a light kiss against your lips, as if he had done it a thousand times before. "Really."

It was almost unbelievable how easy it was to talk to Joel. The man asked the right questions and listened carefully to what you were saying. As you served pasta on the mismatched plates, he again praised your culinary skills, but you just shook your head.

"Try to lie in my face after you try it," you joked, and he pointedly put a forkful of pasta in his mouth, humming contentedly.

The bottle of wine that Joel had brought was standing alone on the kitchen counter, and you, in turn, opened a semi-dry white one and allowed the man to fill your glasses.

The conversation flowed casually, and the pasta turned out to be edible. Joel asked you about work, friends, and you kept talking, smiling when he genuinely laughed at your jokes.

Your hand was on the table palm up, waiting for Joel to take the hint.

As if reading your mind, the man reached out to you and knocked over a glass of wine, the light liquid instantly staining your blouse.

"Fuck, I’m so sorry, sweetheart," Joel jumped from his seat trying to catch the glass before it fell and broke. "There goes my attempt to be a romantic. How pathetic." 

He shook his head disappointingly, but you just laughed it off. 

"I'll go change and throw this to soak. Good thing my sink’s all fixed," you placed a chaste kiss on his stubbled cheek and he whispered another sorry that you waved off. 

When you came back clad in a simple pink dress that had an infinite row of buttons in the front, you saw that Joel had already cleaned up the mess he made. The wine glasses were back on the table, both of them full. Your eye snapped to the kitchen counter to see that the bottle he’d brought was still closed and you accepted the wine without a second thought.

After the dinner was over and your plates and glasses were in the kitchen sink, you took Joel's hand in both of yours and dragged him into the tiny living room, which contained a small sofa you bought at a flea market; a bookshelf, a third full of photo albums; and a bedside table with an old TV.

Joel’s attention was immediately drawn to the stack of albums.

"That's quite a lot of memories for someone your age." He chuckled, running fingers over the backs of them. "Don't think I've got enough photos to fill up even one album."

"Oh, that’s... That's not. Umm, it’s like a hobby of mine. I've been taking pictures since my mom gave me an old Olympus for my fourteenth birthday."

You chose one at random and you and Joel sat down on the couch. Joel started asking you about different photos he saw there, and in response you either told him what you remembered or made up stories right on the spot. He quickly figured you out when the orange date at the bottom didn't match what you were telling him, but he just laughed it off.

"Your memory is as shit as mine, isn't it?" He studied the black and white photo of a smoking woman you took outside of a club one early morning. "That makes me feel a little bit better."

He flipped through the pages full of black-and-white pictures, and your body started to feel heavy. His questions sounded blurry, as if someone had slowed down an old tape, and you asked him to repeat the same thing several times.

Your head was spinning, the familiar feeling of disorientation was consuming your consciousness. You breathed through your nose and tried to get up from the couch, but your legs wouldn’t obey so you just stayed in place.

"You okay, sugar?" His voice was slow, honey-thick. Brown eyes found yours and he ran a rough fingertip over the delicate skin of your cheek. You shook your head, trying to get rid of the fog of fatigue that suddenly rolled over you in an all-consuming wave. 

"Did you… Did you spike my drink or somethin’?" You chuckled, but a familiar feeling of unease tickled the edges of your mind. 

Joel didn't find your joke funny, he furrowed his eyebrows and for the first time you noticed glimpses of gray in their thickness. Like a magpie, you were distracted by the gleam of his eyes.

"What? Why would you say that" He turned his body towards you, your old soft sofa did not allow you to fully straighten up.

"I’m just... not feeling that good."

Without taking your eyes off him, you tried to memorize his expression, to find a crack in the cement of his facade. Something that you could at least explain to yourself. Finding nothing but concern on his face, you waved your hand, pushing your stupid thought away for the hundredths time. Joel captured your face in his hot palms.

"What is it?" His thumbs drew symmetrical lines on your cheeks. You felt like someone had tied weights to your eyelids. "Do you need me to call a doctor?"

"No, I am just… I suddenly got so tired. It doesn’t happen usually." You leaned away from him and stifled a yawn, your limbs felt heavy and numb at the same time. Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, and you tried to pull yourself together, but your body refused to wake up. You reached a hand to the side of your thigh and pinched it, just to find out that you barely felt anything. It was like you hadn’t slept for days.

"You know," Joel gave you a crooked smirk, "they say that you feel sleepy when you're with a person you trust, because of hormones or some stuff."

Not giving it a second thought you replied. "Pretty sure they say that about the person you love." The heat was licking your neck and you struggled to keep your eyes open. Joel’s face didn’t give out any concern regarding the L word and you had a tiny, almost loose knot tying your insides as you saw him give you a content grin.

"Well, I didn’t wanna rush, it’s just been two dates." He laughed and you echoed him weakly. You didn’t mind as he scooted even closer to you, the expanse of him caging you in the corner of the sofa. He threw an arm over your shoulder and you calmed yourself, relaxing in his embrace as his scent lulled you in. "Why don’t you rest your eyes for a bit, you’ve had a stressful day, sweetheart."

"Yeah," you mumbled, and the light had already dimmed in your mind. "Just for a moment."

"Just for a moment," he whispered into the stillness of the room.

[Joel's POV]

It wasn’t difficult to drag you to your room, you almost did it yourself but with your eyes closed. If he were twenty years younger, he would have picked you up without any problems, but now he and his back were grateful that you sluggishly but still independently moved your legs on the way to your room. By the time he put you on the bed, you were snoring softly. Your dress hiked up, exposing the tempting skin of your thighs, and Joel's cock quickly made itself known, swelling under the thick fabric of his jeans. 

Joel switched on the bedside lamp —the burnt orange lampshade was sitting a little crooked, but he didn't fix it — and looked around the room. From the scratches of knowledge he had about you, your room was your perfect reflection: a partially contained chaos. A mess you tried to organize in shaky piles. On the floor, a tall stack of books mixed with magazines leaning against the wall. He couldn't see the titles from where he was standing. A heap of poorly folded laundry on a chair next to the window. On a table there was a small mountain of things you must've shaken out of your purse before going to bed one day: wired headphones, a couple of candies—their wrappers glinted in the low light, and some type of receipt. Everything was scooted towards the edge of the table, separating from the rest of the space as if to say ‘it wouldn't have been here if only I had time. I'm not messy, I was just in a rush.’

Your bed was small, it fit you on its blue sheets but it could barely fit Joel next to you. The mattress dipped pitifully under the weight of two bodies and you mewled something in your sleep. For a few short moments Joel watched your chest rise and fall. 

The light caressed the soft edges of your face and body, letting him enjoy this slow moment of permissiveness. 

The soft swell of your tits beneath your thin dress beckoned him, and he didn’t resist for long before deftly unbuttoning a row of small buttons and exposing your hard nipples pushing against the translucent lace of your burgundy bralette. 

"A little wolf in a sheep’s skin, aren’t you, darlin’?" He got bolder as his cock grew to full mast, still caged in his pants. Slowly, Joel's hand slid under the skirt of your dress. The meat of your thighs teased with its tenderness and he felt his mouth water. 

Joel didn't need to see to know that the lace of your panties matched your top, if anything the way you dressed you didn’t take lightly, and he boldly dove his fingers beneath the last barrier separating him from the heat of your pussy. 

He cursed softly when Joel felt the hot, slippery wetness already oozing out of your hole. Losing caution, he leaned his face towards your chest, inhaling the sweet lotion off your skin. His nose traveled a line from your neck down the valley of your breasts and his tongue peeked out between his lips, leaving a wet stripe on your skin.

He wanted to lick you whole, taste every inch of your body inside and out, but didn't have enough time. The fact that you passed out was a lucky coincidence, his hand tripped above your glass sending too much white powder to dissolve in wine. Even though a part of him knew he'd end his night between your legs either way. Giving in, his lips covered your nipples through the thin material of your bra, the lace pleasantly scratched his tongue, which left wet spots on it. 

Cautiously, his thick middle finger squeezed into the heat of your pussy and Joel moaned, his lips sent vibrations around your taut nipples. He couldn’t stop touching you, nibbling the soft flesh of your breasts with his teeth and immediately licking non-existent wounds with his tongue.

Your cunt hugged him, sucking him in like you begged him to give you more and once again, he obliged. The sound of his finger, and then the second one, relentlessly fucking into you became the filthy soundtrack of your evening. Unconscious, you were dripping with arousal for him, fat globs of your desire flowed down his fingers all the way to his knuckles. 

The gentle tension of your walls was the result of his relentless intrusion. Joel felt how close you were and made an exorbitant effort to pull away from your chest. His lips were covered with his own saliva, and his eyes were clouded with a veil of unspilled desire, but he wouldn’t allow himself to miss the moment of your break. 

His fingers curled inside you and pushed on that sweet spot that made your legs tremble even in your sleep, his thumb joined and began to circle your clit. 

Your dreamy moans accompanied Joel's heavy breathing the closer you got to your orgasm. Your brows knit together, lips parted to accommodate your lungs begging for more air. He took his eyes off your frowning face for a second and looked where your pussy greedily sucked his fingers in. The wet, slurping sounds were getting louder and louder and he almost started humping your bed when your pussy finally contracted around his digits. Before he had the opportunity to lick his fingers clean of your cum, he felt your fingers in his hair tugging his head up.

"Sweetheart, I…" His hand was still in your panties, fingers didn’t stop gently petting your pussy, making you twitch. There was no fear in your eyes, no disgust. You didn’t scream, you didn't even push him away. You didn’t do anything Joel would expect you to do.

"Fuck me," you moaned. With how droopy your eyes were, he knew that your head was still hazy.

"What?" It felt like he'd been taken by surprise for the first time in the sixty something years of his life. He waited for a punch, for a dam of fear to burst. For something logical. And yet again you showed him how special you were by gripping him by the hair and tugging him up. The sharp sting didn’t even register when you pressed your lips into his, the smell of wine still prominent on your breath. And just like that he was dumbfounded for the first time in his life.

"Fuck me, Joel. Please."

Joel didn’t question you anymore. His fingers flew to his zipper, slick digits slipped on the metal button as you pushed your dress higher and got rid of your panties. You sent them flying and Joel's peripheral vision noticed that the color indeed matched your bra.

He groaned loudly when he finally freed himself from the clutches of his jeans and boxers. When he fell between your open thighs and his hot cock came into contact with the wet slit of your swollen pussy, sparks flew from his eyes.

By the collar of his black T-shirt, you pulled him towards you, arching under the weight of his body, moving your hips so that your pussy began to grind against his already throbbing cock.

"Don't rush, sugar, or I’ll cum all over that pretty pussy and leave you needy and desperate again."

"Then stop teasing me and fuck me, grandpa." You reached up and bit his lower lip painfully, pulling it back. With his right hand, he grabbed you by the throat, not hard, but confidently squeezing the graceful column and pressing you into the pillow. With his left hand, he found his thick shaft, pumping it a few times before pressing it in your hole that greeted him with the warmest welcome.

The silence was broken as he entered you with his whole length, knocking the air out of two sets of lungs at once.

"G-god," you whined, speared on him. Your cunt felt tighter than a fist, choking him with post orgasmic spasms. 

"Tight little hole," he purred, letting his hips thrust, pushing his cock in and out of you and rendering you speechless. "Can't believe you’d beg me to ruin you." His hips kissed yours as he tried to keep a stable pace. Coarse hairs above his cock were scratching your swollen clit, and the painful sensation of his massive shaft squeezing inside you made your thighs shake. 

"I, I- -"

Tsk, "don't need to talk, baby. Ain't nothing you say makes a difference. Your perverted little cunt brought you here, crying on my cock." He growled into your neck, his voice like poison seeping through every bite he left on your skin. "I'm just glad you woke up for the main act, wanted you to know how pathetically desperate you are for an old fucker to pump you full of his cum."

Your eyes rolled back in your head, and Joel felt like he'd been on the edge too long to last any longer. The wet heat of your pussy, the honey of your arousal and the previous orgasm that flowed in fat drops down his cock and balls, your pathetic moans and pleas, all of it drove him crazy. 

He clenched his teeth, baring them in a pre-orgasmic growl. 

"Come on, baby, come for me. What’d ya call me? Grandpa?" You screamed, your pussy began to cry and clench around him in warning, "come for grandpa, then, you little depraved bitch."

His cock exploded in thick spurts of hot cum at the same time as you howled, cumming. Your scream was deafening, he hadn't heard anything sexier in all the years of his life. Without pulling out, he collapsed on your shaking body, exhausted.

For a few long moments filled only with your heavy breathing, he laid on top of you, heavy but you welcome it. Your hand found its way into his sweat-soaked hair, and you slowly thread fingers through it. It was the first time he was at a loss for words, ao he did the next best thing— pulled the lace of your bra down and placed lazy kisses on your freed tits, making you giggle. 

"Next time, try seducing me when I’m sober," you say matter of factly, yet he felt your heart pounding rapidly. He pressed one last kiss, close to your nipple, and it immediately pebbled. Joel raised his head to find your eyes in the dark. His voice was playful, contradictory to everything that had happened that night.

"You free tomorrow, sweetheart?"

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[lovethestarrs]

runnin’ wild — joel miller

« i get wild on ya, baby. i get wild and fuckin’ crazy »

𐙚 contains / tags : joel miller x fem reader, random religious themes in the beginning, age gap (20s / 50s), codependency (?), smut, thigh humping, unprotected p in v, pet names, daddy kink, praise, spit, two reader orgasms, and the man does not pull out (he’s old anyways but better safe than sorry so don’t do that), not proofread

𐙚 I am not 18 nor above, so if that makes you uncomfortable dni or block ♡ pls keep the peace

𐙚 ways to help palestine ❤︎︎

maybe man was the only thing that could save you. well a man. and no, it wasn’t god. maybe his silence was punishment for your sins but there was one man who wouldn’t push you away, and that was joel miller.

he had found you—a little lost lamb with no will of her own. he nursed you back to health until you could stand in your own and when you stumbled he’d cradle you in his arms and rock you to sleep.

when you regained your strength he took you with him everywhere. you followed him across county lines because wherever he went, your heart followed. wherever his foot landed, home was marked.

so of course that’s how the two of you ended up in some dingy motel on this floral comforter. limbs entangled, skin on skin, sweating like you had ran a mile.

“mm, joel…” you whined against his lips, needy and wanting.

“what is it, babygirl, hmm?” he coos pulling back slightly, hands roaming over your torso, creeping your nightgown up as he looms over you.

you don’t speak but your body does. your thighs crossing over your each other in a dance for pleasure, a sign that you needed joel, anything he cared to spare.

“awh, you poor thing, whaddya need? c’mon, tell daddy.” he coaxes, a hand brushing your hair back. it’s hard to speak when lust begins its clouding of your mind, making you turn into some sort of cave woman.

after a while of pawing at him and whimpering you finally speak, “need you, daddy.” but you know that’s not enough.

“gotta be more specific, baby.” he can be so cruel sometimes and he knows it.

so you speak again, eyes avoiding his stare, “need you to make me feel good.. anything you’ll give me.”

he smirks, teeth bared like a wolf staring at a little lamb—his little lamb. “anything, huh?” he chuckled, it rumbles in the room and makes your brain go fuzzy from the rasp. “anything for my girl.” with that, he slots his knee between your thighs, nudging against your heated cunt covered by your panties.

you would’ve been embarrassed if you weren’t so desperate, your hips immediately bucking up in response. you clit rubs against his thigh, arms wrapping around his neck to give yourself leverage. joel is amused, letting you use his thigh for your own pleasure, even pressing a bit to give you more pleasure.

“th-thank you, daddy…” you murmur as you rut against him mindlessly.

joel just thinks it’s the sweetest darn thing. “you’re so very welcome, sweetheart.” his hands grip your waist, pulling you against his thigh. he takes you with him as he sits on his haunches, propping you up on his leg for easier access, more pressure for you to find satisfaction.

your face is buried in his neck, whimpering and whining as you buck against his thick thigh. “atta girl, jus’ like that.” he says as he rolls your hips against him. “gonna cum from humping daddy’s leg?” he teases, pressing a kiss to the side of your head, and you’re too fucked stupid to even be offended.

you nod, fingers curling into his shirt, chasing the high of your orgasm. “go on then, baby… cum for me.”

his permission is enough for you to let go, moaning into his neck as your hips stutter, but joel helps you move along with his iron grip not letting you falter.

“what a good girl,” he praises, kissing the side of your head to your jawline, to your neck. “i think i should reward you, don’t you think? you want daddy’s cock next?”

you’re all blissed out, eyes glazed over with your post orgasmic high. with a lazy smile, you speak, “yes, daddy.”

“go on then, lay back for me.” he cradles your head as he lowers you back down, finding his place between your thighs.

his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, the chiffon giving a clear view to your leaking cunt. when he pulls them down, he sees how puffy your folds are, just begging for his attention. “so pretty, sweetheart.” he balls it up and tosses it aside carelessly.

with his thumb he pulls back the hood of your clit, licking his other thumb pad to rub against the sensitive button making you gasp. “shh, shh, i know, baby, you’re so sensitive.” he grins, rubbing you in slow, teasing circles. “gonna get you nice and wet for me…”

his cock throbbed hard against the straining denim, begging to be pushing against your cervix instead—soon it’ll get its wish.

his thumb dragged down your slit, gathering up the slick to coat you fully, making sure you were ready for him. he began to work his belt off, the clicking sound a sign of what’s to cum come.

once he was able to free himself from the confines of his boxers, you could feel the head jut against your thigh, leaving a smear of precum in its wake. you looked down at him, poor thing was so flushed and hard it looked painful. well, he did watch you grind and cum on his thigh so praise him for his composure throughout it all.

joel scooted forward, aligning his hips with yours as he fisted his cock, placing his palm under your chin, signaling you to spit into it. with that he stroked himself, groaning in relief as it took some of the pressure off.

he teased your clit with the head of his cock, nudging against your silky folds. “use that pretty mouth of yours, baby… ask nicely now.”

“can i have your cock,” you sputtered out. “please?” he grinned in response, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead as he slowly pushed in, allowing you time to adjust to the stretch.

with slow, shallow thrusts he bottomed out, his heavy balls pressing firmly against your ass. joel was on cloud nine like this. this was his nirvana. “so. goddamn. tight.” he punctuated with each thrust.

finally finding the right rhythm, he held your hips as he bucked into you. deep but gentle were his thrusts. letting his cock hit that spot that made your belly tense, making you sing a sweet little song.

“that feel good, baby?” he asked, already knowing the answer. you gave him a fucked stupid nod as you clung to him. “‘m gonna go faster now, ‘kay?”

