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geminiwritten · 1 month ago

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short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

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

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

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

He lives for it.

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

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Bob is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” he chuckles softly.

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

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

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

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

He blinks fast. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.

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

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.

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

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

Your brows shoot up. “That so?”

He nods.

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

His eyes snap open. “Huh?”

“Want to fuck me?”

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

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

Well... almost everyone.

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

Which means he’s definitely listening.

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters.

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

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

Bob stills for a beat. Just one.

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

You swear your knees nearly give.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Jake replies.

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

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

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

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

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.

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

You and Jake return to formation without issue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, later never comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.

“Wow,” he mutters.

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

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

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trev!”

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What am I?” she asks.

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.

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

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”

He freezes.

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

And then you feel it.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all look at you, confused.

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

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

You frown. “What?”

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone falls silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause. An awkward pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Bob -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.

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

“I know,” Bob huffs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He barely sleeps that night.

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

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

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

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

An hour passes. Nothing.

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

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

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

It’s worse—because it’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—uh, Trevor?”

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

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

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

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

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- You -

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

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

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

“You heard me.”

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

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

Trevor gasps—loudly.

“But he said no.”

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

“Because he has laundry to do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trevor…”

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

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

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

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

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

But deep down, you know the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give her a tight smile.

“Feeling any better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vex—” he tries again.

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

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

Your heart lurches.

Terrain. Too close. Too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not going to make it.

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

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

Then—freefall.

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

But you’re too low. Far too low.

You don’t even have time to brace.

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

White-hot pain detonates through you.

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

And then… everything goes still.

Muted.

Quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great. Another win.

Two whole days pass, and still no word.

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

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

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

Even if it kills you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brow creases. “You do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughs again, broken this time.

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

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

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

“Love?” you whisper.

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

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

Your heart lurches into your throat.

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

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

He blinks. “What?”

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

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

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

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.

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

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

You nod. “Hangman.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know I had no right,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END.

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laceyfaeryy · 2 months ago

Note

Hii, I hope you're doing well! I'm not sure if you'd be comfortable writing this so don't feel bad if you choose not to. But omfg I can't stop thinking about Price x reader where Price just can't always keep up with reader's sex drive when she's ovulating so he lets his team satisfy her (could be written as just Price asking Ghost to take care of her sex drive for the day, since you only write for Price and Ghost :) )

MDNI 18+

simon riley fucking price’s bird

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ price asks for simon to help him with his birdie’s needs

cw: vaginal sex, unprotected sex, brief mention of an age gap with price

“i swear my dick is goin’ limp at this stage,” price groaned as he sank deeper onto the flimsy couch, his exhaustion visible on his face after he tried to keep up with your stamina.

“maybe yer gettin’ old, can’t keep up with lil birdie’s needs.” simon joked, the small wrinkles on price’s skin seemed to be more defined than usual.

that bruised price’s ego.

but it was true, he was significantly older than you, and it was like his dick got it’s life sucked out whenever he fucked you.

“she’s a lil needy thing, keeps on begging’ for me even when i filled her up.”

simon chuckled, the idea of his captain, getting all worn out by his sweet birdie was more entertaining that he thought. “it’s jus’ that i’m an older man, all these years the only thing i have fucked is my hand, and now that i can finally get sum pussy it’s something different.”

price tried his best to satisfy you, to help you with your needs when you were ovulating, but it was just so damn hard when you wanted more.

“you got a good stamina,” price nodded towards simon, his eyes drifting over his body. tall, strong, big. he would be perfect.

“what, you gonna ask me to fuck yer lil birdie?” a chuckled escaped simon’s lips, before his face went still.

“that’s exactly what i’m asking.”

never in simon’s life did he think that he would be balls deep inside price’s precious little birdie’s cunt, “fuckin’ hell, he wasn’t lyin’ when he said you were tight.” simon hissed as your gummy walls gripped around his cock tightly, as if it didn’t him to pull out, memorising every vein.

this was a privilege that simon secretly prayed that he would get again, to fuck your small cunt over and over until you couldn’t cum anymore.

his large scarred hands gently pressed down on your lower stomach, making you whine and squirm under his grasp. “shh, luvie, simon’s got ya.” he cooed softly as you sobbed, your cunt forming a creamy ring around the base of his cock.