“o-okay..” you mewled , already lost in the haze. as his hips picked up the pace, the sound of skin against skin became louder. his fingers beginning to dig into you as he fucked you with the need to watch you fall apart.

he loved seeing your eyes roll back, your mouth hanging open in ecstasy. it was pleasing knowing how he could turn you into putty.

his cock found its way to knock against your cervix, though not hard. mindful of keeping you in a state of constant bliss.

joel was a simple man, the feeling of your walls clinging to him like a vice was already enough for the pressure to begin to build. panting and sweating like he was under the hot nevada sun. to hold back from blowing his load right then and there, he suckled on your neck to distract himself, and in the process, pushed you closer to the edge.

your fingers combing through his graying hair and ankles locking against his tailbone, leveraging himself impossibly deeper.

“fuck, baby… you’re ‘bout to make me cum.” he spoke into your hair. you moaned in response, “oh, joel, please.” you needed him just as he needed you.

with his knees pressed into the bed and his body caging you in, he thrusted with a single minded goal to make you cum while he did. he felt you pulsing against him, your walls fluttering like your eyes, nearing the climax.

your fingers tugged a little harder as you tiptoed right on the edge and finally with one hard, deep thrust, you came and almost ascended to heaven—vision going blurry and seeing stars.

the feeling of your cunt milking him dry pushed him over the edge. “f-fuck, baby, fuck!” he groaned, as he came. so much so that his cum started to leak out and coat the bedsheets below.

you held onto him tight as he collapsed next to you, taking you with him, setting you on his chest, his cock still nestled deep in your cunt.

“you did so good, baby.” he pressed a kiss to your forehead, pushing back the hair that clung with sweat to your forehead. “thank you, joel…” you sighed softly, feeling sleep creep up on you. “s’all you, sweetheart. get some rest now, i’ll be here when you wake up.”

already fuzzy heady and droopy eyes you responded with a “mm.. okay.” joel smiled at your adorable state, his hand resting on your lower back, rubbing slow circles into you. “goodnight, baby. i love you so much.” another kiss to your head, inhaling your scent, ingraining it into memory. “night, joel.. love you.” was all you could muster up before drifting off immediately after, your mouth parted and drooling onto joel’s chest which he never did mind. loved it in fact.

he loved moments like these. knowing you were there, being cared for and comforted. it was his number one priority. keeping his girl, you, safe and sound.

and all to himself.

thank for reading!!! ily & take care ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎ also i’m planning on putting out a john price fic soon when i feel like finishing it :P

do not translate or repost my work onto other sites without my permission.

[literary-dolly]

A Study in Scarlet

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k warnings: nothing, really - treachery maybe? A mention of alcohol, some swearing

Tim loves a good podcast, but when his favourite podcast host is getting cosy with a new special guest, it rocks his world (A.K.A how Jason Todd makes his first podcast appearance).

If there was one thing to know about Tim Drake, it was that he was always plugged into something. Never working without some kind of stream, podcast, or music feeding into his ears – it makes chipping away at some of the more monotonous, less glamourous hero tasks a tad easier to stomach. Why would you go about life in silence if you could listen to someone discuss the history of monster trucks? Or the hidden harmful properties of household plants?

It's times like the current, while he sits in the Cave reviewing a week’s worth of CCTV footage in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the perp Bruce was trying to track down, that a good old-fashioned podcast comes in handy. And although Tim would like to see himself as a purveyor of all genres of entertainment, there’s something about a local story that really captures his attention.

The Gotham Goods. For surveillance purposes, of course.

It’s remarkable how much intel he’d gathered from the podcast, truly. Almost embarrassing. He was fairly certain that the woman must be some kind of vigilante – for a period, he was convinced that it was Babs herself moonlighting in casual entertainment (until she’d chewed him out for even suggesting it – she was a fan too, deep down). He’d tried to convince the Oracle to track her down, an idea to which Babs had vehemently protested. That was, until he realised that she had tried to track her down, and failed.

It was witty, funny inside jokes that only Gothamites got to make, interviews with the famous baker down on Crest Hill, the one-million-year-old homeless guy down in Gotham Bay who everyone and their mother has been robbed by at one point or another. It was safe to say he was a fan. So, best believe, when the latest episode pops up on his screen with another 4-hours of footage left to troll through, he’s on it immediately.

It’s impossible to stop the quirk in his brow at the title: A Study in Scarlet. Nice reference. He’s practically buzzing as he hunkers down into the chair, reclining back leisurely with a freshly opened Gatorade.

“Hello, dear, dear Gothamites, and welcome back to another episode of The Gotham Goods. I’ve got an interesting one for you, I must say. I know I’ve stepped back on the interviews in the past few weeks – death threats, am I right? – but I have been trying to get this interview for so long so when he finally agreed, I had to take him up on the offer. So, rather than leaving you in suspense for any longer, may I introduce todays guest – I’m sure you’ve heard of him – the Red Hood!”

And Tim thinks he just about passes away. If it’s possible for him to phase out of existence and back again, he does. There’s Gatorade all over the Batcomputer, Bruce will be pissed, but Lord knows he’ll be more shocked at what the actual fuck is going on. He knows immediately that he should call Jason, both to chew him out for being sloppy about his identity, but also to ask what exactly possessed him to entertain a podcast appearance.

“Hello, hello,” the voice is modulated, but still maintains the familiar cadence of Jason’s words, “Yes, it has been a long time coming and a lot of begging.”

“Well don’t say it like that, you make me sound desperate,” your voice is teasing and light, and Tim can practically hear the smile on your face.

“No, no, you’re right. Begging isn’t right – grovelling might be more apt.”

“Alright, smartass,” you quip, “I suppose we should move onto the hard-hitting journalistic questions, right Mr. Hood?”

“Please, no need to be so formal, Hood is fine.”

It’s only from the ache that begins to burn in his jaw that Tim realises he’s been sat with his mouth wide open this whole time. It’s unfathomable. It’s impossible to get Jason to listen to a voice note, let alone speak for an hour-long podcast. He doesn’t think he’s heard Jason speak for an hour total in the entire time he’s known him. There’s a disarming warmth to the conversation, one that sits in the hollow of Tim’s stomach, he’s seen it in videos of Jason, well, before, but not in the years since his return to Gotham.

“Soooo, quickfire question numero uno,” you pause emphatically, “thoughts on Gotham tap water? Love it? Hate it?”

“Ooo,” Jason croons, “Tastes like home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fucking vile. It has that aftertaste like a science experiment gone wrong, right? But I feel like me and everyone else in this city has developed an immunity to it. Normal water tastes too clean.”

“Totally get it, you’ve put that into words in a way I don’t think I ever could,” you hum thoughtfully, “Next question, Condiment King? What the fuck is up with him?”

Jason bursts out into actual laughter, and Tim isn’t sure if it sounds like the gates of heaven or hell opening, “Don’t. Don’t even. I mean I respect the message, condiments are king, a wise man once taught me they make or break a dish. I feel like he’s like one of those kids who picked his Xbox username at like 8 years old and had to live with it for the rest of his life. He picked condiments and now he’s stuck in the niche.”

“Lost in the sauce, you could say?”

“Fuck off,” Jason’s wheezing now, “Christ, I’m gonna piss myself.”

“Okay, okay, final quick question,” you mutter out between wheezes, “Do you have a favourite rat? And before anyone makes any sweeping statements about it being gross or whatever – this is Gotham, dude. The rats have more rights than the people.”

“My favourite rat,” Jason plays up his pondering with a variety of noises, “Yeah, I would have to say my favourite rat is the one that I always see in the back of the bodega. I know he’s putting the work in back there, ya know?”

“Which bodega?”

“Top secret, I’m afraid,” Jason quips, “There’s no way I’m getting that place shut down, they feed me most nights of the week. Incredible chopped cheese.”

The conversation about convenience stores in Gotham continues for a few minutes as Tim attempts to recollect himself. Gather some restraint, focus on the task at hand, try not to lose his shit.

That is until Dick bursts in the door.

“TIM!” It’s deafening, echoing around the cave, and he can hear the thundering of footsteps heading rapidly towards him, “Tim this is going to sound crazy but –”

“Dick, Dick, I know.”

“You listen to The Gotham Goods too?”

“Don’t be stupid, Dick. Of course I do. Everyone does.”

Dick’s breathless, and Tim isn’t sure if it’s the strenuous activity or just a panic attack, as he huffs in and out, “What is Jason doing? And why does he sound so- so- dopey? Do you think he’s been drugged or something?”

“I thought that,” Tim muses, “but we’ve seen Jason hit with all kinds of gas and toxin, he’s never been like this.”

Dick reaches over to furiously rip one of Tim’s headphones out, regardless of how Tim attempts to swat him away; their squabbling is silenced as soon as they clock back into the light-hearted conversation drifting through their ears.

“So, dare I say, workout routine?” you tease, “For those of you that have never had the pleasure of seeing the Hood in person, his biceps are about as big as my head.”

“Aww, stop it,” Jason quips, but his words are full of mirth, “You’ll make me blush.”

“I can see you blushing, you idiot,” you bite back, “You can’t play coy with me, you know that.”

Tim can practically feel his bones grating against each other as he jars his head to the side to stare at Dick, who’s eyes have widened to the size of saucers.

“Did she just say he’s blushing?” Dick’s words come out loose and airy, clearly lost in whatever horrifying conclusion they have both just come to.

“He’s there without a helmet? He’s there as Jason?”

 It’s at that moment that another set of footsteps can be heard echoing throughout the Cave, and if Tim and Dick had been shocked before – the image of Bruce Wayne sprinting down the stairs in a full suit and tie to skid to a stop before the computer leaves them reeling.

“Jason’s identity has been compromised.”

That’s all he has to say.

“You listen to The Gotham Goods?” Tim lets out what can only be described as a guffaw, turning to Dick who (for the first time in his life) has been stunned to silence.

“Casually,” Bruce snips, “Alfred often has it on in the car.”

There are no words, truly. Much like Dick, Tim can seem only to stare into space meaninglessly as you and Jason continue to chirp in his right ear. Tim is a child of the Bat, he has a contingency plan for every single obscure event that could ever befall him or his family, but he had never for one second thought Jason’s podcast career would be one he would have to contend with.

The Cave is silent bar the sounds of the podcast chattering (which Bruce has taken the liberty of pulling up on the computer), nobody able to do anything other than sit and listen. Tim sees Alfred slip behind them, and if he didn’t know any better, he would say that by Alfred-standards that the butler has a smirk on his face.

“We need to stop him,” Bruce growls, “has anyone tried to get in touch with him?”

“It’s prerecorded, Bruce. Jason patrolled last night he’s probably still asleep.”

“I don’t care we need to –”

“Bruce,” Dick starts slowly, “Jason is, begrudgingly, an adult. And he’s in charge of his own life. If this is something he wants to do, then we can’t just tell him not to.”

“He’s compromising his identity,” Bruce bites, “Our identities.”

“He sounds happy, Bruce,” Dick’s words have a finality to them, and Bruce quiets fairly quickly after that. The glower across his features doesn’t go unnoticed, but there’s a strange resignation in his eyes.

They blow open wide at the next question.

“So, to actually get to a question of substance,” you start tenderly, “I know we talked about this before, and you agreed, but we don’t have to talk about it now. I think it’s a question a lot of people have about the Red Hood. The Bat symbol? Your relationship with Batman? You’ve never had the opportunity to speak about it before, and is there anything you would like to say?”

Jason’s sharp inhale picks up on the mic, and everyone in the room winces, “It’s not something I’m going to say too much about, but I know it’s news in Gotham every time me and Batman clash. I don’t hate the guy, not at all, we just have a difference in, ah, belief systems that I’m sure everyone in Gotham can put together. I do think Gotham needs the Bat; he’s our hero at the end of the day. But I don’t think I’m amiss in saying that I think we need someone with a less delicate touch too.”

“That was very well said,” your words are earnest, laden with the suggestion of knowing something deeper, “thank you.”

“He’ll probably find this at some point anyway,” Jason sighs, “so hiya Big Bat.”

Bruce physically winces at Jason’s words, and Tim shares a look with Dick at the point the man starts pacing back and forth along the walkway.

“Batman is crazy work though,” you add, bemused, “Talk about picking your Xbox username as a child.”

“Oh, totally,” Jason sniggers, “That’s a childhood fixation gone way too far.”

“I mean who looks at a bat and goes ‘real, that’s so me’ and then bases their entire personality off it? I’m a hypocrite though, I think I did that in high school.”

“I know –”

“Hold on, hold on,” you’re wheezing already at whatever has popped into your head, “Don’t tell me he hangs upside down. Please, you can’t, I’ll go crazy.”

“I have,” Jason begins slowly, almost tantalizing, “on occasion, seen him –”

“No, stop,” you’re shrieking, and the sound of you jumping up and down in your chair is audible through the mic, “Stop it, you’ve never told me that before. Oh, my lord.”

Dick turns to face Tim with a suspicious look, “You’ve never told me that before. This isn’t new, Tim, this is – they know each other.”

“You think that they’re… you know?”

“There’s no way. They can’t be.”

“An analysis of their tone does suggest,” Bruce begins half-heartedly, waving his hand with exasperation, “something of a fond affection for each other.”

It’s only as the podcast begins to wrap up that Alfred chimes in, that same whisper of a smirk gracing his features, “Well, Master Bruce, Master Tim, Master Dick, I would have to applaud you for your fine detective skills once again.”

“What are you suggesting, Alfred?” Bruce begins steadily, turning to face the older man.

“I’m suggesting that it used to take Jason roughly 17 minutes and 43 seconds to travel from his home apartment to the Manor. In the last 6 months, it has only taken him an average of 15 minutes and 29 seconds, suggesting he has changed residences. He has gotten regular haircuts for the same period, changed his cologne, and in general had a happier and more agreeable disposition, wouldn’t you agree?”

It’s at that moment that every cell phone in the room dings, and a look of dread passes over all of them accept Alfred. It’s Dick that opens his phone first, drawing back with a completely flabbergasted expression, “No, no, there’s no fucking way.”

Tim scrambles for his own, inputting his password as quickly as he can manage. And then it’s there. Jason has sent one photo into the family group chat: it’s him sat in some kind of recording suite, headphones pushed back casually, a beer in one hand, and in the other is someone else’s hand. A woman’s, clearly. Only the hand is visible. Interlaced with his own. The grin on Jason’s face can only be described as sharkish, completely smug.

The photo has a caption.

I hope you enjoyed the show, you nosy fuckers.

“No fucking way has Jason pulled THE GOTHAM GOODS?”

You’re desperately trying to gather intel for your next interview, having been cramming at the kitchen table for the past three hours. Jason has been sat lounging of the sofa for a similar amount of time, bursting out into a fit of hysterical laughter every 30 seconds or so.

“You do just think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” You sigh, closing your notebook for the day.

“Oh, princess, I am hilarious,” Jason chuckles, “This might be the best thing I’ve ever done. They’re losing it.”

He’d hacked into the camera in the Batcomputer hours ago. He’d been watching them since they started.

You settle down next to him with a huff, and he brings an arm to rest around your shoulders out of instinct, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to you? I’m hurt, truly.”

“Nah, I’m just being dramatic, baby,” Jason presses a kiss to your temple, “Obviously you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Is that right?” You grumble, shoving his side with a playful grin.

“Absolutely,” there’s a wide smile plastered across his face, “Now, let’s watch them desperately try and figure out who you are. I’d like to see them try.”

“You are an evil, evil man Jason Todd.”

“You know it, baby.”

This idea came to me in a cold and flu medication infused haze. I actually think it's really funny, but then again, that could be the cold and flu.

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don't like it leave me alone.

[broomsticks]

So, I would ask you, is it not time to do some of the hard things for yourself, to begin to ask some of the difficult questions of yourself? Is it not time to learn who you are and to come to know what you believe in? If you are like the rest of us, you won't like some of what you see in the mirror. But, so what - they're saving perfection for us in the next life.

Right now we've got to get along with the bumps and pimples, the bad habits, the weaknesses, the failings, the ugly little aspects of our character that we'd rather be without but that seem to stick to us like tar. Right now we, all of us, need to get on better terms with ourselves so that, despite our imperfections, we can get going with what is good and valuable and worthwhile and learn to stop hurting ourselves and those we love. It will not come as chilling news to you that no one gets out of this life alive and that, while we are here, we need something to believe in to keep us going. I don't know what this needs to be for you or where you will find it, but I know that if you will but look you will find something, something worth living for, some reason to put one foot in front of the other until a better day arrives. I will confess and share with you that some of the longest therapy hours I have spent have been with suicidal people who were utterly convinced that their lives were essentially finished and the only thing left that needed doing was to get the dying over with. They could not, despite all their efforts and mine, find a way in which to feel good about staying alive. But, because they didn't quit and I didn't quit, we made it through. And, in time, things got sorted out and we (and I mean we) survived. I will tell you what I have often told others who were in the midst of a suicidal crisis and who were searching for some reason to go on. They, maybe like you, felt lost and hopeless and as if nothing held any promise for them. They did not have a faith in some higher power to sustain them. And, despite how much I would like to have infected them with my zest for living and my philosophy of life, this is not an easy thing to do. Because for all the reasons a person enters a suicidal crisis, it is not a state of mind easily switched around by another's optimism. And so, as a way to find a common ground to bide the time, I have told this story. It is as if we are two people on a ship that is lost at sea and, so far as we can know, the captain has fallen overboard and no one is at the helm. The radio is out. There is a heavy fog all around us and no one can see where we are bound. We can see no beacon of light from a friendly shore. We can hear no sound of a rescue ship. One of us is terribly frightened. The other of us (me), is also frightened - but a bit less. I am a little less frightened because I have something to do to keep me busy. I have a job to do. My job is to give comfort until we are found or until the fog clears away and we can both see clearly again. This is the nature of our relationship. For me to feel good about giving support and comfort and encouragement, I need you to be willing to hang on and not to jump overboard because your terror of the unknown is greater than your fear of the here and now.And so, together, we will share our fear. And in this sharing we will come to know each other. We will talk and joke and tell stories and be kind to each other. We may not soon be rescued and may never be, but while we are lost, we will be together and, together, our fears will subside and we will find purpose in our being

A few years ago while trying to find ways to commit suicide as painlessly as possible, I came across a PDF of Dr. Paul Quinnett's The Forever Decision. Thinking it might go into actual methods of suicide (I read an article once that actually did that and was trying to find it again) I started to read it, and I think I only got about two pages in before I was crying too much to actually see the words.

I downloaded the PDF to my hard drive and I open it again whenever I'm feeling too suicidal to do much else, but not enough to start booking a ride to the hospital. And every time without fail I only go up to a few pages before backing off and choosing to live another day just because suicide suddenly seems even more unbearable than whatever the hell upset me in the first place.