“need you to get worn out yeah?” his voice raspy as your cunt sucked him in, god - no wonder why price always seems so damn exhausted. your arms wrapped around his neck as you sobbed for more, your heels dug into his lower back, pulling him closer. “still hurts si, still aches.”

simon let’s out a soft hum, “i know birdie, but ill get yer lil cunnie the attention she deserves and the ache will go away yeah?” his large hand gently rubbing around your folds, feeling the sensitive puffy flesh around him.

lewd squelches filled the room, simon’s cum leaking out of your swollen cunt as you came over and over again, gushing all over his cock.

“gonna go all night, how does that sound?”

tag list:

@happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666 @ghostsd8s @ama-eve @webmvie @your-internet-tenshi @novthewolf @1ilo @simpingreader @angeldoll1e @avgdestitute @anonymouse1807 @chaieanne

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x female reader #cod #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley imagine #cod simon ghost riley #cod simon riley #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley cod #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x reader

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dirtylilspawn · 2 months ago

Text

ᴍᴀɴʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇᴅ

Summary: You prank the lads boys by aggressively manhandling them.

Fandom: Love & Deepspace

Parings: [Zayne x Fem!Reader, Xavier x Fem!Reader, Caleb x Fem!Reader, Sylus x Fem!Reader, Rafayel x Fem!Reader]

A/N: Works been killin my butt. But anyways I saw many prank tiktok videos about women aggressively handling their own partner. Whether it be kissing them, love bites, or putting them on top of the kitchen counter. Figured it make a funny small prompt of how it would go lol.

Warnings: Fluff & humor, suggestive stuff, cursing

════════════════════════════

ZAYNE

You've been feeling pretty clingy today.

You didn't know what it was that made you feel this way. Maybe just seeing Zayne, waking up in his bed, staying over at his place, not bothered by work, both of you doing very domestic stuff, made you feel really touchy feely. And Zayne was much aware of this notion from the very start of the day. Not that he every denied your loving affection, no not ever.

He accepted every hug or kiss, and returned it with much love. Oh, how it only fuels the fire of your clingy nature even more.

Here you are, coming out from the kitchen, to lean against the wall, with a glass of sweet tea in hand. You tilt the glass towards your mouth as your eyes were trained on one thing in particular.

There Zayne sat on the large couch, in the living room, with a book in hand. His eyes soft but narrowed in focus as he reads the pages, he's currently on. His back leaning on the cushions, skillfully flipped each page with his thumb. As his elbow was pressed against the arm of the couch, with a small portion of a sugar cookie the two of you had baked not long ago, in his hands. He immediately finishes it, taking it into his mouth with a small hum. Licking off any specks of crusts lingering on his fingers.

Watching this perfect, handsome, hunk of man as your sipping your tea just sent you up in orbit. It was too much to take in. Does he know how amazing he is, just sitting there? That's what you thought, the audacity of this man to sit and read so cutely, in his causal home attire -white shirt and grey sweatpants-

You had to do something about it.

You walk up to where Zayne was, placing the cool glass on top of the glass ottoman in the middle of the living room. The clink of the glass made Zayne look up at you. His demeanor calm and relaxed, before looking down at his book.

"Any thoughts about what you'd like for din-"

Before he could even finish that sentence, Zayne was attacked.

He found your hands squeezing his cheeks harshly, pulling him closer to your face. You bend down to kiss him on the lips. His eyes widening in shock and confusion.

But you continue you assault on him.

You kiss him very passionately and aggressively. Hands running along his jet-black locks like a crazy loon, messy up his hair. All while you muttered along his lips, words of affirmation.

"God dang it Zayne! You -kiss- are so -kiss- perfect -kiss- uugh!!"

You start to kiss all over his face. To his cheeks, forehead, nose, eyes, and anywhere else you could get your lips on. His book on the floor, as he had already dropped it do to your aggressive love session. His eyes still wide with so much confusion.

It didn't even stop there, as you suddenly push this man, laying his back onto the couch. Pinning him by his shoulders just to keep him still. Your kisses never stopping, as you go lower to his neck, giving him rough kisses down to his collarbone.

Finally, you pull away.

You had found yourself straddling the poor man, your arms still pinning down his upper body.