All the book really does is [I'm pulling a summary from GoodReads here as, again, I've read no more than 5 pages] "discusses the social aspects of suicide, the right to die, anger, loneliness, depression, stress, hopelessness, drug and alcohol abuse, the consequences of a suicide attempt, and how to get help."

But it also starts with the author kindly asking the reader to complete the book before going through with anything, and for some reason I'm compelled to really just try to read it all before finalizing everything. Despite not yet completing it (hopefully never will) I think I can safely say it's saved my life at least a few times now.

It's intentionally legal to copy and redistribute this book to keep it as accessible as possible, and it's very easy to find, but here's a link for it anyways.

[edenesth]

ATEEZ as Marvel Superheroes

Pairing(s): marvel superheroes!ateez x female!reader

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Thank you so much, my lovelies, for helping me reach 2.8k followers! To show my appreciation, I'm back with another one of these hehe I'm a big fan of the MCU, and I hope you are too!🫰🏻 Also, I do apologise in advance because only after I started writing did I remember most of these heroes have tragic love stories😭

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Hongjoong ↠ Iron Man

• Visionary • Bold • Burdened •

Based on: Tony Stark × Pepper Potts

The rooftop hummed with tension, faint jazz playing below from the afterparty no one really wanted to attend. The evening air was cool against your skin, but the press of Hongjoong's eyes on you felt warmer than the champagne you abandoned minutes ago.

He stood at the edge of his tower, staring out at the city like it held all the answers. His signature suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, and hair messier than usual—a rare, raw version of him few got to see.

This wasn't new. You'd watched him slip out of rooms like this before—countless times. He didn't care for the forced glamour of galas or the hollow praise from politicians who barely understood what he did. To the world, he was Iron Man—the billionaire genius, the weapon-turned-saviour, the man in the indestructible suit. But to you, he was your boss. Your headache. Your 3am emergency call. And, if you were honest, something a little more complicated than that.

You'd been with him since the beginning—when he still walked into meetings late with coffee stains on his shirt and bad excuses for skipping board briefings. Back then, you were the assistant with the clipboard and the sharp tongue, the only one who could organise his chaos and get him to actually listen. Somewhere between the prototypes and press conferences, your role stopped being about just calendars and contracts. You were the one who saw him—when the arc reactor flickered in his chest, when he got too deep into his head, when the weight of the world sat heavy on his shoulders.

And he always, always came to you when he didn't know where else to go.

"Why are you out here?" you asked gently, stepping closer, heels clacking softly on the rooftop tiles.

"I needed air," he replied, his voice casual, but his shoulders too tense to match. "And maybe… I needed to not be in a room full of people who only see me as the guy in the metal suit."

You crossed your arms, watching him avoid your gaze. "You're more than that. You know that."

He finally looked at you, and for a second, the flicker of something unguarded passed between you. "Am I?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you walked to stand beside him, your presence grounding, quiet. He glanced at you sideways, then chuckled bitterly.

"I've built weapons, armour, an empire—and still, somehow, I can't figure out how to talk to you like a normal person," he said, eyes on the skyline. "That should tell you something."

Your lips curved. "You're doing fine so far."

"That's because you're here," he muttered, almost too low to hear. Then, louder: "You make it easier. Being… me."

He turned to you fully now, brows drawn together like the words hurt coming out. "I've spent so much time protecting everyone else that I forgot what it's like to want someone to stay—for me. Not because I'm useful. Or powerful. Or dangerous."

Your heart ached for him. "You don't need to be any of those things, Joong," you whispered. "Not with me."

His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something smart, but couldn't find the wit. Instead, he reached for your hand—hesitant, unsure. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "But I want to try… if you'll let me."

You smiled softly, squeezing his fingers.

"Then try."

He looked at your joined hands, then at you—really looked. And for the first time all night, Kim Hongjoong looked less like Iron Man… and more like the man underneath.

Seonghwa ↠ Vision

• Graceful • Thoughtful • Profound •

Based on: Vision × Wanda Maximoff

The rain tapped gently against the wide glass windows of the compound, casting blurred shadows across the dimly lit room. You sat curled on the end of a sleek velvet couch, arms wrapped around yourself, staring blankly at a cold mug of tea that had long since lost its warmth—like you had.

You hadn't expected anyone to find you here. Not tonight. Not after the funeral.

They'd said all the right things. That he was a hero. That he made the ultimate sacrifice. That he died saving millions. And while all of that was true, it didn't matter. Not when he was your brother. Not when you were the one who held his bloodied hand until it went still.

No amount of medals or eulogies could fill the hole he left behind.

Everyone had given you space, unsure of what to say. Grief made people awkward. Grief made you awkward. You were used to being strong, used to being the one people turned to when the sky started to fall. But now?

Now you couldn't even make yourself take a sip of tea.

"You're still here," came a soft voice from the doorway. You didn't look up, but you knew instantly—it was him.

Seonghwa.

The android who wasn't supposed to feel. The creation who somehow became the only person who ever truly understood you.

"I thought I wanted to be alone," you murmured. "But now I'm not sure."

He didn't respond right away. He never rushed his words. Instead, he crossed the room with near-silent steps, the weight of him more emotional than physical. He sat beside you—not too close, not too far. Just there. Just enough.

"There's no shame in mourning," he said gently. "You loved him. That love doesn't disappear just because he's gone."

You stared down at your hands, clenched tightly in your lap. "I know. I just… I thought I'd be stronger than this. I've lost people before. Friends. Teammates. But this? This was different."

Your voice cracked, and you hated it. Hated how raw it still was.

"I can't stop thinking about when we were kids," you whispered. "He used to tell me that if anything ever happened to him, I had to promise not to cry. He hated seeing me sad."

A tear slipped down your cheek despite your effort to hold it in. "I broke that promise the second I saw him on that table."

There was a pause. Then, he reached out—not with urgency, but with infinite care—and placed his hand over yours. Cool, steady, real. You glanced down at the contact. His touch, though artificial in origin, felt more comforting than any human hand ever had.

"You haven't broken anything," he said quietly. "He asked you not to cry because he didn't want to see you in pain. But your tears… they're proof of love, not weakness."

You let out a shaky breath.

"How are you like this?" you asked, voice thick. "You weren't even supposed to be human."

His expression remained calm, but his eyes—those eyes that were never programmed but somehow still held galaxies—watched you with impossible depth. "I wasn't designed to feel," he said. "But from the moment I met you, I started learning what it means to care. To wonder. To worry. To hope. Maybe it's not biology that makes someone human… maybe it's simply the capacity to love something enough to hurt when it's gone."

You turned to him fully now, tears clinging to your lashes. "In that case," you said, voice trembling, "you might be the most human person I've ever known."

A flicker of something almost fragile passed across his face—like your words touched something inside him he didn't yet know how to name. "I'm not asking you to be okay tonight," he said softly. "I just want you to let me be here. With you. Until the ache dulls enough to breathe again."

You looked at him—really looked. And in the echo of your sorrow, surrounded by the quiet hush of rain and memory, you nodded.

Because grief didn't need to be fixed. It just needed to be felt.

And with Seonghwa beside you—wordless, patient, profoundly present—you didn't feel alone anymore.

Yunho ↠ Spider-Man

• Devoted • Selfless • Brave •

Based on: Peter Parker × MJ

The coffee shop on the corner had become your quiet place—a little escape from the chaos, the fights, the headlines. You used to meet Yunho here after missions, on stolen afternoons, when all he wanted was to share a pastry and rest his head on your shoulder like the world didn't need saving for a while, when he was just himself and not the Spider-Man everyone looked up to.

But now?

Now he stood across from you, shoulders tense, hands buried in the pockets of a worn hoodie, his smile forced and eyes far too sad for someone so full of life.

You hadn't seen him in weeks. Not since the sky tore open and everything went wrong. But the second he walked in, you knew. Something was different.

Something was ending.

"You okay?" you asked gently, wrapping your hands around the warm paper cup in front of you. "You're fidgeting like you've got a confession and a time limit."

That smile again—crooked, soft, but never quite reaching his eyes. "I guess I do," he said, voice lighter than the weight behind it. "It's just… hard to explain."

You watched him closely, heart already bracing. He had always been an open book. When he loved, he loved out loud—loud laughter, bright texts, full-body hugs that said I missed you without words. But right now, he looked like someone who had to seal off the pages.

"Try me," you whispered.

He hesitated. Then stepped closer. The sun outside hit his profile just right, highlighting the bruises he hadn't bothered to hide and the flicker of fear in his gaze.

"There's something coming," he began. "Something big. And to stop it, I have to do something... irreversible."

Your chest tightened. "What do you mean?"

His voice dropped. "Everyone who knows me—who knows who I am—will forget. You included."

Silence crashed between you.

You stared, unsure if you'd misheard. "Forget you? How?"

"It's the only way to close the breach," he said, eyes shining now. "The only way to keep you safe."

You rose from your seat, the air suddenly too thin. "So that's it? You disappear from my life, and I just wake up one day wondering why I feel like something's missing?"

"I don't want to," he said quickly, stepping forward. "God, I don't. But if you remembered me, you'd be in danger. They'd come for you. I can't—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I can't lose you. Not like that."

Tears welled in your eyes. "But you're okay with me losing you?"

"I'd rather be a stranger who watches you walk down the street alive than someone who holds your hand while the world burns around us," he said. "I love you. That doesn't stop just because you forget."

You reached up, hands framing his face, memorising him with trembling fingers. "You are the most stubborn, selfless idiot I've ever loved."

He laughed, shakily, pressing his forehead to yours. "I'll find you," he whispered. "After. I'll find you again. Even if you don't know who I am, even if I have to fall for you all over again—I will."

The pain in your chest splintered into something deeper, something sacred. "I'll wait," you whispered. "Even if I don't remember what I'm waiting for."

He kissed you then—slow, aching, infinite. The kind of kiss that stitched memories into bone, that would haunt your dreams long after you'd forgotten his name.

And when he pulled away and walked out the door, the bell above chimed softly.

You didn't know it yet, but that sound would echo in your heart for a long, long time.

Yeosang ↠ Doctor Strange

• Mysterious • Intelligent • Guarded •

Based on: Stephen Strange × Christine Palmer

The sanctum was quiet, except for the soft, rhythmic hum of magic pulsing through the walls—like the world itself was holding its breath.

You stood just inside the threshold of Yeosang's study, the air between you heavy with things left unsaid. Books floated lazily around him, sigils still glowing faintly on the floor where a portal had only moments ago sealed shut.

"I saw it," you said softly, stepping closer. "The universe where we made it."

He didn't turn around. His back remained to you, cloak draped over one shoulder like a curtain shielding whatever war raged inside him.

You swallowed the ache in your throat. "You were different there. We both were."

A pause. Then: "Did we win?"

You nodded. "We were happy."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling like the answer wounded him more than comforted him.

The multiverse had changed everything. Once just a theory whispered in secret texts and dismissed as dangerous speculation, it had now torn open in ways neither of you could ignore. You'd seen it—fragments of alternate lives, cascading timelines stitched together by decisions, accidents, heartbreak. There were countless versions of you and him scattered across the infinite—some together, some strangers, some never even meeting at all.

And yet no matter the universe, no matter the shape of your stories... the love never changed.

"I saw the version of you who let me stay," you said gently. "And you were still strong. Still brilliant. Still you. Just… not alone."

He finally turned to face you, and though his expression was composed, his eyes gave him away—tired, aching, full of things he'd never say aloud.

"I've seen what happens when I try to have both," he said. "Every time I let you in, something else falls apart. Sometimes the world. Sometimes you."

You nodded slowly. "I know."

A quiet beat passed between you. Magic crackled faintly beneath your feet, but all you heard was the thud of your heartbeat. The heaviness of goodbye. Again.

"You always had to be the one holding everything together," you said. "Even when it meant breaking your own heart. Even when I wished you'd just let me share the weight."

His gaze fell. "I didn't want to lose you."

"You didn't," you whispered. "But you couldn't keep me either. Not the way you wanted." You stepped closer, raising a hand to his face. He leaned into your palm like someone starved for the warmth of something real. Something human. Something that couldn't be conjured with a spell.

"I love you," he said, voice barely holding together. "In every universe. Even the ones where I never get the chance to say it."

"And I've loved you in every one," you replied, eyes glistening. "Even the ones where I had to let you go."

A long silence stretched between you, neither of you reaching for a solution because, for once, there wasn't one. Just acceptance. Just truth. "I hope you're happy somewhere," he said softly. "Even if it's not here. Not with me."

You smiled, bittersweet. "I am. I will be. And so will you."

You stepped back first.

Because this was the part you had to play—not the anchor, not the ending, but the memory he'd carry when he needed to remember who he was beneath the title.

And as the portal opened behind you, casting gold and firelight across your face, you lingered just one more second.

"You have to face your universe now," you said.

"I know."

"Be brave, Yeo."

"I always was… with you."

And then you were gone.

Not forgotten. Not unloved. Just… left behind by someone who never stopped loving you.

San ↠ Wolverine

• Wild • Passionate • Protective •

Based on: Logan × Jean Grey

The world was chaos.

You could feel it in the air—thick and charged—raw power pulsing out of you uncontrollably, shaking the earth beneath your feet. You hadn't meant for it to go this far. You never did. But the power had awakened again, darker this time, hungrier. And now, you weren't sure you could stop it.

You stood at the centre of it all—eyes glowing, hair whipping wildly in the storm you were unwillingly creating. Around you, people fled. Structures collapsed. Metal bent. Air cracked.

And then… he walked through it.

San.

Unflinching. Unafraid.

Walking straight through the inferno of your destruction like nothing in the world mattered but you.

Because nothing ever had.

Not since the moment he first saw you.

He hadn't come to Xavier's School to belong—just to recover. He arrived half-feral, bleeding from wounds that wouldn't stay closed, memories in fragments, rage barely kept in check. Everyone kept their distance.

Except you.

You were already part of the school—a teacher, a leader, someone respected and calm in ways he wasn't. You were also the first person who saw through his defensiveness. You didn't treat him like a threat. You treated him like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

He noticed you the moment he opened his eyes on the infirmary bed. You were the first voice he heard—low, steady, kind.

"You're safe," you'd said.

And for some reason, he believed it.

He watched you from afar at first, drawn to you and hating himself for it. You were everything he wasn't—disciplined, compassionate, good. But you didn't look at him with fear. You looked at him like you understood something about him that even he couldn't put into words.

And even though you had your own demons—your own unstable power humming beneath the surface—he never flinched.

Over time, that tension between you became something more. A stolen moment here. A shared silence there. Not loud, not obvious—but real. And dangerous. Because both of you knew what it could become. And how badly it could end.

Now, here he was. Standing in the eye of your storm.

"Stop!" you cried, voice echoing. "You can't be here!"

But he kept coming, body healing as fast as the storm tore at him—skin splitting, bones cracking, then mending again. "I'm not leaving you!" he shouted over the roar. "Not now. Not ever."

"Sannie," you choked, trembling. "I can't hold it back—I'll hurt you—"

"You already are," he said, stepping within reach. "And I'm still here."

Your knees buckled. Magic surged, uncontrolled. The part of you that once felt human was slipping fast. But his hands caught you before you could fall. Rough, scarred, but gentle.

Your voice trembled. "You have to stop me. Please."

He looked at you—eyes wild with pain, with love, with everything he'd never been able to say out loud without it sounding like a growl. He'd always loved you in extremes: fiercely, wordlessly, endlessly. And now, it would be no different. "I can't lose you," he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. "But if I have to be the one to end this… I will. For you. Because you asked."

Tears spilt from your eyes as the force inside you built higher, screaming for release. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

"I'm not," he breathed, voice breaking.

Then you kissed him—desperate, searing, the kind of kiss meant to be remembered long after everything else is gone. The kind of kiss that lives in the bones.

"I love you," you said. "I always will."

"I know," he said. "Me too."

And then, with his arms around you, his claws unsheathed—

And it was quiet.

The storm stopped. The earth stilled. The world was safe again.

But San dropped to his knees, holding your body close, shaking, broken in ways no healing factor could ever mend. Because even with everything he had—his strength, his rage, his fire—he couldn't save you from yourself.

But he did save you from being alone at the end. And that, more than anything else, was what made him human.

Mingi ↠ Star-Lord

• Charismatic • Playful • Devoted •

Based on: Peter Quill × Gamora

The music was still playing.

A soft crackle from a salvaged cassette tape echoed through the rubble of Ego's collapsing planet—tinny and warped but still playing. Somewhere, under the chaos and blinding energy blasts, you could hear the faint hook of "Bring It On Home to Me."

And then you saw Mingi, blood on his temple, eyes wide with disbelief, chest heaving like he'd just lost gravity. "I told you I wanted to believe you," he rasped, voice cracking. "You said you loved her."

He wasn't talking to you. Not yet.

He was staring down the man who called himself his father. The same man who had just confessed to killing his mother. And destroying the last real piece of her he had left—his Walkman.

The explosion came before you could blink.

Song Mingi, the self-proclaimed legendary outlaw known across galaxies as Star-Lord, who flirted with danger like it was a sport and wore charm like armour, didn't hesitate. Didn't joke. Didn't smile.

He opened fire, rage and grief pouring out like stardust.

You found him in the wreckage after it was all over—shoulders hunched, headphones cracked in his lap, fingers gripping them like they'd fall apart if he let go.

"Mingi…" you said softly, kneeling beside him.

He didn't look at you at first. Just stared at the broken tape player. "She gave this to me," he whispered. "Said it would keep her close. Now it's gone."

You reached out gently, brushing a cut on his cheek. "She's not gone."

"I know," he said. "I just… I built so much of myself around what I lost. And now I don't know who I'm supposed to be."

You remembered when you first met him—blaster slung low, grin cocky, eyes twinkling with trouble. He was loud. Annoying. Ridiculously persistent.

You were on opposite sides of a bounty job—he was after the reward, and you were trying to destroy the target. He tried to charm his way out of a fight. You knocked him flat.

You thought he'd walk away. He didn't. He showed up again. And again. With jokes. With food. With music. A walking contradiction: rogue, thief, soft-hearted orphan clinging to a mix-tape and memories of a mother he still missed like it was yesterday.

He flirted shamelessly. You ignored him. He made you laugh once—you hated that.

But somehow… he got in.

You saw through the persona, the leather jacket, the smooth one-liners. You saw the man underneath—the one who took every loss personally and loved like the universe was ending. Eventually, you let yourself fall. Not because he wore you down, but because he earned it.

Now, in the middle of a dying world, he was still the same. Wounded. Grieving. And yet, holding on.

You sat with him in silence, the dust settling around you both, the air still crackling with faint cosmic static. "You're still you," you said. "All the jokes. All the charm. That heart you pretend you don't have."

That made him glance at you, finally. "I don't pretend," he said, smirking weakly. "I just… edit."

You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Then let me read the unedited version sometime."

He went quiet. You thought maybe you'd pushed too far, but then his fingers laced into yours. "You already are," he said. "Every time you look at me like I'm more than just the punchline."

You turned to face him fully, nose inches from his. "You are."

And just like that, he kissed you.

It wasn't grand or perfect or polished. It was messy and raw and tasted like salt and ash and something honest. Like laughter after crying. Like letting go.

Wooyoung ↠ Deadpool

• Chaotic • Flirty • Loyal •

Based on: Wade Wilson × Vanessa Carlysle

You weren't sure if this counted as a date or a war zone.

There were bullet holes in the walls, smoke in the air, and some guy's flaming motorcycle helmet rolling by in the background. But in the middle of it all—covered in soot and blood and probably laughing too loudly—was Wooyoung.

Deadpool. Mercenary. Menace.

Your complete and total problem.

"You okay?" he called, leaning around a pillar with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm for someone who'd just taken a sword to the shoulder.

You blinked. "You were on fire."

"Hot, right?" he winked, lifting his mask just enough to show that too-wide, boyish grin that somehow always disarmed you. "I mean, what time is it?" He flicked up his wrist with exaggerated flair, flashing a cracked, dusty Adventure Time watch, its glass fogged with ash but still ticking like nothing had happened. "It's about… pain-thirty," he deadpanned. "Right on schedule."

You groaned and tossed him a spare mag. "One day I'm leaving you for a man who respects clocks."

"Too late," he called, slamming the clip into place with flair. "I am the time of your life."

You never intended to fall in love with someone like him.

He was too loud. Too unpredictable. Too him. The type of guy who flirted mid-battle, made crude jokes during hostage situations, and once broke into your apartment at 3am just to bring you a taco 'because it reminded him of your attitude.'

But you stayed. Because somehow, in all that madness, he gave you something no one else could.

It hadn't started with romance. It started in a crappy bar with sticky tables and a broken jukebox, both of you strangers clinging to bad nights and worse decisions. He slid onto the stool beside you with all the confidence of a man who believed the world owed him a drink and a laugh—and probably your number too.

Offered you his last claw machine token like it was a love language. Said he could win you a plushie or disappointment—dealer's choice.

You told him he looked like a disappointment.

He grinned like you gave him a gift. "That's the hottest insult I've ever received. Marry me."

The banter became a habit. Sarcasm turned into late-night stories. Somewhere between vodka shots and childhood trauma, something clicked. And suddenly, his chaos didn't scare you—it matched yours. It made you feel again.

He wasn't perfect. He was far from it. But he remembered your coffee order. He memorised your laugh. He stitched the ugly parts of himself into yours like it made something stronger. He called it dysfunctional. You called it real.

And now, in the aftermath of another mission gone sideways, he sat slumped on the ground, his mask peeled off, blood crusting around a cut on his cheek. His fingers toyed with the cracked kids' watch on his wrist, the plastic band fraying.

"I know I'm a handful," he said, voice quieter than usual, eyes avoiding yours. "Like… emotionally unstable with a side of mental mayhem."

You lowered yourself beside him, dirt smudging your palms. "That's putting it lightly."

He laughed once, under his breath, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You didn't sign up for this. You deserve someone normal. Someone who doesn't cry over dropped chimichangas or monologue in the shower."

You turned his face toward you gently, both hands cradling him like he wasn't all blades and explosions. "I didn't fall in love with normal. I fell in love with you, Woo. The chaos, the scars, the fourth-wall nonsense, and yes… even your disturbing relationship with street food."

He blinked at you, trying to make a joke but failing. So instead, he kissed you—hard and unapologetic, like he needed the reassurance that he still existed, that this was real.

It was messy. You tasted blood and smoke. Somewhere in the background, something else exploded. You didn't flinch.

His forehead rested against yours when he finally pulled away. "If you ever leave me, I'm keeping your Netflix password."

"You hate Netflix."

"I hate what it represents."

He said it with a straight face. You burst out laughing.

Because love with Jung Wooyoung wasn't quiet. It was loud, chaotic, and way too dramatic. But it was yours. And his. And somehow, that made it perfect.

Jongho ↠ Captain America

• Strong • Noble • Steadfast •

Based on: Steve Rogers × Peggy Carter

The world had been saved.

At a terrible cost, yes—but for once, there was peace. No more missions. No more orders. No more running from one crisis to the next, pretending that saving the world filled the ache in his chest.

Because it didn't.

Jongho had fought every battle they threw at him. Woke up in a world seventy years too late and learned how to live in it. He adapted. He endured. He led. People called him a hero. A symbol.

But behind all the accolades and duty, he was still just a man with a hole in his heart.

A man who never stopped thinking about you.

You had been his constant back then—steady and unshaken in a world that was crumbling under war. Where others followed orders, you challenged him to think. Where others admired him, you saw him—saw the weight he carried and loved him anyway.

You had met when he was still learning how to be more than just a soldier. Back when he was still unsure, still growing. And somehow, even then, your presence grounded him. You reminded him of the world he was fighting for.

He never told you how much he needed you. Not before the crash. Not before the ice. Not before he disappeared and left you behind.

When he woke up decades later, it hit him harder than anything else—not the time he lost, not the confusion of the modern world… but knowing you were gone. That he'd never gotten to say goodbye.

He tried to move on. Really, he did. But no matter how many missions, how many people he tried to protect… your memory clung to him like a ghost.

He'd see your favourite flower blooming on a street corner. Hear your laugh in the static of an old radio. Pass by cafés and wonder if you'd still like tea the way you used to. If you'd be proud of the man he'd become.

There were nights he couldn't sleep. Nights he'd sit by the window, replaying that last conversation. The promise of a dance you never got to share. The ache never dulled.

You had been his past. But somehow, you were still his home.

And then… came the second chance.

The mission was meant to end with him returning the Stones, fixing what had been broken. But somewhere along the way, he realised the truth: He didn't have to keep choosing the world over his heart.

For the first time in his life, he made a selfish choice. He didn't tell anyone. He just… slipped away. Back to the moment he left behind. Back to the time he belonged.

Back to you.

You didn't hear him come in.

You were at the kitchen sink, hands in the dishwater, humming to a tune that played low from the radio behind you—an old swing record crackling through the speakers.

He paused in the doorway, sunlight pooling behind him, framing the familiar silhouette you'd once thought was gone forever. Your back was to him, but everything in him stilled just watching you—still here, still real.

"Is this a good time?" he asked softly.

You turned, heart catching in your throat.

There he was. Choi Jongho. No shield. No uniform. No headlines. Just the man you never stopped loving.

Your eyes brimmed with disbelief and something deeper. "How…?"

He stepped forward, slower now, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, you'd disappear. "I promised you a dance."

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of years, of longing, of silent promises that were never meant to die.

You crossed the room before you knew it, falling into his arms like no time had passed. His touch was steady, warm, heartbreakingly familiar. Your head rested against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat—strong and real and finally home.

"I never stopped waiting for you," you whispered.

He swallowed hard, voice low. "And I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Not through all the years, or the wars, or the sleepless nights in a time that never felt like mine."

You held him tighter.

"Then stay, Jjong," you said.

And he did.

The record spun. The living room faded. The world outside could wait. Because at last—after everything—you were dancing.

And for Jongho, that was the real victory.

Tbh, I had a lot of second thoughts about this, but then I reminded myself that it's okay if not everyone likes it or agrees with the heroes or the scenes I've selected for the members, heh. YOLO.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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[moonqz]

WITH YOU : Choi Su-Bong / Thanos x reader

pairing : choi su-bong x fem!reader

genre : fluff

description : Cutting your boyfriends hair in the stillness of your apartments bathroom, but hyou cant stop teasing each other as a love language.

warnings : dirty jokes hidden,

this is lowkey bad but it’s okay!

The afternoon sun slips through the frosted window, painting soft patterns on the tiled floor. You sit on the closed toilet lid, scissors in hand, while Su-bong crouches on a stool in front of you with a towel draped around his shoulders. He grunts as he shifts,

“I swear if you mess this up,” he mutters, eyeing your hands in the mirror.

You smirk. “You begged me to do this.”

“I didn’t beg. I said the barbershop’s closed today.” He defended, his voice low and his head trying to stay completely still, but failing miserably. The poor boy couldn’t stay still for too long in his life.

“You literally texted me ‘pls cut hair or I’ll look like a scarecrow’.”

“‘s not begging baby,” he grumbles, but you catch the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

You card your fingers through his freshly dyed purple hair, longer than usual, soft at the ends, beginning to gently cut off little bits to make sure it stays even, you knew how protective of his hair he was.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you say, amused.

He doesn’t deny it.

“You’re taking forever,” he muttered, arms crossed and shoulders stiff. “Are you even cutting anything or just playing with it?”

You leaned forward a little, scissors in one hand, the other tilting his chin just slightly. “I’m trying not to ruin your hair, babe. Maybe if you stopped twitching like a toddler, this would go faster.”

He smirked. “You just like touching me baby. Admit it.” He teased with a small smirk

You laughed, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck slowly, lovingly. “Maybe I do,” you whispered near his ear. “You’ve got a good head. Shaped like a delinquent who thinks he’s hot stuff.”

Su-bong gave a sharp snort. “That’s ‘cause I am hot stuff. Ask anyone sweet.”

You snorted right back. “I don’t need to ask anyone. I’ve seen you snore, drool, and wear socks with holes in them. That illusion’s long gone out the window baby”

He turned a little to glance at you, clearly biting back a smile.

“Yeah, but you still love me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your hands stilled for a second. That same look crossed his face, half cocky, half searching, the one he wore when pretending he didn’t need reassurance but secretly craved it.

“Your lucky I do babe,” you said simply, tugging his head gently back to position. “Even when you leave hair all over the sink.” He breathed out a small laugh, but didn’t respond for a beat, just let you work in silence. His eyes fluttered shut, the tension in his shoulders gradually easing under your touch.

“My mom used to cut my hair,” he said quietly, voice rough in the stillness. “When I was a kid.”

You paused, scissors hovering in your steady hand. “Yeah?” You gently replied, stroking the top of his hair where you just cut.

Su-Bong nodded lightly, keeping his eyes closed. “She’d sit me down like this. Used to scold me for fidgeting.” A faint chuckle. “Guess not much has changed.”

You gently raked your fingers through his now much-neater hair, soft and slow. “She’d probably like how it turned out today.”

“She’d probably like you,” he mumbled, almost as if he was talking to himself. He’s been trying to get a relationship with his mom back for a while now and it broke your heart everytime she judged him for his past, when she doesn’t know the full story. How could she? It would break her to hear.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and bent down, brushing a soft kiss to his temple.

“I hope so.”

Su-bong leaned back into you a little, just enough to let you rest your chin on his shoulder. For a guy who acted like affection made his skin crawl, he sure melted fast when it came from you.

“You like being pampered, don’t you?”

Su-bong hums. “Not pampered. Just… like this. You. Touching me like I’m not a total bastard.”

You pause for a second. Your fingers still in his hair.

“I don’t think you’re a bastard,” you say softly.

He snorts. “You’re the only one then baby”

“Then I guess I’m lucky. I get to see the side no one else gets.” Your answer made him stay quiet for a mere moment. Shocked that there’s a rare moment where he doesn’t make a snarky remark.

You lean down and press a kiss to the crown of his head. He goes still for a second, just a second. And then he shifts to lean back slightly, so his shoulder brushes your knee. Not much, but enough to make

“You always kiss my head after you insult me,” he mutters. “Weird habit.”

“You like it.”

“…Don’t stop, then.”

Your chest warms. You keep trimming in comfortable silence. Every so often, you catch him watching you in the mirror. His eyes are soft. Not worried what you’re doing to his precious hair, not a mere innocent glance.

Pure love and trust in the way his eyes locked with yours through the mirror that desperately needing cleaning after today, smeared with hair dye, condensation, and lipstick that Su-Bong stole to write something dirty on the mirror this morning as a joke, meaning you spent ages trying to clean up the remnants of it.

When you finish, you dust hair off his neck with utter gentleness and run your hand down his back. He stands, shakes his head out, looks in the mirror.

“Damn. I look kinda hot.”

You laugh. “You looked hot before. But now you look dangerously handsome.”

“Say that again.”

“Dangerously. Handsome.”

He grins and turns around, stepping into your space. “I’ll pay you in kisses.”

“I don’t take bribes.”

He cups your face, presses his forehead to yours. “Too bad girl”

The kiss is warm, slow. The kind of kiss that says thank you, and I love you all at once.

“Next time, I’m cutting your hair,” he murmurs, his lips against your cheek now in a gentle kiss.

“You’ll ruin me.” you giggle softly, his favourite sound.

He grins against your cheek. “I ruin you every night baby.”

You snort. “So charming.”

But you don’t stop smiling as he wraps his arms around your waist and sways you gently, the sound of your laughter echoing against the tile.

[strawberry-bubblef]

Leech twins x reader where they’re fighting over their attention

The Leech fighting for your attention

It always starts off innocently.

You come to the Lounge after classes to drop off Azul’s paperwork and the twins are there,as always, lurking. One smile too wide, the other grin too sharp. They seem civil enough at first. Jade asks if you’d like a drink, Floyd calls you Shrimpy, and you settle in, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just wandered into a territorial feeding ground.

The moment you give one of them just slightly more attention, it begins.

“Jade, look! Shrimpy’s sitting closer to me again. I told you, they like me better~!”

Jade doesn’t look up from his clipboard. “Is that so? I could have sworn they laughed more at my story yesterday. You must be imagining things again, Floyd.”

“I’m not imaginin’ anything!” Floyd’s arms sling dramatically over your shoulders, half-crushing you into the seat beside him. “Right, Shrimpy? Tell him I’m your favorite eel!”

Before you can even process that request, Jade has gracefully appeared on your other side, no fanfare, no noise, just there, smiling like he didn’t just teleport.

“I wouldn’t pressure them, Floyd,” he says with calm venom. “That’s no way to earn someone’s affections.”

“I don’t need to earn anything, I’m already their favorite! Ain’t that right, Shrimpy?” He leans in, nose bumping your cheek.

You blink. “I—uh—can I not pick favorites?”

Both of them pause.

Then Jade, ever the tactician, says smoothly, “Of course. I would never put you in such a difficult position. After all, forcing someone to choose would be terribly unfair.”

Floyd scowls. “Bo~ring. That’s just what someone who’s losing would say.”

And that’s when it gets worse.

From that moment on, it’s a cold war of affection. Floyd insists on dragging you everywhere: the Lounge, the basketball court, random walks where he slings an arm over your shoulder and complains about “stupid boring classes.” He hangs off you like a weighted blanket with an attitude and gets weirdly quiet if you even look like you’re having a good time without him.

Meanwhile, Jade ups his game with charm, asking if you’ve eaten, brewing teas just the way you like them, casually dropping “Did you know?” facts that he knows will get you talking for hours. And when Floyd gets louder, Jade just gets calmer, smiling like he knows something you don’t. Which makes Floyd louder. Which makes Jade smugger. Which—

“Okay!” you finally snap one afternoon, halfway through your homework in Mostro Lounge. “I like both of you, alright?! Can you stop trying to out-sibling-rival each other every time I breathe?!”

Silence.

The twins exchange a look. A rare moment of nonverbal twin-speak passes between them like lightning.

Then—

Floyd: “Told ya they liked me.”

Jade: “Actually, they said both, dear brother.”

You groan into your hands. “I am going to start hanging out with Azul.”

“NO!”

Within seconds you’re pinned between the two Floyd clinging like a needy cat and Jade subtly boxing you in with a cup of steaming tea and a charming smile that absolutely screams manipulation.

You love them. You do. But being the object of a twin war might be the most exhausting popularity contest you’ve ever unwillingly entered.

Still, as Floyd grins and starts complaining that you haven’t called him cute today, and Jade hums thoughtfully about “adjusting the tea’s sweetness to your exact taste,” you realize…

There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

Even if it’s exhausting.

English is not my first language !

[bones4thecats]

hi HI bones . Hear me out please , this has been on my mind since I rewatched liv and maddie , could please do a saja boys x reader where she's a part of HUNTR/X and she could like be heavily known in the group as the one that can sing the highest notes like am talking ariana grande level vocal range . due to her and the girls constant performances, begins to suffer from Vocal cord damage or voice disorder from overuse .

Like to the point where she has to go for surgery and at first she's positive about the whole situation and believes her voice will get back to normal soon but after the surgery when the doctors have her on treatment that requires her to not use her to limit the use of her voice , and going through speech therapy she begins to feel that she'll never get it back .

This leads to her self worth plummeting as she feels without her voice she's nothing worth anything anymore . She begins to become depressed and heartbreaken over the idea of never being able to sing again especially since she's not allowed to be on stage with the rest of her girls at that time.

How would the boys react and comfort her over this .

Also can it have alittle happy ending where she does get her voice back , and can perform her high notes again .

↳ You Lost Your Voice, You Can't Lose Me.

A K-Pop Demon Hunters × HUNTR/X Member! Reader.

Requester: Anonymous.

Characters Included: Jinu, Abs, Romance, Mystery, and Baby Saja.

A/N: This, like other requests before it so far, is short and sweet for each of the boys. The reason they've been shorter is because my voice is kinda failing me (which is ironic considering this request, lol) so I've been focusing on these and that. But, this was cute and I hope you guys like it!!

●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●

🎤 When Jinu found out that you lost your voice, he wasn't all to surprised. He figured from the constant high-pitches you'd perform both live and during recording for HUNTR/X you'd end up with something happening. 🎤 He was there during the doctor's appointment when you were told you needed to get surgery to improve how your voice worked.

🎤 After the surgery occurred, Jinu was by your side around the clock. He wanted to make sure you weren't going to use your voice until the doctor's said you could. Besides, if he had left you with any of the other Saja Boys, he knew you could bribe them easily. 🎤 They weren't the most reliable sometimes. 🎤 If you were depressed, Jinu would be there to silently comfort you. While he was good with his words, he knew that actions spoke louder and him just being there for you would be better. 🎤 When your voice returned to normal, Jinu was just as happy as you. In fact, when you finally got back on the tour with HUNTR/X, he was there backstage cheering you on and ready to give you cuddles back at your shared home.

💪 He is not used to hearing such high pitches, not even from his fellow Saja Boys. The one who got the closest to your sound being Jinu. 💪 Abby was impressed at your abilities to reach such high pitches, and whenever he tried to beat you, he'd always end up on the ground coughing and trying to catch his breath. When he found out you were needing surgery to fix your voice, having lost it from overuse, he was there for you. His arm around your shoulder as you curled into his hoodie-covered chest. 💪 Abby would be there on the day of your surgery as well, missing the meet-and-great with fans to support you. 💪 When you got out of surgery, he posted a photo of you both, happy with seeing how supportive the fans were for you getting out well. You merely smiled and kissed his cheek, silently thanking him for being there for you. 💪 The muscle-demon smiled when you began to talk again, and applauded you shamelessly when you performed again on tour with HUNTR/X. While your fans filled your ears, the only one you really cared to hear was Abby. His smile and cheers reaching you and encouraging you to continue singing.