You look to see his full face that was very much a very funny and cute site. His ears were burning red, hair a mess as he stared at you with such unreadable green eyes. His mouth was slightly agape as if he was trying to figure out what to say to you in that moment. But he closes it, his lips in a tight line, eyes closed, inhaling a long breath to re-catch his own thoughts.

His head leans to the side as he opens his eyes, not looking you in your own eyes. Zayne's heart was pounding in his chest right now.

"You...-sigh-"

You couldn't help but laugh at this site of him. It was too funny to behold, seeing Zayne completely embarrassed and yet flustered at the same time.

"Caught you off guard huh?"

You quip with a prideful smirk on your lips. Zayne brings his eyes to look up at you. You could see he was trying to act all serious, and calm, but it was obviously faltering. As you could see the corners of his mouth flick up in a small grin. His emotions getting the better of him, as he lets out a laugh. A mix between disbelief and fondness.

"Well, I didn't expect to be attacked in my own home by my partner."

He states this, and you laugh even more. An endless supply of giggles and laughter that you couldn't stop. One that Zayne couldn't help but join in, loving the sound of your laughter.

You let go of his shoulders, before leaning down to give a soft kiss to your boyfriend. A sweet smile stretching across your mouth.

"Well, you're just going to have to get use to it. Because there's definitely more to come in the future."

He rolls his eyes at you.

"I fear for my safety."

He says this sarcastically of course, but deep down he's already preparing for the next attack. Just in case, so next time you do this stunt again, he'll be able to calm his heart. Because that shit made him feel like he was having a straight-up heart attack.

════════════════════════════

XAVIER

You were laying on your bed.

Stomach first, as your feet were up in the air. Your hands clutch onto your phone, watching silly videos. Xavier was up in your bathroom taking a shower from a hard day of working. You had already taken a shower first, reasons being that Xavier told you to go in first, and second was because he was already on the verge of sleep. You were about to say to take a shower together, but the man was already nodding off as he sat on your bed. So, you decided to allow him to take a quick nap while you take your shower.

It has been a long day for the both of you, as you had both just got done with work. A bunch of wanderers to take down here and there, nothing too serious of a threat to get badly hurt, but enough to feel exhausted. And it definitely showed with the both of you, glad that it was the end of the day.

Xavier wanted to come over your apartment, because he finds it more comfortable, and wanted to sleep with you tonight. Plus, you figured he was too lazy to go up to his own apartment complex that was just a floor above yours. You never complain, as you would also come over to his complex and sleep there sometimes.

As you were kicking your feet, over the audio on your phone, you could hear the shower suddenly turn off. Indicating that Xavier was all done with his shower. He soon later came out, opening the door the connected to the bedroom. He lets out a silent yawn; while wiping his hair with a small white towel, a large towel was wrapped around his waist. His body shinning in the dim light from the room lights, due to the excess water cascading down his chest and stomach. You can see his full tempting v-line below his abdomen making your face heat up from the delicious site alone. He looked so appetizing yet cute at the same time.

You turned off your phone, placing the device on the bed-side counter. You sat up before getting off the bed, making strong strides towards your gorgeous boyfriend. His eyes open a bit seeing you coming forth, watch as you wrapped your arms around his torso head leaning on his slight wet chest. You didn't mind though, as you snuggled with him, smelling his freshly showered body. The scent of sweet vanilla filling your nose; he used your body wash.

"Hmm...You smell good."

A goofy smile presents itself on your lips. Xavier smiles softly, leaning in your touch as his own arms wrapped around you. His arms holding onto your shoulders rubbing them gently. The small towel he held was draped securely around his neck. His head buried into your hair, nosed pressed against your hair, smelling you as well.

"So do you.."

He whispers this in a low hum, eyes closed as he embraces you. You could feel his heart beat slow and relaxed inside his chest. Xavier's soft snores making you chuckle. The fact that this man can sleep standing up still amazes you.

"Sleepy?"

"Hm."

Xavier hums again, as if to say yes, his arms holding you closer to his body. His body leans into yours, the weight of him not fully on you, as if he was stopping himself from falling on top of you. You let out a sigh rolling your eyes. The cuteness of this man was just too much; it made you giggle a bit.