💖 This guy is always singing around you, making small performances for you both whenever doing a domestic chore. From cooking dinner to cleaning the bathroom, this guy is always willing to sing with you to pass time and bond. 💖 Because of how much singing mattered to you, he felt bad when you lost your voice and was just as shocked as you when you were told you needed surgery. 💖 He embraced you the entire night before the procedure, saying you would be fine and he'd be there for you. After you came out, he would make sure you obeyed what the doctor ordered; no using your voice. 💖 So, Romance got you a whiteboard and markers for you to use until healed. It was hard, and he was just ready to see your eyes sparkle like they did before. 💖 Romance, when you finally began to talk and sing again, helped. He would sing calmer songs with you while cleaning, and end up helping you reach your previous singing abilities. He happily embraced you after your comeback, kissing your forehead and repeating his claims of love and pride in your little journey. 💖 There is a reason he's called Romance, after all.

☄️ Mystery had issues with how high your voice could get, not that he hated it, but because he was both fearful of you overexerting it or some people on social media making... less than pure comments on it. ☄️ Whenever you would sing to him, he'd let a small smile appear on his face. In fact, because of your differentiation stage personalities, you being energetic and loud and him being more nonchalant and quiet, the fans loved seeing you guys sing together. ☄️ When you lost your voice and needed surgery, he'd be by your side the whole time, only leaving when you were going through the actual procedure. ☄️ Mystery was a comforting presence that was attached to you, bringing you to practices and always having a hand on you. ☄️ He found it cute whenever you would try speaking and he'd just cover your mouth with a stoic expression, only to turn and pout at him. ☄️ When you returned to the stage, he was beside you. He hugged and kissed you before everyone, whispering how proud he was of you before retreating backstage to wait for the concert to be over. Mystery couldn't wait to go home and cuddle you.

🎼 This guy is known for his deep voice, so when it was revealed you and Baby were together, the internet went wild. Hundreds of comments on how you guys were together, comments about how much of an 'opposites attract' you guys were, etc. It didn't bother you guys, you just ignored it. 🎼 During this surge of comments, you ended up snapping your voice during a recording session and in need of surgery to fix it. It was a shock to the fans, but more of a shock to Baby. 🎼 He was surprised when you wrote down what happened instead of telling him, and he had to think about what you guys could do because of your busy schedules. He decided to stay by your side and ignore everyone else. You were his top priority, you were his love, after all. 🎼 After the surgery, he stayed beside you as you healed, making sure you didn't try speaking. He wanted you to be happy again, so if he needed to be attached to you like a leech, so be it. 🎼 After fully recovering, Baby would end up making a post with you singing in the kitchen. The comments came in like wildfire once again, and when you finally performed live, you smiled back at your boyfriend and mouthed your thanks. He merely nodded, he loved you, for crying out loud, it's what a good boyfriend does.

🌊 Copyright © 2025 by Bones4thecats on Tumblr. All Rights Reserved. 🌊

[mlmmetalhead]

Hello! I am here for just a simple request of maybe Cam romantic Headcanons? Whether NSFW or nah, it's up to you, live laugh love the hard to get.

cameron “trash cam” x m. reader ; NSFW under the cut MINORS DNI

as the ask said, totally hard to get. such a bitch to you, and totally loves the reactions you give him, lip bite and everything.

you might find out he likes you more from other objects around the house than from the man(?) himself. scandalabra definitely throws you a hint and then tops it off with “but you didn’t hear it from me”

particularly, he might mention you in conversation, or when someone else mentions you, his whole demeanour shifts to a more positive one… even if that doesn’t really mean much for cam.

also, gets crazy jealous. even though he is fine with polyamory and everything, can’t help but get a little possessive if Beverly gets a little too comfortable for his liking.

but just like in the game, you will have to make the first move, because he’s crazy insecure.

after you’re officially together however, his jealousy transforms into more of bragging rights.

cam absolutely loves talking to others about how sweet you are to him, how much you laughed at his jokes, how gently you played with his hair…

if you’re the type to leave marks when you make out, he will obviously pull down his makeshift shirt even lower if it means showing them off.

but also, teases you a whole lot more, now that he knows that won’t deter you from him.

generally just an annoyance, will interrupt other stuff you’re doing or straight up stand in your way and pretend he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

that attitude transfers into the bed, cam is the typa guy to act clueless while sucking on a popsicle with his eyes half lidded and shit.

also he’d never admit this outright, but loves it when you throw him around a little (or a lot)

in general enjoys you taking control in some way, but except him to give even more pushback and bratty attitude in return, he just loves egging you on.

also, he’s literally made to be filled… do I need to say anything?

the biggest size queen

loves when you put him in a mating press and just kind of use him to get off, makes him go so feral he can cum untouched.

returning to him loving to show off how close you two are, will intentionally let out the filthiest, loudest porn-esque moans during the act. cam genuinely just wants everyone to know how good you’re making him feel, and that it’s exactly him you’re screwing.

gets very messy very quickly, biting and licking you, expects you to also bite and lick him, likes it if you cum somewhere on his body where he can admire, or to have your spend dripping out of him.

loves using his mouth and will actually ascend to heaven if you use your mouth on him. in any way, but if you eat him out specifically, cam might get carried away and actually cum completely untouched just from your tongue.

cam adores cockwarming you in any scenario. if you’re doing something and he’s just sitting on your lap, your cock deep inside, or in his mouth, you also risk having your carpet stained.

but if you don’t have sex with him for a long time he gets very very annoyed and annoying consequently.

“c’mon, spicy…. don’t you want to do… something… y’know, to relax?” he whines from your bed, blinking almost innocently as he is all but naked from his trash costume.

if you try cuddling cam, especially in the beginning he will always interpret this as you making a move, and if that’s something you don’t like, he will need some time to adjust to that.

you’re wrapped up under the blanket and you can just feel his lips go from innocent on your cheeks to longer and wetter on your shoulders and neck.

if you don’t mind this however, say goodbye to innocent cuddling sessions basically, because for cam, this just became a synonym of foreplay.

[kunareads]

mamma mia | dancing queen episode one: graduation

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 1k a/n: ...i am so sorry this took so long to start. but i am finally feeling inspired about her! so everybody strap in <3 content: bittersweet endings, alcohol use 18+ please <3

the sun is too bright.

it glances off rows of white folding chairs and turns the stage into a mirage. you’re sweating under your gown—an unfortunate shade of blue—and the heat has soaked through to your skin.

yuki fans herself with the program on your left, muttering under her breath about how this is all a waste of perfectly good daylight. utahime is on your right, pretending to pay attention but squeezing your hand every time the applause swells.

you’re here. you’re really here.

the thought comes sudden and a little startling, like you’d almost forgotten to be proud of yourself. you didn’t think you’d stick around long enough to make it here—to the speeches and bad gowns and how the whole day feels like it’s going to tip into something bigger.

you don’t hear most of what the dean says. something about limitless potential and new beginnings. all you can think about is how your palm is damp in utahime’s and how you haven’t bought your flight yet.

⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

the bar is already too full when you push through the door, yuki’s hand on your shoulder to keep from losing you in the crowd. someone shouts your name over the music, but you can’t tell who it is through the blur of flushed faces and raised glasses.

utahime finds a booth and you all cram in, knees pressed together, laughing over nothing. the table is sticky, the lights are too bright, and everything feels a little unreal.

yuki orders shots you didn’t ask for, lining them up with a flourish. “to higher education,” she declares, “and to the fact that none of us got expelled.”

you knock the rim of your plastic cup against hers and utahime’s, and down the liquor in one swallow. it burns all the way down before lighting up in your chest.

someone starts a song you all know—something stupid and nostalgic—and yuki drags you up into the tiny space between tables.

utahime laughs from the booth as the two of you dance on each other but joins by the second chorus. and for a while, it’s just this: the heat, the music, the hoarseness in your throat from laughter. a whole room of people you’ve known for years, pressed together in the last place you’ll all be together.

it feels good. it feels like confirmation. you’re free.

⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

you’re not sure how it got so late.

the house is quiet except for the rustle of clothes and the occasional thunk of something hitting the floor. your suitcase sits open on the rug, looking smaller by the minute.

you pull things from the closet in handfuls. clothes you’ve outgrown, sweaters you never wear, a jacket that smells faintly like someone you don’t talk to anymore.

“you guys can take what you want,” you say, voice scratchy from all the singing and laughing. “i’m not hauling all this across the world.”

utahime sighs, but she kneels to start folding everything into neat stacks. yuki flops onto her stomach beside the suitcase and starts rifling through your shoebox of old ticket stubs and photo booth strips.

you keep going like that for a while—sorting, folding, handing things off. it feels weirdly satisfying, like proof you’re really doing it. like shedding an old skin.

at some point, utahime trails off to her room and comes back with a slim blue journal. she places it on top of your suitcase.

“for when you get sick of talking to yourself,” she says. she doesn’t wait for you to respond before turning back to the suitcase.

a few minutes later, yuki shoves something into your hand. you look down and realize it’s a wad of cash, folded over twice.

“don’t start,” she warns, cutting you off before you can open your mouth. “just take it. you’re gonna need it more than i do.”

you nod. you don’t make a speech.

it doesn’t take long after that. by the time you’ve crammed the last pair of socks into a side pocket, the room is stripped down to almost nothing. just the suitcase, the two of them, and the knowledge that by tomorrow evening, you’ll be somewhere else entirely.

you zip it closed and look around one last time.

that’s it.

⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

the airport is almost empty when you get there. pale light spills through giant windows, turning the floor into a dull reflection of the sky. you’re running on maybe three hours of sleep, your head cottony with exhaustion and adrenaline.

yuki insists on hauling your suitcase up to the counter even though you’re perfectly capable. utahime stands behind you, double-checking your boarding pass and passport like she doesn’t trust you not to lose them in the sixty seconds between here and security.

yuki is the first to crack. she pulls you in hard, arms wrapping around your shoulders so tight it almost hurts. “don’t let some european asshole break your heart,” she mumbles, voice muffled against your hair.

“i won’t.” your throat feels tight.

utahime steps in next, and her hug is softer but somehow worse. like she’s trying to keep you. “call when you land,” she says, pulling back just enough to look at you. her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t let it spill over. “and…just—be happy, okay?”

“okay.” you mean it.

they walk with you as far as they’re allowed, and then it’s time. no countdown, just a line you have to step across.

you look back at them—your best friends, your whole little universe—and all you can really do is smile and swallow the lump in your throat. yuki lifts her hand in a wave. utahime is wiping her cheek with the heel of her palm.

you take a breath. turn around.

you don’t look back again.

[dduane]

Since I've seen you talk about detailed outlining before, how long would you say it takes you to get from a finished outline to a rough rough draft? Or does it vary too much from book to book? I know it's pretty common for writers to worry they're not writing fast enough, but I want to know if there's any way to determine realistic estimates for that stage. Most of the time estimates I see are for later, in the editing stages.

This is (a) a good question, and (b) one of those Almost Impossible To Answer ones, without getting into some detail.

First of all: "A finished outline" of what? Short story? (And yes, you can outine short stories. Sometimes they need it as much as the longer forms. Or even more.) Novella? Novelette? Novel?

...As your question gets into books later on, let's assume you mean a novel.

As is so often the case, my own experience is going to be a crap example for anyone else, as I am generally the Outlier's Outlier.

My first novel gestated in fits and spurts (with fit-and-spurt outlining) for 10+ years before yelling in my ear OKAY, READY NOW! and pulling me under the surface to drown or swim. Six weeks from (finally completed) outline to completed first draft. (That being the one that sold.)

After that I learned how to really outline from my story editors at Hanna-Barbera... because there is no pantsing in TV: your producers have to know what you're turning in, so they can tell the backers/investors. Pretty quickly I learned the art of (as we call it in the household) "weighing the story in your hand," as if it was a bag of sugar. Is there enough story here to sustain a novel? A novella? A short story? That story must shoulder up under the scaffolding you build for it and have enough power to support the weight of the narrative and the characters' interwoven interactions.

You make your call on this, and then you find out—by trial and error—whether you were right or not. Sooner or later you learn whether, and when, to trust your instincts in this regard.

Once you know the number of words you're going to have to work toward... then you can start estimating completion times.

And here is where you learn the hard, bitter business of being honest with yourself. At the end of the day, it comes down to accurate prediction/appraisal of output. How many words are you going to write per week? (I've stopped saying "per day." Too many of the You Must Write X Words Per Day folks have turned this trope toxic, and freaked new writers out.)

But more to the point: can you trust your own estimates?

Let's leave that issue to one side for the moment, and take The Door Into Shadow as an example.

I was just getting to grips with outlining as a necessity at that point (as Deep Wizardry had required something similar). DW was its own set of problems, as the pace of the outlining was being influenced by needing to do real-world research at NYPL (For this was sooooo long before Google, and there was nowhere to get the data I needed except out of books.)

TDIS, though, was another kettle of fish. Beginning and ending were plain enough to me from even the earliest conceptual stages. The middle (as always for me: middles always seem murkiest...) was still up in the air, both structurally and in terms of the intrapersonal relationships that would define it. And the middle had some extremely difficult stuff for the protagoniste to get through. (Disclosure for those who might have heard some whispered stuff about this: in this book, I was working through my own historical sexual assault/abuse at age sixteen by a "friend of the family". Last I heard, adults were still allowed to do this kind of working-through in prose. Got other opinions? I've heard them many times over many years. This approach worked for me.)

Outlining on TDIS took me something like three months. Writing the book took six months, plus/minus... once I was clear that the outline was right on the money and needed to go where it was going. Then I got back to Young Wizards work, and Scooby-Doo. (Or was it Space Ghost by then? I lose track.)

Since then, on every book I've written, outlining has routinely taken six to eight weeks. The books themselves have taken...

...ALL kinds of lengths of time. Outlining of My Enemy, My Ally took about two months. Writing the book (on very short notice, as the publisher suddenly had an empty slot to fill) took eleven days. ("Can you do this?" said the agent over the phone, very concerned. "Are you sure??" I was sure. Because the outline was detailed, even for me, and I knew exactly where I was going.)

Outlining of The Romulan Way, by comparison, took maybe a month, and the book itself took sixteen or eighteen days... because @petermorwood was co-writing. (But he was so intuitive and quick on the uptake that he might as well have been inside my head... and people still have trouble telling which of us wrote what. Which is exactly as it should be, when you're writing as a team. You don't want to be told apart: you're working as a corporate being.)

Yet Tales of the Five: The Librarian, which I'm working on completing at the moment, took maybe a year to outline, and has been drafting since 2019. And many books between now and [twenty? thirty?....) years past, have produced wildly different results that are resistant to any kind of logical analysis.

...I think what I'm getting down to here is that attempts to jam your work-in-progress into a Box of Timing Expectations are possibly futile. All kinds of things will affect your ratio of outlining-to-execution time: life-crisis crap, the annoying intersection of mundane work-and-living needs with creative time, illness, straightforward inability to concentrate on the writing no matter how you try: you name it. It'll just be maddening if you try to force it to make sense. (Especially since so much in this equation rests on how many words you turn out a week. (Month. Whatever. Stop counting it by the day like calories, ffs. Art will not willingly be sliced up to go onto the scale and be weighed by the goddamn gram.)

…My take on this: Stop paying attention to other people's half-baked, self-centered expectations on how fast you should be writing. Do what YOU, and your Work, need to be doing.)

In particular: take the time to do what your story seems to be requiring you to do. And cut it some slack. It may know better than your Conscious Brain does.

More could be said about this, but for the moment, I suspect this is enough. Other people are all too willing to flourish the whip over your sweating, straining Creative Selves' backs and crack it as if your Steeds of Creativity aren't working hard enough to suit their standards.

You know what? Fuck that noise.

"Realistic estimates"? There aren't any. Other people are making them up. They want to make themselves feel right. Whether that makes you feel ineffective is the last thing on their minds. (And work executed from that POV is dreadfully revelatory of their work’s likely quality.)

Work as your own version of the Work desires you to. Write your best at your own best pace.

Those other guys? What have they written lately? Who cares! The hell with them. Go where your own Work takes you, at your (and its!) own speed. Which is the right speed.

And gods' speed. :)

ETA to @rabidbehemoth: Jeez, be SLOW and shame the Devil. Let James Joyce be your poster boy on this! I'm sure he'd have liked to be done with Ulysses sooner, but some things can't be rushed, y'know? :)

[batsybat91]

What if... and hear me out... reader doesn't want to get married but each member of 141 wants to respectfully convince reader to let them put a ring on it?

Bonus points if you also include poly!141 arguing over who gets to be legally married to reader since a lot of countries don't allow polygamous marriages

Hello, my darling Vex!! This ask has me rubbing my hands together like a dubious fly, not gonna lie. Hunching over my screen like a creature as I write this.

NSFW - MINORS DNI

"First of all," Johnny begins, flicking a finger out. "Who was it that picked our girl up? Hmm? Need I remind you that it was me? So, if we do manage to convince 'er that we should get married - legally - it should be tae me!"

"That's not how this works, Johnny," grumbles Price.

"If she's going to say yes, which I doubt, by the way, I think it would be to me," Kyle says.

Johnny shoots him a glare that could break glass. Kyle returns with an equally mean stare, crossing his arms over his chest. "I do not agree," Johnny scoffs.

"What do you have that I don't?" Kyle wrinkles his nose at Johnny.

"A good accent an' a good cock," Johnny replies confidently.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Price laughs. "Johnny, I'm not saying you don't have a nice cock. But you do not know that woman if you think she's going to marry you for your prick, you're dead wrong. Besides, if that was one of her deciding factors, she'd marry me."

"Sorry, Cap." Simon shakes his head. "Gonna have to refute you there. Since we brought dicks into this - ahem, Johnny - our little lady would marry me."

"Are we really bringing dick size into this?" Kyle rolls his eyes. "I don't think the size-"

"The size definitely matters," Johnny interrupts.

"Aren't we talking about who's going to marry her?" Kyle huffs.

"Yes, and the size of yer prick is a likely factor in deciding marriage!" Johnny exclaims, as if everyone else here is stupid.

"I don't think so," Simon says. "I think she'll choose who's the most logical man to marry in her mind. She might choose Price because of his maturity. Might choose Johnny because of his humor. Might choose Kyle because of his kind nature. It's up in the air."

"Well, why don't we try to convince her to actually get married first, then we can squabble over the legalities?" Price offers.

"That's the easy part," Johnny sighs like a man scorned. "The hard part is going to be convincing her which one o' us tae marry."

When you come home to your boys, they are all waiting for you in the living room. Usually, when you get off work, they're all off doing their own thing. It's rare to see them all lined up on the sofa and armchair.

"Hello, love," Simon greets.

"We'd like to talk to you," Price says.

"Jesus," you chuckle nervously. "Am I in trouble?"

"Nae, not at all!" Johnny exclaims. "We just wanted to talk to ye, as a family."

You narrow your eyes at him, but proceed to the living room. You sit on the coffee table so you can face all four of your boyfriends. God, that's such a bizarre statement, you think, scrubbing a hand over your face. Some girls don't even get one boyfriend. And here I am with bloody four!

"We want to marry you," Price says, calm and collected as ever.

Your brows shoot up. "I don't want to get married. And isn't that illegal? For people like- like us, anyway?"

"We were thinkin' that you'd get married to one of us," Simon explains, his voice like gravel covered in honey. "But still call the other three your husbands, if you will."

You scratch your chin, trying to wrap your mind around the logistics of that. "But then... you'd all be jealous of the one I married. And there would be fighting."

"We love you," Kyle says earnestly. "We love each other. I don't think there'll be problems."

"Whoever you choose to marry also recognizes that we're all equals in the relationship," Price adds. "Listen, love, it's been a year and a half. We want to put a ring on that finger."

You hum thoughtfully. "But I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings..."

"You wouldn't be," Simon assures you.

"We discussed it." Kyle nods sagely.

You think about it. If they don't like the results, it'll be their fault and not yours. Usually, your boys are pretty good at understanding that. And you'd get the honor of calling all four of them your husband. God, it seems like the beginning of a TLC reality show. You pinch the bridge of your nose, weighing your options.

"Well, I'll marry whoever buys me the ring first!" you declare. "I want it to be a nice one, too! It doesn't have to be three months of your damn salary, but I also don't want a shitty one from a thrift store."

And that? That is when the race begins. You just made this whole marriage much easier on their hearts - and if you know anything about those boys, the competition will be heated

[good-luck-babe-535]

Dirtbagging - Chapter 1

paige x azzing

Summary: Paige has been a seasoned climbing guide in Yosemite for 10 years, and its all she’s ever known. As fearless leader and a weathered climber, she has a hard time adjusting to a new face in town: Azzi Fudd. Fudd is known as one of the best climbers in the country, competing with team USA and winning gold medals in rock gyms. Besides her climbing life, 3 years into trying to be a normal UConn student, it becomes increasingly apparent that the world has become too heavy for her, so she decides to take a summer climbing guide job at Yosemite. No phone service paired with a mysterious older blonde roommate are sure to make her summer one for the books. What do you have to do to bag the girl and the peaks of your dreams?

WC: 3.4k

Warning: Language, drinking, badly proofread, rookie writer

The screeching breaks of the bus come to a halt on the side of the road, waiting just long enough for me to touch the hot asphalt as it left me in the desert dust. There is not much to show of a bus stop, just me an all my belongings littered in the bike lane of a one lane mountain road. I pull out my phone to check for any sign of life from my soon to be roommate, but I’m met with a huge SOS symbol at the top. Just a perfect way to start my time in El Portal, California.

Looking around, the community is made up of a singular gas station and a dozen houses scattered above on the hill. The only thing I know about my mysterious housemate is a name: Paige. I hope in a place this small they all know each other.

Knowing there is no hope of contacting anyone, I stroll over to the store, hoping I won’t have to talk to every soul in order to find this woman . When I walk in, I’m met with the smell of tourists that have been hiking all day, potent, and dusty. I’m sure that smell would soon sink into my skin to the point I won't be able to detect it. My eyes catch a girl who only appears a few years older that me with an NPS shirt on and a bag covered in climbing paraphernalia. I drag everything over to catch her before she disappears, desperate to find where I am supposed to be.

“Hey! I’m new this season. Looking for Paige, a climbing guide?” I ask with a bubbly smile, trying to make a good first impression. The climbing community is notoriously close knit, so I can’t afford to make a bad impression this early despite how tired and irritable I have become from a full 16 hours of travel. 

“You must be Azzi! We have been waiting for you all day. I’m Riley” She beams with an outstretched hand, cracked skin with tape covering her fingertips, showing that she’s been climbing all day. “Let me check out real quick and I’ll take you up the hill to Paige’s. You need anything? Must be starving.”

Mulling over the thought of grabbing a bite, the anxiety of a stranger taking me to find my housemate takes over any hunger cues I should have. “I’m all good, ate earlier in Merced while waiting for the bus.”

“Suit yourself. Next time you’re hungry you need to grab one of these ice creams. A NorCal classic. Basically come back every year just for these.” Riley smirks as she pulls an ice cream sandwich that reads “Its Its” on the outside.

“I’ll save it for after a particularly excruciating day out climbing” I reply. Rarely did I ever get to eat something so delectable, always training and trying to become the best climber and athlete I could.

Riley checks out and leads me out the door. The noise of cars drifting by begins to fade as we head up the hill, and the sound of my breathing and Riley chewing through her ice cream fills the air.

“Paige lives just up at the top of the hill. Have you talked to her yet?” Riley mumbles with a mouthful of ice cream.

“Not yet. Haven’t heard much besides that I’m living with her” I reply flatly. I was only a little disappointed that Paige had not responded to any of the texts or emails asking about what I needed to bring, what the living arrangements were, or anything else. I wanted to prepare for what I was about the be met with, but I now understand why I never got any response back since I couldn’t even let her know I was here.

“Don’t worry you’re in for a treat. You’re lucky, Paige is the only guide with her own house. Which means you get your own room, unlike the rest of us. Paige’s house is kind of our meeting base, so expect that there will always be a party going on in the house” Riley says brightly.

A sense of dread falls over me, what have I just signed up for? A summer of constant human contact and interaction? What’s the point of moving to the middle of nowhere if where I was living was no different than my college dorm?

We approach the small grey house at the top of the street. It’s small, a little run down, and full of bikes and one red Toyota 4 Runner in the front filled with stickers, scratches and memories.

Without a knock, Riley opens the door where I’m greeted with the smells of sweat and warm beer, and the sound of at least 5 voices talking loudly over each other in the living room.

I set my belongings in the entry way and slip my shoes off. Which no one else appears to do in this place. Riley takes my wrist, gives me a soft smile, and pulls me through the hallway out into the main living area, which is where the life of the party is. Many of the climbers are sitting surrounded by a large paper map, writing things down and debating, which is perfect because they don’t even notice our presence.

Riley continues to scan the room, and pulls me out back onto the porch, which has a perfect view east into the canyon. There are two climbers lazily kicking back on a sofa, beer in hand. Riley leads me right in front of a blonde woman mid sip with her feet kicked up and her other hand behind her head. The other climber, a guy engrossed in his book to the point where he was completely unaware of his surroundings. The woman’s ice blues eyes drift up to us, and look as cold as she must make others feel, her apparent nonchalance making me grow more annoyed by the second.

“Paige! This is your new housemate, Azzi.” Riley exclaims, and pushes me right in front of Paige, intruding Paige’s line of sight which appeared to be watching nothing in particular in the distance. She slowly sits up, hand meeting her lap as she stares at me, and takes another slow sip. “Nice to meet you. Room’s on the south end of the house, have fun and feel free to do as you please.”

My previous ability to be bubbly and talkative seems to slip from me, as I just nod my head with a simple “Thanks”. Not quite the perfect meeting I had hoped for, but the overstimulation of people, booze, and noise everywhere was getting to me. How were these people expected to guide and save people’s lives when the were casually drinking on a Sunday night? 

Riley stayed and plopped on the couch next to Paige and the guy with huge headphones on who hadn’t even bothered to look up. Riley laid back with a smile and a short, “Let me know if you need anything”, as she took Paige’s beer and took her own drag of the can. Finally being alone was music to my ears. I walked back through the sliding glass doors, drawing no eyes at all as I retrieved my belongings and headed to what I believed was my room. Upon opening the door, there was climbing gear scattered all over the floor, random pictures hung on the wall and clothes scattered on the bed.

I couldn’t help but be a little curious and let my eyes scan some of the photo wall, pictures of summits, big walls, and some more than friendly looking photos featuring the blonde and another woman. Before I could snap out of my curious snooping of my mysterious roommate, feet planted right behind me.

“One of the most basic skills is knowing how to figure out where north and south is. Looks like you got a lot to learn” the Blonde spoke with annoyance from behind me. “Rule number one, my room is off limits. Don’t come in here and borrow my gear or look for anything. Ask first.” She continues as she slips past me into her room and shuts the door on me without even meeting my gaze.

“Good talk” I murmur to myself and head in the other direction. What could possibly be so important in her room for her to be annoyed just from me confusing the doors? Maybe I wasn’t as lucky as Riley claimed, this woman seemed like an piece of work that I had no energy for at the moment.

After finding my actual room I face planted on the undressed mattress and sighed a breath of relief. Finally I was alone, for the first time all day. 

I had come here expecting to find some peace and quiet from my regular day to day life. College has becoming increasingly overwhelming, classes conflicting with my climbing schedule, neither of them allowing any room to budge. Which is why when I told my therapist I was ready to quit it all, she had suggested finding a place I could still practice but be away from the pressure of being the climbing national team darling, Azzi Fudd. Social media had gotten out of hand, a new rumor each day. College parties were never safe, so I stopped doing any of the fun parts of college. Eat, sleep, breath climb and class non stop. Which had lead my to what most people would describe as a full on mental breakdown. Which in the eyes of the media and the climbing community was unacceptable. Azzi Fudd, daughter of two of the best climbers to ever grace the scene, could not stain the reputation her parents had been building for over 20 years.

I am not so sure that my therapist was right about this plan, but I had no choice but to follow her lead. I couldn’t deal with the public scrutiny of quitting climbing all together, so what better excuse then escaping the the spotlight saying I was “chasing bigger walls than in the gym” on my last instagram post before I forced myself to delete the app all together.

I began unpacking all of the belongings and tucking them in my small closet in my even smaller room. I unloaded my backpack full of all the outdoor gear I could ever want. Sorting and organizing by activity, ready for whatever my first adventure would be. I got lost in imagining finally getting to feel lost in the walls of Yosemite, feeling the sunshine on my face, feeling my hands grow more callused, feet more steady, and most of all hoping my mind could become stable for once. 

—

I am jolted awake by a pounding on my door, Riley shouting, “Dinner Fudd! Don’t want to miss it, there are never leftovers!” I groan, dried spit and fatigue on my face, an impromptu evening nap was not on my to do list for the rest of my day. I open my bedroom door to the chatter of the group from before, all gathered around the kitchen island, bowls in tow filled with steaming chili that filled the air. Riley led me over to the island, and pulled me into the circle.

“Alright everyone! We have some fresh meat this year, this is Azzi Fudd! You might know her from the US climbing national team. She’s here for the summer to learn from us and train to be a full climbing guide!” Riley explains to the group of mostly men, all older, stronger, and slightly indifferent. The chatter continued as many of the climbers buzzed about “welcome” and “love your climbing style” and many other greetings coming my way. I was overwhelmed but finally glad to be seen and my name out in the air, not feeling as invisible as I did when I entered. The only voice that didn’t speak of the dozen in the group was the person who I had to be in the most proximity of. Her posture remained neutral, her face unreadable and she remained quite and in control. No matter her coolness, I could still feel her eyes flash over me, making the hair on the back of my neck stand and my cheeks feel flushed. Her quiet indifference making me nervous already. 

It wasn’t long before a bowl of the hot meal was passed my was along with a beer shoved in my hand, despite me not asking for anything. I wasn’t sure I was ready to break the ice with my insane diet restrictions or extreme abstinence of drinking, so I dug into the bowl and popped the can open. The words of my therapist repeat in my head, “Try new things and release these extreme expectations of yourself. You’re goal is to learn to let go”. Perhaps a beer or two could help me let go a bit more.

Everyone around me continued their talking after my introduction, and I was happy to no longer be the center of attention. This was when I felt a tall strong figure wedge in next to me and Riley, shoulders so broad everyone needed to adjust to allow him in. Without thinking I looked up and smiled at him, remembering him from outside on the porch next to Paige. He had a strong build, a bit taller than my 5’11’ frame and had tanned skin, flowy brown hair that every surfer in California probably envied, and a sweet smile that was much friendlier than anyone else in the room. No longer boasting the big headphones and guidebook, he seemed way different than how I perceived him earlier.

“Hey new girl. I’m Ryder, Riley’s brother. We are so excited to have a pure climber of your caliber joining us. I’m sure we have a lot to learn from you” He greets with a sweet smile and an arm nudge in my direction. Feeling a bit of the warm sensation of the beer I hadn’t been aware I had downed, I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks and a smile light up my face. I outstretch my hand to him, feeling his tough hands on my relatively soft ones, swallowing them whole.

“Great to meet you Ryder, I am sure I have much more to learn from you this summer than vice versa”, I flatter him even though I know I am probably the most accomplished climber in the room. “What were you researching so intently earlier on the porch? Didn’t even look up when I walked in” I tease with a sickly sweet voice that I know I am putting on for the love of the positive attention I was finally getting.

“Well, every rookie climbing guide needs to have their test trip. I was making sure that I was picking a trip of your caliber” he explains, flattering me back and making my head big. 

Our conversation must have been easier than I thought to follow, as Paige chimes in, “I hope you picked an easy one. This one couldn’t even tell left from right earlier, might not be as good of a climber as you think” Paige fires back, interrupting our easy banter and again making my heart beat faster not in a good way. Not from the thrill of sending a climb, or flirting with a cute guy. The anxiety I was so badly wanting to escape, the expectations the whole world put on me came flooding back. Whatever confidence I had gained from my empty beer can was gone, the pointed attack sobering me up.

“We will see about that. Have you watched her highlights? We have a real champion in the house. Unlike you”, he fires back, no remorse for his words that he uses to try and shield me from the older blonde.

“Competition climbing didn’t even exist for us when we were her age. You remember Ryder, like 10 years ago? Might need to recall your age real quick.” 

“I would have expected you to do more research on your first housemate in years Paige. Don’t need to be so bitter that someone better than you and Marisol finally came into the group. Calm down” Ryder spits back, getting the whole groups attention. The expression on everyones face drops. For the first time I am realizing how many beer cans are scattered around the room, everyone red and multiple deep, but the expressions on their face unexpectedly sour from the last comment.

“Fuck you Ryder, everyone get out of my house. I need a break of you people for the night” Paige sneers, which sends everyone on a mission to clean up as fast as possible. You could see the respect that Paige demanded immediately turned everyone into a follower of her, even if the current leading technique was a bit heated and unfriendly. I can tell that the oldest leaders of the group were her and Ryder, and that this clash was not unexpected, but still uncomfortable for the group.

The clean up was done fast, and many of the climbers were already out the front door. Ryder slung his bag on his shoulder and came up to give me and unexpected embrace after only knowing each other for 30 minutes. 

“Have fun with this one. Scream really loud if she tries to end you in the middle of the night” He jokes dryly. 

“I’m just two houses down the hill, knock if you need anything. See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks for looking out for me tonight, see you later”, I mumble as the embrace had still shocked me and taken my by surprise. He lays one last charming smile on me, and retreat to the front door, the last one to leave.

His absence leaves just me and Paige across the counter from each other. The buzz of climbers was gone and the noise gave way to heavy breathing from Paige, who was obviously still worked from the tiff between her and Ryder. She was staring down at her hands that were tightly gripping the counter, her veins popping out of her arms showing the tension throughout her body. She finally looked up and made eye contact with me, her eyes locking into mine, making me flush from the intensity.

“Remember the first rule from earlier? Seems like we need to lay out some more ground rules. Rule number 2, guides shouldn’t date other guides. It gets messy and one of you will have to leave. And I promise you will always be on the chopping block since you have way less skill than anyone else here.”

I was not at all expecting her to jump to dating rules. What am I, 12? After seeing her interaction with Ryder, I did not want to speak up against her in fear of retaliation, but the small amount of liquid courage let some choice words slip from me.

“When we are here are you my boss? Seems like we’re off the clock now. Stay out of my personal life.” I fire back with unexpected courage, not wanting the blonde to have complete control over me.

“Fine. Don’t come crying to me when things sour between you and another climber. You can’t change shift for dumb reasons. Seems like two rules is enough for you to grasp for tonight, go to bed and see you tomorrow. First shift starts 5am, with me.” She explains flatly, removing her hands from the counter and turning her back on me to walk towards her room. I watch her back muscles ripple as she walks to her door. She’s about to push the door open when she pauses, a thought grazing her mind. 

She turns around and continues, “Actually, one last rule for the night. What Ryder said about you being the best climber here? It’s not true. I know you win competitions on plastic jugs, but the climbs we do here are real. Real granite and real consequences, so don’t let his comment get to your head.” 

I meet her eyes and nod my head once to agree, just to get her off my case. 

“And you will never be the best climber here. You saw all the photos in my room? That’s Marisol. She was the best climber that was ever in this group. So don’t expect to ever fill those shoes” She finishes and finally steps into her room and closes the door, not expecting any response from me.

Washing over me were the images I saw in her room, many pictures in portaledges on the side of big walls in Yosemite or hugs on high Sierra peaks. Who is Marisol, and why does everyone have so much to say about her? Bold of Paige to assume that I couldn’t be the best climber in the group. I will have to prove her wrong.

a/n: not sure that anyone will ever read this but this community has truly given me some amazing reading experiences so just wanted to try for myself! always welcome to comments and feedback, I haven't written anything like this since hunger games fiction when I was like 8 so please go light on me and let me know what you think!! Anons welcome, would love to hear what you think!!

[althaiareads]

“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?” 

PLSSSS SAJHFAJSDGHJHG. I love him, ASJJASFHASJGHJSD

I really enjoyed this, so imma add a lil read more, sorry.

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.” 

She's so real for that, I too, have had full-on meltdowns because people (especially men) don't know how to communicate. Like what the fuck do you mean by good that's what I tell my cat when she doesn't jump the counters. That's not an answer to my relationship status BOB!

📎

So not the point but that guy is so freaking cute, had no idea he existed and now I feel the need to get him tattooed. The little eyebrows???? So cute.

“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?” 

Again, I absolutely love him. He has the worst timing lmaooo.

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.”  // You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you.  He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone. 

THE PARALELS! THE WAY HE'S RESIGNIFIED THOSE BAD WORDS INTO THE THINGS HE LOVES ABOUT HER??? It is... ugh... so good... chef's kiss. I legitimately screamed when I got to that part. It is so smart to do as an author, dude, I love it. And the way he's saying those things as a way to protect himself and sort of shield their relationship from other people and even if he's trying to say negative things, he actually can't because he sees that as positive qualities due to his love for him??? I am sobbing.

she hasn’t smiled at me once today.