Without a thought or hesitation, your hands go lower till you reached the back of his thighs. Xavier can feel this, but he doesn't back away nor think anything of it. That was until you used all of your strength, bending your knees, and you use this strength to pick up your boyfriend. Xavier eyes widen as he was suddenly up from the ground, your struggling of course but still it was an achievement. Carrying your sleepy boy by his own thighs, before waking back to the bed. Xavier was very shaken from this move, his hands clinging to your shoulders as he blushes heavily.

"[Y-Y/N]...what are you doing?"

You smiled looking up at your flustered boyfriend, "Carrying...ngh my exhausted boyfriend of course~"

It was all you said, and only Xavier could look at you with wide eyes and a simple nod of okay. His tiredness going away as he watched his own girlfriend carry him around, he didn't know how to feel about this, but it wasn't unwelcomed.

It wasn't long till you reached the bed, slamming the boy right on to the soft bed, making him lay on his back. His small towel was already gone, falling onto the floor when you picked him up. His other towel wrapped around his waist, was defiantly loose, clinging onto him for dear life. But still covered his crotch.

Once settled onto the bed, you crawled your way in between his thighs, your hands running along up his thighs to his stomach. Making way to his chest then finally his soft cheeks. You squish his cheeks in your hands, body resting on top of his. You lips lean in to kiss him on the nose before moving to his lips. His hands were now at your waist, rubbing your sides.

"Are you sleepy now?"

You say this pulling away, but it seemed like Xavier was chasing your lips. His cheeks were still flushed with pink, but his shock expression turned into a very sweet playful grin. His hands tracing along your back, slightly teasing underneath your tank top you were wearing.

"Not at the moment no."

You were suddenly rolled over, as Xavier had now turned the tables. His body pinning you underneath him, his baby blue eyes looking down at you with so much mischief. His hand made its way to your cheek, stroking it was such softness as if you were a delicate relic.

"I think I'd like to stay up for a little while, how about you~?"

You chuckle as you pulled Xavier by his neck, His face and lips close you yours.

"Sounds fine by me~"

You whispered back before his lips connected with yours passionately.

════════════════════════════

CALEB

Pranks were nothing but natural for you and Caleb.

Ever since you were kids you two would pull all types of small pranks on each other. Not mean big pranks that would cause problems in one's relationship. But small harmless pranks that make each other laugh and keep the relationship more fun and fresher. To get competitive and try to one-up each other the next month or two.

It was your love language.

And it was your turn.

Oh, how you've been dying to try and get Caleb back. You were still pouting over the last prank he did. You could remember it like it was yesterday. The man had deliberately placed fake cockroaches all underneath your bed comforter. You of course did not realize it. Already freaking out with disgust and fear, running to Caleb about your "unfortunate" situation. Hugging and whimpering to him while you pushed him to the problem. Only for him to laugh and say how those cockroaches were all plastic toys.

You then start to curse him, while beating his chest -soft punches- giving him the biggest mean mug pout. One that he finds absolutely adorable. He makes up for this by promising to take you out to this new big carnival that just opened up around the neighborhood.

Today was the day of the carnival.

And both you and Caleb were getting ready that late afternoon. Hoping to get there early and on time for the rides and games.

You closed the door to your shared room, checking your small purse to make sure you got everything you needed. You're wearing a nice yellow blouse, white tank top underneath with a light jean skirt. It wasn't going to be cold, just a nice warm day.

Once you made it to the spacious room where the living room and kitchen connected. You could see your boyfriend turned to you. His back bent a little as his focus was on his phone, scrolling aimlessly, elbows on the kitchen counter. He was dresses up as well, in a very familiar outfit. His sleeveless white logo shirt, with black jeans pants.

He looked so handsome in the moment. His muscular back and shoulders showing of through the white shirt, His long arms, especially his biceps that flexed a bit on top of the kitchen counter. His hips tutting to the side a bit. You couldn't see his face fully, but you could already imagine how he looked. Eyes narrowed but soft, probably biting his lip as he scrolls through whatever feed he's on, all while he's waiting for you.

It was in that moment...you had an opening.

Slowly, you sneak your way over to Caleb. Making sure your sock covered feet won't make any noise against the tile floors. It seems he doesn't notice you at all.

So, taking your only shot, as you make it behind him, your hand raised to aim for his ass. Immediately striking him down against his left cheek harshly, causing the man to gasp loudly. His eyes were wide, but before he could turn around and say anything, your hand that slapped his ass, remained there. Giving his ass couple of good squeezes while your chest was flushed against his back.

"Fuck, you're lookin so hot! Look at this ass!"

"[Y/N]..!"

You didn't give him any time what-so-ever. Turning him around roughly, only to push him back. You could see his very shocked and surprised face now. His cheeks full on flushed with red, a face that made you grip his cheeks with on hand to pull his close to yours. You give him a big fat kiss onto his lips, before pushing him off, making the man look at you dumbfounded.

"Face matches up nicely, not bad at all~"

You tease as your hands rested against his ass, giving his cheeks a squeeze while playing humping his waist. He looks at you so confused, as if you had two heads. There was a moment of pure silence. That was until Caleb begins to grin so big that it could hurt, before a big laugh erupts his whole body.

His chest heaving and rumbling as his hand makes it way to cover his eyes in embarrassment but much amusement as well. He couldn't stop laughing, and it made you laugh as well, your hands coming off his ass to just wrap around his torso. Head leaning against his chest.

"W-What was that pipsqueak!?"

Caleb's hand goes down from his face, looking at you with a big playful smirk gracing his lips. You smirk back with a wink.

"Nothing! Can't I appreciate my boyfriend's hotness?"

Caleb chuckles, leaning in to give your forehead a kiss.

"Never said you couldn't...but with a stunt like that, I say you must be getting even with me huh?"

Before you can retort back, Caleb grabs up by the waist using his strong arms. You gasp as you're now in the air, Caleb turning you to the counter so he can settle you done on the cool marble. Your legs wrapped around his waist, as your arms wrapped around his neck. He held your tightly against him.

"I would congratulate you on that prank of yours, but I would be lying saying that prank won't cost ya. We might be a bit late arriving to the carnival. After that bit, how can I possibly let you go...naughty girl~"

He says this as his head moves to your neck to place feathered kisses along your collarbone. It tickled causing you to giggle, the thought of missing the carnival making you wiggle in his hold whining.

"Caleb, nooo..!"

Yeah, you were definitely going to be late.

════════════════════════════

SYLUS

Catching Sylus off guard, can be a very difficult task at hand.

It seemed like no matter what, he always knew what move you were going to make. Calculating each future ten step you would say or do just so he can throw it right back in your face. And it definitely frustrated you.

A fierce man who was hard to take down.

In fact, he was the one catching you off guard. He was the one surprising you the most and getting you all flustered in the cheeks with his devious nonchalant attitude. It's a rare and very rare moment when Sylus was ever caught being flustered. And even in those rare occasions, he can easily and quickly hide it inside, composing himself as if it didn't phase him at all. As if he had already predicted your tricks, before you can ever see his reactions.

And so, you were on a mission.

A mission to complete subdue and fluster your Onychinus leader boyfriend. It took you half a month to come up with any idea. A good top idea to catch this man way off guard, just so you can win. You just wanted win over him, even if it's just one time. To get him stuttering over his words. And finally, you came up with an idea, a brilliant idea, one where you hoped and prayed that it will very much work.

You texted Sylus on how you'll meet him tonight at his place. He of course welcomed this arrival, his home literally opened to only you at any time of the day. You made your way, rushing to the N109 zone to Sylus's grand mansion. Preparing yourself for what was about to happen.

Once there, you greeted both Luke and Kieran who both welcomed you back. Wondering what the rush was, but you could only give them both a question back asking where Sylus was.

"Boss is-"

"-In his office." They both said.

Perfect!

Working out exactly how you wanted.

"Thank you, see ya later!"

They watched as you rushed down the hallway with a very confused but interested look, wondering what you were planning.

Sylus was in his office, just finishing up closing a deal via phone call. He sighed as he leaned against his chair running a hand through his own locks, looking around the room with his ruby red eyes. Mephisto was in his office - more luck for you -, and Sylus was thinking about you. Waiting for you to come to him.

He then hears a knock at the door making his lips curl into a smile. He can tell from just the knock alone that it was you.

"Come on in kitten."

Nothing.

The door didn't open, nor was there any sound before or after that came with it. His brow quirks at this peculiar moment.

"Kitten, I said you can come in."

He says this a bit louder, but again no answer, or door opening. And he was already confused from the start, because normally you'd just barge right in with that innocent smile of yours. But you didn't even do that. So, know Sylus was on edge but gratefully intrigued by what was going on. Wondering what you were planning behind that door.