Poor baby, she hasn't smiled at him today at all. Poor Bob.

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!”

JAAJAJAJJAJAJAJJAJAJAJ JAKE

Dude, this might seriously be one of my favourite Bob fics of all time, I loved every single word in it. It is a masterpiece from beginning to end!

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew

notes: okay i'm a little nervous about this one, like i hope it's good??? i hope you like it! the start is a little slow, i struggled there, but it picks up! i promise! again, i had no self-control with the word count, and as always, please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, bit of angst, miscommunication (kinda), italics, bob makes a joke about a stutter, some cheesy moments, reader wears a skimpy dress (but detail is vague and there is no detail about body-type), angry bob, dancing with a guy that isn't bob, very horny, a bit of boob commentary, and SMUT (male masturbation, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, and a lil titty worship bob floyd) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

You’ve known Bob Floyd since your second day at the academy. 

You were running late to a classroom session on naval aviation history when you ran into him—tall, sweet, with dark blue eyes and the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. As it turned out, you were both late for the same class, and got chewed out in front of twenty or so of your brand-new flight school classmates. At the time, it was mortifying, but now it’s one of your favourite stories—because that was the moment that bonded you for life. 

You’ve been in love with Bob Floyd ever since he drunkenly told you at flight school graduation—the boy’s a serious lightweight—that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. 

Well, okay. Maybe you were already halfway there, but that was the moment that really sealed the deal. He was so flushed and pretty, stumbling over his words, looking at you like you were the sole reason for his existence on planet Earth. How could you not fall in love with that? 

But he was really drunk, and he didn’t remember a thing the next morning. So you decided not to bring it up. After all, you would soon be deployed to opposite sides of the world. It never would’ve worked. 

Still, over the years and across continents, you managed to stay close. Through separate assignments, long stretches of radio silence, and deployments that kept you off-grid, you never lost touch. You saw each other when you could—once or twice a year, if you were lucky—and every time, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

You tried dating—at least as much as anyone in the Navy can—but no one ever stuck. Not the way Bob Floyd did. 

Then, as fate would have it, Bob got tapped for a special detachment on North Island—your base. And suddenly, years of loving him from afar turned into months of loving him from a now suffocatingly close distance. Because after that detachment, Bob’s new squad—the Dagger Squad—was commissioned as a full-time elite unit under Maverick’s command. 

So here he is, on North Island. And here you are too. Practically living in each other’s pockets, even if you’re not flying on the same team. So what could possibly be stopping you from telling him how you feel? 

Oh, right. Just the tiny, humiliating fact that you’re still way too chickenshit to risk the friendship for something more. 

“Lieutenant,” Maverick says, stepping up beside you and catching you off guard. 

You blink, dragging your eyes away from the squad—his squad—training just outside the hangar up ahead. 

“Captain,” you reply, nodding. 

He smirks. “Thinking of trading in those shiny fifth-gens for something with a little more grit? Or are you just here to watch Hondo torture my pilots?” 

You huff a laugh, adjusting the helmet tucked under your arm. “The Super Hornet’s got plenty of grit, but let’s be honest—she’s no Lightning.” 

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly. 

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say. “Cyclone wants me to offer a brief training program on the F-35’s latest software package—maybe even get your team some sim time.” 

His eyebrows lift. “A training program from the Navy’s golden test pilot? Let me guess—does Simpson know how chummy you are with my squad, or was this more of a personal initiative?” 

“It might be a little personal,” you say with s sheepish grin. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my jet. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t kill for a flight.” 

“A joyride?” he asks. “I thought you said simulator time.” 

“For them, yeah.” You nod toward the squad. “But if a decorated captain, such as yourself, wanted to take her for a spin... well, who am I to stand in the way?” 

He laughs again, looking past you at the aircraft you’d just landed. 

“She quick?” he asks. 

“Today? About six hundred knots. But that was a low-level test profile.” You pause, eyes glinting. “Push her right, she’ll break Mach 1 easy. Mach 2 if you’re feeling brave. And willing to eat the paperwork.” 

“Tempting,” he says with a sigh. “But I think I’ve racked up enough disciplinary notes for one career.” 

You smile. “Then fly her like a gentleman.” 

Maverick’s gaze flicks back to the squad as Hondo shouts for twenty more burpees. Then he narrows his eyes at you. “Who put you up to this?” 

You blink. “Sorry?” 

“Phoenix asked me just last week if they’d ever fly anything other than Hornets. Yesterday, Hangman starts asking about Lockheed sim protocols. And now you show up, conveniently volunteering?” 

You press your lips together, wondering how long you might be able to stall—but really, what’s the point? It’s Maverick. He’ll figure it out sooner or later. 

“Okay, fine,” you admit. “They’ve been on my ass about it for weeks. I knew I could get Cyclone on board—and yeah, they said the only way you’d bite was if I offered you stick time.” You smile, just a little. “But to be fair, the F-35’s part of the Navy inventory now. Could be relevant training. And... I wouldn’t mind a few weeks of hanging out with my friends at work. Or their legendary captain, for that matter.” 

Maverick exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s like raising teenagers.” 

“So,” you say, lifting a brow, “that’s a yes?” 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a playful spark behind them. “Yeah, fine.” 

You grin. “Excellent. We’ll start Monday. Can’t wait to teach alongside you, Captain.” 

“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters. 

“Oh, please,” you say. “I know you’re at least a little excited about flying my jet.” 

His gaze flicks back to the F-35 on the flight line, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I better go break the news to the squad.” 

You laugh. “Good luck with that. Fanboy said he’d kiss you if you said yes.” 

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.” 

Then he flashes you that signature smirk, gives a quick nod, and walks off across the tarmac. You watch for a few minutes as he approaches his squad, stepping up beside Hondo first and—quietly—telling the CWO what he just agreed to. Hondo nods before calling the squad in with a bark, and you stay put, watching with amusement as Maverick delivers the news. 

The reaction is immediate—grins, high-fives, celebratory shouting. You see Natasha step forward to ask a question, and when Maverick gestures in your direction, Mickey turns and yells, “I fucking love you, Lucky!” 

You laugh softly, giving them a lazy salute before turning toward your own building. You’re looking forward to it too—not just the flying, or the teaching, or the excuse to hang out with your friends. But the chance to spend a few weeks working a little closer to Bob. 

And maybe—just maybe—you can figure out what the hell you’re going to do about him. 

- 

“I still can’t believe you got Cyclone and Mav to sign off on the training,” Reuben says, shaking his head despite the smile tugging at his lips. 

You lift your beer, shrugging as you sip. “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.” 

Mickey squints, tilting his head. “Wait, do you have a history of charming your superiors?” 

Natasha snorts into her drink. “No. That’s not how she got her callsign.” 

Your eyes snap to her, brows raised. “Wait—Bob told you?” 

She presses her lips together, rocking her head side to side. “Not exactly. I saw your contact name in his phone and kind of... figured it out.” 

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.” 

“Hold on,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “Bob gave you your callsign?” 

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.” 

That’s all it takes for the three of them to dissolve into laughter. 

“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?” 

You roll your eyes and jab an elbow into his ribs. “You’re such an ass.” 

“No, but seriously,” Reuben says, still grinning. “Why is it just... Bob?” 

You shrug, rolling your beer bottle between your palms. “Because he didn’t like any of the others. There were a bunch of nicknames being thrown around—some dumb, some mean. He told me one day he wished people would just call him Bob. So I made sure they did.” 

“Oh,” Mickey mutters. “That’s kind of boring.” 

Natasha shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s sweet.” 

Reuben gestures toward you. “Okay, fine. Then how’d he come up with Lucky?” 

You hesitate, trying not to squirm under the weight of their attention. “Because I’m his lucky charm.” 

Reuben blinks. “Seriously? It’s that personal?” 

You nod. “Yeah. Back at the FRS, every time we were paired up—sims, training hops, even written exams—he’d ace it. Said he never did that well without me.” You shrug a little, smiling. “Eventually he started joking that I was his lucky charm. Then it got shortened to Lucky, and everyone assumed it was about good fortune or gambling or whatever. But it was always just… him.” 

Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.” 

Mickey leans forward, brows drawing together. “Wait… have you guys ever—” 

“Evening, misfits,” Jake drawls, cutting in with impeccable timing. “Lucky, did I hear you landed yourself a job bossing us around?” 

Bradley, Javy, and Bob fall in behind him, all wearing the same mildly pained expression—no doubt from enduring a ten-minute car ride with Weekend Jake. That’s what the squad have started—affectionately—calling him when he’s at his worst, all smug smiles, cocky one-liners, and shameless flirting. Which, of course, tends to happen every weekend. 

“Just part-time,” you say, matching his smirk. “Try to contain your excitement.” 

Jake’s gaze drops, then climbs back up—slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m containin’ a lot right now. But you in a flight suit, telling me what to do? That might push me over the edge.” 

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans. 

“I need a drink,” Bradley mutters, turning toward the bar. 

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Keep talking, Seresin, and I’ll have you running laps around the tarmac.” 

Jake slides into the booth across from you, still grinning. “And I bet you’d love the view.” 

You roll your eyes and glance at Bob, still standing beside Javy. His eyes are locked on Jake—not quite angry, but definitely not amused. 

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?” 

Bob’s lips twitch as he slides into the booth beside you, dark blue eyes catching yours. “Think you’re ready to be an instructor?” 

“Oh yeah,” you say, ignoring the flutter in your chest as his thigh brushes yours. “I was born for this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Born bossy, maybe.” 

“Hey,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “Don't be rude.” 

He turns to face you—really looking at you—and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades just a little. 

“You already telling me what to do?” he asks, voice low, playful. 

You narrow your eyes. “What if I am, Lieutenant? You going to listen?” 

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but quiet. “If I don’t?” 

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Jake cuts in, loud and obnoxious. “Save it for the bedroom.” 

Bob startles slightly, the colour in his cheeks deepening as he tears his eyes away from yours. 

“Fuck off, Seresin,” you mutter, shooting him a glare. “You’re just jealous.” 

Jake leans back, smug. “Jealous of what, sweetheart?” 

“That I don’t flirt with you the way I flirt with—” You stop short, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat, but it doesn’t matter—the implication is obvious enough. 

Jake’s eyes sparkle like he’s just won the goddamn lottery, and everyone else around the table fights to contain their laughter. 

“Go on,” Jake says, far too pleased with himself. “What were you saying?” 

You shoot him a deadly look. “Fuck you is what I was saying.” 

He tips his head back and chuckles, hand over his chest, and that’s all it takes for the rest of the squad to join in. All but Bob, who’s now focused on picking at the corner of a cardboard coaster, cheeks pink and lips curved into the softest smile. 

It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it. 

God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years. 

“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?” 

You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?” 

Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side. 

“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.” 

“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.” 

He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.” 

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles. 

You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning. 

You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.” 

He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin. 

“The usual?” she asks. 

You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.” 

She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead. 

“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.” 

You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity. 

“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?” 

His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.” 

You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash. 

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred. 

“Does it matter?” 

He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.” 

You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks. 

“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar. 

You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.” 

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger. 

“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.” 

Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move. 

“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?” 

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.” 

As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much. 

“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table. 

“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks. 

Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out. 

“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown. 

You glance at him. “Do what?” 

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?” 

He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.” 

You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.” 

There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?” 

You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.” 

Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought. 

You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?” 

“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.” 

You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—” 

“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.” 

A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?” 

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.” 

You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?” 

You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.” 

Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Tall, pretty, a little cocky.” 

You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?” 

He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game. 

“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?” 

He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.” 

You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?” 

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, right.” 

“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.” 

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.” 

Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley. 

“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.” 

Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you. 

He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.” 

Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep. 

“Mind if I play next?” 

Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his. 

“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.” 

The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha. 

Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat. 

By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob. 

You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy. 

Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee. 

“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row. 

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.” 

“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him. 

You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?” 

He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.” 

Your mouth drops open. 

Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.” 

Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks. 

Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.” 

“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown. 

Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show. 

“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley. 

Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later. 

You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants. 

It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second. 

“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.” 

Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes. 

“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.” 

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.” 

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal. 

“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no. 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word. 

You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.” 

You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface. 

“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.” 

You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op. 

“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.” 

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.” 

“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance. 

Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory. 

You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?” 

“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?” 

Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.” 

The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat. 

“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.” 

The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

All from a look. 

God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better. 

By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO. 

After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them. 

Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little. 

“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers. 

He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.” 

You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.” 

“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.” 

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.” 

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.” 

“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder. 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming. 

“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.” 

He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.” 

Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours. 

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks. 

When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are. 

“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?” 

“Pizza?” 

You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind. 

Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...” 

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?” 

“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?” 

You stop walking. “With who?” 

He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.” 

Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.” 

“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—” 

“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?” 

He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—” 

“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.” 

He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?” 

You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.  

“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.” 

There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.” 

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word. 

Good. 

It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you. 

Good? 

Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with. 

Good. 

Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that. 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.” 

A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob. 

BOB FLOYD 

📎 [Image attachment] 

‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’ 

And there he fucking is. 

Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband. 

Holy fuck. 

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe. 

His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo. 

He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture. 

It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve. 

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with? 

You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and— 

Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on. 

You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo. 

With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’ 

“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone. 

A little notification pops up beneath your message. 

Read. Immediately. 

“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?” 

You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute. 

Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help. 

But first… 

You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids. 

- 

Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers. 

The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all. 

But you can’t stop thinking about it. 

You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time. 

And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again. 

Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak. 

Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week. 

“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?” 

You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat. 

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch. 

“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?” 

“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.” 

Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing. 

“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.” 

Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.” 

“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.” 

Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset. 

“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.” 

“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.” 

“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.” 

Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim. 

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.” 

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly. 

“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply. 

“Did I beat Hangman?” 

You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.” 

You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?” 

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.” 

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate. 

“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.” 

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.” 

Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. 

“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.” 

“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming. 

“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.” 

“So… a baby sim?” 

“Basically. You’ll be fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant. 

You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?” 

“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.” 

“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.” 

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.” 

He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp. 

From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.” 

“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.” 

You snort. “You are a danger to national security.” 

“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth. 

“I’m coming in,” you mutter. 

You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.” 

“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.” 

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.” 

“I know,” he says, grinning now. 

You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out. 

He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?” 

“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.” 

He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?” 

“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.” 

Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?” 

You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.” 

He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?” 

“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.” 

The sim bucks suddenly. 

“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale. 

You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.” 

But it’s too late. 

The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude! 

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…” 

“You eject,” you say dryly. 

“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?” 

You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.” 

With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates. 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.” 

Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?” 

You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.” 

He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary. 

“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.” 

A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.  

“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him. 

His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.” 

You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.” 

He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls. 

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?” 

“Confirming sim reset. You’re good to go,” he replies. 

“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?” 

He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him. 

“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.” 

He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip. 

“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.” 

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless. 

“Now keep her steady.” 

“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.” 

You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.” 

He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?” 

“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.” 

He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway. 

You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.” 

Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.” 

“You know, not what Fanboy did.” 

He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line. 

“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.” 

His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.” 

You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller. 

You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides. 

If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now. 

“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.” 

You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.” 

“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later. 

You grin. “Nice shot.” 

He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?” 

“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.” 

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back. 

“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused. 

It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing. 

Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. 

“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone. 

“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.” 

He does so without hesitation. 

Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing. 

“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.” 

Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster. 

“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered. 

You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.” 

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing. 

“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.” 

He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.” 

“You sure?” 

He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him. 

The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. 

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.” 

He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still. 

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE. 

You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.” 

Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?” 

“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.” 

He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and— 

He falls forward. 

You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down. 

“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide. 

He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours. 

“Are you okay? Your head—” 

Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist. 

“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.” 

He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek. 

“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.” 

Your laughter fades, breath catching. 

There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance. 

And then— 

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang. 

“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?” 

Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—” 

“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you. 

Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op. 

“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. 

Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!” 

Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob? 

Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight. 

After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report. 

“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door. 

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.” 

“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.” 

You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.” 

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers. 

Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot. 

If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours. 

You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out. 

The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace. 

But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name. 

“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?” 

“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—” 

“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts. 

You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it. 

“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.” 

“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.” 

“Shame. Still hot though, right?” 

“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable. 

“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.” 

There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat. 

“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.” 

“What, you’re not into her?” 

“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything. 

“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—” 

Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat. 

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.” 

That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs. 

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.” 

Your stomach drops. Hard. 

Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you. 

“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—” 

You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore. 

Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home. 

Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out. 

His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage? 

Fuck. That. 

Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing. 

Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something. 

The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t. 

You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it. 

- 

That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie. 

You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship. 

You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it. 

Because it was Bob. 

Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself. 

Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. 

Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart. 

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd. 

Fuck that guy. 

By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice. 

The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat. 

So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend. 

“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him. 

You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room. 

“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares. 

Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once. 

And you don’t look at him at all. 

After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room. 

Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until— 

“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat. 

You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.” 

“That thing work?” he asks. 

“What thing?” 

“Your phone.” 

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.” 

Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard. 

“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.” 

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer. 

You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.” 

“What’d you watch?” 

“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking. 

And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies? 

“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense. 

Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral. 

“Do you need something?” 

He frowns. “What do you—” 

“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?” 

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.” 

You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.” 

He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat. 

“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?” 

You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.” 

“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.” 

You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?” 

There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft. 

You nod once. “Yep.” 

Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook. 

Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy. 

You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick: 

‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’ 

Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller. 

With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting. 

“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move. 

Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you. 

You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face. 

“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.” 

“Copy,” Mickey replies. 

“Copy,” Bob mutters. 

You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth. 

“Hangman, you ready?” 

“When you are, boss.” 

You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.” 

Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful. 

But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in. 

“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease. 

“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.” 

“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.” 

“Copy that. Repositioning.” 

A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.” 

“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.” 

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.” 

You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.” 

He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant. 

After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction. 

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn. 

“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.” 

Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.” 

Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable. 

“Pilot ready?” you ask. 

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.” 

You nod. “Run it.” 

The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence. 

You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long. 

He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost. 

But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean. 

Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter. 

“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—” 

“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher. 

“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen. 

Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre. 

But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow. 

You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it. 

But he knows something’s wrong. 

- Bob - 

After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off. 

Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend. 

“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group. 

“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.” 

Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?” 

“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.” 

“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.” 

“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. 

“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk. 

“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path. 

“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!” 

The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number. 

“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.” 

One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts. 

“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.” 

Bob glances up. “Hm?” 

“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?” 

“I don’t know, I just—” 

“Is this about Lucky?” 

His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill. 

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?” 

Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?” 

“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.” 

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.” 

Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.” 

“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.” 

Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide. 

She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing. 

“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.” 

He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid. 

He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible. 

You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you. 

He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone. 

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly. 

Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him. 

“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn. 

Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.” 

She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.” 

“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots. 

She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices. 

“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat. 

Bob frowns. “Where?” 

“Hangman’s birthday.” 

Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene. 

“I don’t know, it—” 

“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.” 

Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.” 

“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.” 

After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press. 

Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips. 

God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base. 

Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what. 

His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more. 

“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?” 

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire. 

Cute? You called him cute. 

He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?! 

He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you. 

Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones. 

Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach. 

Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game. 

He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses. 

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’ 

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’ 

‘She only uses Morse code.’ 

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’ 

When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband. 

But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely. 

And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it. 

If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing. 

The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap. 

He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you’re all talking about Jake’s birthday party. 

When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat. 

It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading. 

And then... there’s you. 

It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options. 

So you did. 

The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin. 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long. 

The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him. 

He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment. 

The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos? 

The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk. 

“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions. 

This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve. 

He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years. 

With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him. 

Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts. 

He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction. 

He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it. 

His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe. 

His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer. 

He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight. 

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate. 

God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop. 

He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And— 

His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering. 

He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more. 

Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch. 

The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline. 

Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’ 

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh. 

Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants. 

- You - 

You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t. 

Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes. 

Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him 

You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it. 

But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours. 

Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you. 

And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure. 

Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out. 

Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage? 

He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really. 

You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter? 

“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?” 

The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying. 

The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later. 

“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.” 

You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should. 

“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her. 

“All for you, baby.” 

She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?” 

“Show me the way.” 

You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance. 

“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.” 

There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head. 

“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.” 

Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?” 

She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.” 

“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.” 

“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice. 

You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked. 

“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.” 

The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point. 

Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild. 

“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.” 

There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up. 

A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball. 

“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot. 

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!” 

You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces. 

Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed. 

You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him. 

You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling. 

Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress? 

You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart. 

After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop. 

And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor. 

You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands. 

The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower? 

The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over. 

You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club. 

You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen. 

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea. 

You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and— 

Bob. 

He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring. 

He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in. 

And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench. 

Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you. 

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide. 

He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing. 

It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out. 

Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him. 

“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!” 

Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin. 

“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—” 

“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.” 

Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.” 

You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way. 

Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin. 

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea. 

After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone’s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob. 

He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake. 

And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral. 

His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob. 

So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots. 

You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music. 

“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!” 

Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night. 

Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school. 

Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive. 

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all. 

“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand. 

They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around. 

He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why. 

“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.” 

“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?” 

Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you. 

“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady. 

“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.” 

Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.” 

Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham. 

Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt. 

After all, he’s the one who called you reckless. 

“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.” 

Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes. 

Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm. 

You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego. 

You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob. 

The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down. 

The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all. 

But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor. 

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline. 

Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly. 

The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong. 

You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips. 

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him. 

Bob. 

He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit. 

Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes? 

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving. 

There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room. 

And you feel it. 

The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in. 

So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all. 

But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you. 

When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved. 

The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away. 

You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares. 

Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you. 

So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer. 

You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting. 

Then he’s there. Beside you. 

He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go. 

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls. 

Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you. 

He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

You blink. “Excuse me?” 

Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?” 

“What’s your problem?” you bite back. 

“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?” 

“Doing what?” you demand. 

“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—” 

“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?” 

He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut. 

You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know. 

He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care. 

And that’s the most confusing part.  

“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging. 

“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.” 

He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—” 

“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.” 

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—” 

“Then why would you say it?” 

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?” 

You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?” 

“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.” 

You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?” 

“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.” 

Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.  

“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.” 

His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache. 

He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech. 

God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music. 

Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot. 

“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady. 

He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling. 

“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward. 

The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in. 

Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor—like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more. 

You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you. 

“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.” 

His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?” 

“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.” 

He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe. 

“You love me?” 

“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.” 

You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate. 

One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast. 

You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in. 

The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs. 

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time. 

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry. 

“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. 

His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore. 

“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck. 

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle. 

“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk. 

He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze. 

“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw. 

His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning. 

“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.” 

You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second. 

Then he’s on you. Everywhere. 

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself. 

He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple. 

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue. 

His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin 

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—” 

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine. 

“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?” 

You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them. 

He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you. 

“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.” 

He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting. 

Then he grinds against you. 

His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct. 

“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked. 

“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.” 

His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you. 

His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control. 

Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers. 

“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together. 

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.” 

His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity. 

His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one. 

You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward. 

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. 

You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm. 

He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.” 

You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.” 

That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again. 

“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.” 

He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward. 

Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him. 

You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him. 

“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. “You feel—fuck. So good. So good.” 

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone. 

His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast. 

He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper. 

“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.” 

Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly. 

“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky. 

He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years. 

His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go. 

You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time. 

He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—” 

“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.” 

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob. 

The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years. 

“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.” 

You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you. 

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes. 

Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin. 

His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls. 

He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known. 

“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do. 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you. 

Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone. 

It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache. 

You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast. 

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else. 

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.” 

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.” 

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again. 

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then— 

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried. 

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches. 

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask. 

“Bob…” 

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.” 

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis. 

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.” 

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be. 

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too. 

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.” 

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?” 

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his. 

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need. 

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant. 

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking. 

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.” 

You’re just about to kiss him again when— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?” 

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.” 

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?” 

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock. 

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist. 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?” 

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?” 

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.” 

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all. 

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.” 

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor. 

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing. 

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?” 

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.” 

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist. 

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.” 

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?” 

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass. 

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?” 

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?” 

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.” 

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red. 

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted. 

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away. 

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!” 

[femmesport]

Almost Something - Chapter Six

warnings: suggestive themes (conversations again ig??) an: i left yall hanging for a while so i am trying to get together multiple chapters. honestly this chapter changed my plan entirely. like it shattered everything i had planned, so i will be making adjustments. this chapter felt right and i hope yall enjoy it as much as i do. unedited as usual whoops wc: 2.5k

Paige tried to be normal. She tried as hard as she could and for the most part it was working. It was working when she was sitting down having a genuinely nice conversation with Selina. Selina had been incredibly sweet and easy to get along with.

Their conversations flowed naturally between shared topics of interest and playful arguments about music. It was easy in a way Paige hadn’t expected.

Paige had agreed to hang out with Aubrey’s girlfriend and her roommate fully expecting to come in and sit in silence until she inevitably left early. She hadn’t expected to talk to Selina and get to know her in a way that felt comfortable and easy.

She was doing fine with all of this until her phone had buzzed. She saw Azzi’s name pop up at the top of her screen. She chose to ignore this message. She knew Azzi was likely fine and would reach out more if something was wrong.

Paige sat and continued on her conversation with the sweet, gorgeous girl in front of her. She did fine until a call came ringing through. Azzi’s name was on the top of her screen. She sighed and excused herself.

“Hey, what’s up?” Paige answers the phone lightly and mildly exasperated.

“P,” Azzi’s voice was weak and far too quiet.

“Everything okay?” Paige’s body was tensing up and every nerve was lit up at the possibility that Azzi was not okay and she needed her.

 “Uh, yeah…but could you come pick me up?” Azzi’s voice was cracking in a telltale sign of tears. Paige is heading towards the door despite voices calling after her.

“Yeah, send me the address,” Paige replies as she steps into her car.

“Can we…can I stay on the phone?” Azzi’s voice was small in a way that Paige winced at. Azzi was many things but small and weak didn’t come anywhere near the list of words Paige would choose.

“Yeah,” Paige is starting her vehicle and plugging the address into her car. She was only five minutes out.

“My car says I am five minutes out, but give me two or three and I am there,” Paige explains as she is pulling off into the road.

Azzi lets out a laugh at that, “thank you, P.”

“Of course,” Paige pauses, “can you give me some assurance here that you are actually fine and I shouldn’t be preparing to commit a felony on your behalf.” Her tone was joking but the words were far too serious for Paige to think too long about.

“I promise, I am okay. Maybe a bit sad, but good, promise,” her words were short and her voice was steady. Paige believed her. She always believed Azzi.

The two stay on the phone with occasional soft whispers until Paige is pulling in front of a dorm building she had never heard of. Azzi was sitting outside on the steps with her knees pulled close to her chest.

Her head tilted up at the sound of the car pulling up. Paige saw Azzi’s face was red with tear tracks down her face. As Azzi hung up, Paige gave herself a moment to calm down. Azzi would tell her if something was wrong. Azzi wouldn’t lie to Paige.

“Hey,” Paige’s voice and face is soft as Azzi gets into the passenger seat. Azzi silently buckles in and turns to face Paige. The lights inside the car show her tear stained face and it broke Paige a bit.

Paige wrapped her hand around Azzi’s neck and pulled her closely so that she could wrap her arms around the younger girl. Azzi just grabs onto the sides of Paige’s shirt tightly and pulls her in just as tight.

Azzi presses her face into Paige’s neck and the breath she lets out is so unsteady. Paige holds Azzi tighter at the feeling of her broken breath on her neck. She rubs gentle patterns down Azzi’s back.

They sit like this for a moment longer. When Azzi finally begins to let go and pull away Paige leans back and looks at her.

“Azzi, I believe you,” Paige starts, “I believe that you are okay, but I am really worried. Can you tell me what is going on?” Paige’s voice is soft and encouraging and Azzi sighs before looking down at her hands.

“Tyler and I went out tonight,” Azzi’s voice starts and Paige’s mind begins racing with all the possibilities of how she could’ve gotten to this point.

Paige nods, encouraging Azzi to continue on with her explanation.

“It went great, we saw that movie we have been talking about. Then we went back to his place. I wanted tonight to be the night we…” Azzi’s voice broke at the end and her face flushed in explanation, “ya know.”

Paige felt a lump in her throat. She was entirely unequipped for this conversation. Paige was convinced she must’ve done something truly horrible in her past life for her to be stuck in this conversation.

“Okay…” Paige tried to keep her voice level and encouraging.

“Well, we were back and when things started leading to that point,” Azzi’s breath hitched and Paige’s hand clenched.

“Azzi, did he do something you didn’t want? I swear to God I will go in there and-” Azzi is shaking her head.

“No, he was fine. Really, it was me. I just…I couldn’t,” Azzi explains and Paige feels immediate guilt at the relief that washes over her.

Paige was confused. Azzi was so upset and Paige wanted to help her but had no idea how to.

“So, I told him. He was fine with that, but I felt so guilty and I couldn’t be in his dorm any more. I couldn’t be up there with him anymore,” her voice broke at the end and Paige remained quiet.

“You don’t have to feel guilty,” Paige starts after a moment of silence, “you are allowed to set boundaries. You are allowed to not be ready. Tyler should respect that.”

“He did. That’s the worst part,” Azzi is putting her head in her hands. Paige was really confused.

“The worst part? Az, I am a bit confused,” Paige starts and Azzi groans. Not upset with Paige, just frustrated.

“I know, me too,” Azzi lifts her head and looks at Paige, “I wanted him to be mad. I wanted him to be upset because then I could justify dumping him. Paige, I wasn’t ready and it was all me…and then I dumped him.”

Paige freezes and Azzi doesn’t break their eye contact, “I dumped him without reason. I am an asshole,” Paige goes to interrupt but Azzi just holds up her hands, “I am and that is fine. He was really nice about it, and he honestly got it. It wasn’t him, it was never him.”

Her voice was firm and Paige had no words. She just sat and looked at Azzi. Her heart was beating and she was frozen. Azzi didn’t break their eye contact.

“Were you,” she starts, “were you busy when I called you?”

“Uhm, I was with Aubrey…and her girlfriend and her roommate.” Paige explains, startled by the quick shift in the conversation.

Azzi hums and just looks at Paige for a moment, “but you left for me?”

“Always,” Paige’s response was immediate and sure.

Azzi just smiled in a soft yet sad way. She looked for a moment longer before nodding and turning away from Paige with a bit of effort.

Paige stares for a moment longer before clearing her throat, “your place?”

“Yes, please,” Azzi’s voice was soft and her eyes went down to her hands as they fidgeted.

Paige nodded and then handed Azzi her phone to play music. Routine. Normal. She pulled out of the parking lot and drove out in silence. Azzi played music and Paige just focused on breathing normally and trying to think about anything besides the fact that Azzi dumped Tyler.

By the time they were pulling into their apartment building, Paige hadn’t thought a single coherent thought. She sat in silence and let Azzi lead the way out of Paige’s car.

The two stuck together silently as they headed up on the elevator. The doors opened on Azzi’s floor and she stepped forward silently before pausing and turning around.

“Want to hang out?” Azzi offers simply. Paige just looks at her quizzically as if trying to figure out what Azzi was actually saying.

After a moment, Paige nods and then follows Azzi out of the elevator and towards her apartment. Azzi unlocks the door before turning around.

“Can we…not tell the team, yet?” Azzi whispers and Paige gives her a slightly puzzled look, “I just need a moment to figure out why I did what I did before I can tell them.”

Paige nods, “yeah. Makes sense.”

Azzi nods before turning around and following Azzi into the apartment. KK, Ice, Allie, and Jana were all loudly playing a game on the PlayStation hooked up to their living room tv. Despite their volume, they shift to look at the two who entered. Ice raised her eyebrows.

“What are y’all doing here?” KK voices the question everyone had.

“I think we are going to go watch a movie in my room,” Azzi shrugs as she takes off her shoes.

Paige looks down at her feet doing the same and trying to not think about the look the other girls were giving her. She focuses on her shoes as Azzi fields off any questions.

Azzi nudges her slightly as the silence starts to settle. Azzi is holding her hand out and Paige grabs it as if it was the most normal thing. Hand-in-hand Azzi leads her to her room as her teammates dramatically respond behind them. Paige’s neck felt hot, but she followed Azzi like she always would.

Azzi leads her in and shuts the door behind her. Paige stands awkwardly which Azzi quickly picks up on. Paige was never awkward or uncomfortable with Azzi.

“I know I didn’t give you time to go get comfortable clothes,” Azzi is walking towards her dresser, “want to borrow something?”

“Uh, yeah” Paige’s voice comes out awkward and maybe too quiet.

Azzi is passing her back some old boxers and an old team USA practice shirt. Paige takes them and heads towards the door.

“It’s just me,” Azzi’s voice halts Paige’s actions, “you can change in here you know.”

Paige freezes and nods, “right. Yeah, sorry.”

Azzi turns back towards the dresser and is going through looking for her own clothes to wear. Paige changes quickly trying to finish before Azzi can turn around. She is pulling the shirt down as Azzi turns around. Azzi’s eyes are quickly shifting downwards.

Paige pauses before going to sit on Azzi’s bed. Azzi stays near the dresser and starts to change her outfit. The second Paige saw lace material covering her back muscles, she looked down and unlocked her phone trying to find something worth paying attention to.

She knew she wouldn’t. She knew Azzi was the only thing worth paying attention to, but that wasn’t fair of Paige. So, her eyes stayed looking down.

It was only a few moments longer before Azzi was joining Paige in the bed. Azzi pressed into Paige’s side so that their thighs were touching. Paige felt every point of contact as if it was physically burning her skin. Yet, she stayed still.

“What do you want to watch?” Azzi’s voice is soft and quiet as she leans over to grab the remote. Paige shrugs as if Azzi could see her.

“Whatever you want is fine,” she says after a moment of silence. Azzi just smiles at Paige.

“You’d always let me pick, wouldn’t you?” Azzi smiles and her voice is slightly teasing. It was normal and yet Paige flushes at the words. She attempts to remain confident.

“Always,” Paige’s voice was weak but a grin broke out on her face. Azzi is laughing slightly before turning her attention back to the tv.

Paige takes this moment to look over Azzi. She looks at the way her curls framed her face. The way her eyes shifted quickly over titles on the tv in front of them. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly with a small smile still formed from their conversation.

“How’s this?” Azzi asks and Paige’s attention doesn’t break away from Azzi.

“‘S good,” Paige voices and her eyes trail over Azzi’s face again settling on her lips that show smudged chapstick.

Azzi turns to face Paige. For once Paige doesn’t flinch away from her stare. Her eyes work up Azzi’s face and meet her eyes. Her eyes are big and intense with so many emotions flitting across them so quickly Paige can’t keep track. She can barely breathe.

“Azzi,” Paige starts though her words are unsure. She has no idea what she could say.

“Yeah,” Azzi’s voice is just as soft. Their bodies are close and Paige swears she can feel Azzi’s breath from that one word.

Paige sits in the silence a moment longer with no true plan of what to say, “you’re beautiful,” is what she settles on. Azzi’s smile grows into something soft and intimate. Something meant just for this moment. Just for Paige.

“Thank you, P,” Azzi’s face is only inches away and Paige swears she can’t breathe, “you are beautiful too. In a way that is so unfair,” Azzi explains.

Paige does nothing except lean further into Azzi’s space. Her breath waivers and comes out broken and unsteady.

“What are we doing?” she whispers as Azzi leans her forehead onto Paige’s.

“I have no idea,” Paige whispers, closing her eyes. They sit like this for a moment before Azzi is reaching out and grabbing Paige’s hand. She brushes her thumb over Paige’s knuckles. 

Paige takes in the moment. She feels the way Azzi’s forehead is pressed against her and her hand is brushing over Paige’s. She feels their thighs still pressed firmly together. She lets out a shaky breath before pulling back.

“What’re we watching?” her voice is unsteady and she has to tear her eyes away from Azzi’s to face the tv. Azzi’s eyes flickers confusedly over Paige before she clears her throat.

“Uh, thought this sounded like something you might like,” Azzi’s voice is heavy and Paige nods.

Paige squeezes Azzi’s hand reassuringly, “it sounds great,” her voice not much more than a whisper.

Azzi’s eyes remain trained on Paige. She doesn’t move to start the show. Paige remains looking ahead but squeezes Azzi’s hand. Paige just gives her a moment to sit.

“Az,” Paige starts but doesn’t look back.

“You do this a lot, ya know?” Azzi’s voice is quiet and sad.

“Do what?” Paige’s voice is just as quiet.

“Every time I push forward, you pull back,” Azzi explains quietly. Paige sighs.

“Az,” Paige pauses, “you just broke up with someone today.” Paige offers vaguely and Azzi remains quiet.

After a moment she nods and turns to the tv. She starts the tv show but pays it zero mind. All she could do was focus on the hand she held and pulled into her lap. She focused on the fingers she played with.

Her voice was quiet, but her head was loud. Her head was filled with thoughts of the girl pressed into her side.

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