He gets up from his chair, walking towards the lavish design door. Once he made it and he opens the door, he gets suddenly pulled by the collar of his shirt. His body leaning and his lips quickly connecting to yours. His eyes looked at you, wide and in disbelief but it wasn't over yet.

Using a tackling move on him, you swiftly used your leg to grapple behind his left leg. You used you full weight so that he would fall to the ground with a harsh thud. Your lips still on him as your hands moved to grab his own wrists and pin the above his head so that he wouldn't go anywhere. You were now straddling his waist, kissing him roughly before pulling back to only bite his cheek.

The man gasps as he was still to stunned to speak. He could only watch as you aggressively manhandle him. Your bites moved to his neck which caused Sylus to grunt lowly. His cheeks and ears red, still so confused. His brain trying to regain any semblance of reasoning but failing terribly so.

Once you pulled away to look at him, a big smile came to your lips as you looked at Sylus. His expression was priceless, funny, cute even as he looked up at you. You can finally say you've taken down Sylus.

Sylus clears his throat, lips curling into a smirk, shaking his head from your actions.

"Is...this some type of new fighting strategy of yours? If so, I'm not so keen for you to use it on other people."

You laughed.

"Nope, I just wanted to tackle you into submission. And I finally got you!"

You hear a big rich laugh come from Sylus. The pitch a bit heightened as he found this incredibly silly and adorable. He could just maneuver his way out of your hold easily or even use his evol to overpower you. But he doesn't, liking the proud face you made of finally overpowering him. Using your smart skills to gain the upper hand of the situation. It made his heart jump inside his chest happily.

"You know, if you wanted to over-power me, you could have just asked~"

"That's a load of bull and you know it! As if you'd gone easy on me if I did asked!"

Sylus laughs again, making you roll your eyes at him. But your body suddenly sits up right, as Sylus uses his strength to break from your pinned hands. He traps your arms behind your back with his one strong hand, his other hand gripping your chin gently, thumb rubbing the bottom of your lip. His eyes shooting down to your eyes, with his infamous smirk that made your stomach flip.

"You're right kitten. It's more fun to tease and let you work for your food, then to let you have it easy. But don't worry, I'll be gladly waiting for the next time you try to catch me off gaurd~"

════════════════════════════

RAFAYEL

You and Rafayel decided why not work out together.

Well, more like you were going to work out and train your body. But a certain purple-haired artistic man called before you could even go to your local gym. Of course, you picked up your phone hearing him complain about he was bored. You told him how you were going to the gym, and Raf found that as the perfect moment to come along with your endeavors.

He suggested going to his private gym he uses at home. He says he's been wanting to blow off some steam due to Thomas insisting -more like pestering to Rafayel - to create more art for his gallery. The deadline was almost due and Rafayel has been procrastinating with other projects. Telling Thomas there is no deadline to when it comes to art, he'll feel the inspiration when he feels it. And so here he is with you.

This is honestly a first for you.

Working out with him that is.

Watching that beautiful man stretching his own body with much ease as you both did warm-ups. Seeing his biceps and forearms flex as he does push-ups. The way his abdomen tenses when he did crunches. Or how he looked so pretty on the treadmill, running full laps. Hair bouncing, sweat dripping, muscles moving, ass tempting. Even when he took a few walk breaks you could hear his controlled breathing and pants.

He looked so pretty in those moments, truly you were captured by this handsome siren. God, you felt so lucky in that moment, you could watch him run all day long. So much so that you had completely lost track of time, your mind on auto pilot throughout your whole workout session.

The both of you were panting, sweat dripping down your foreheads, Body sore but refreshed in a way all in a day's good work-out. Rafayel sighs sweeping a hand through his front locks with a relieved sigh escaping his mouth.

"I'm exhausted, I don't know who's working me to death, you or Thomas~"

Rafayel grins while joking making you roll your eyes with a small laugh.

He goes into a corner of the gym. There was L-shaped counter with a sink. A mini refrigerator that was set up top, And a round circular table in the middle. Rafayel immediately went to the fringe to grab a bottle of water. Leaning against the table he unscrews the cap taking a few gulps of cool water down his throat.

You do the same, following your boyfriend, but your eyes were only trained on Rafayel. His left arm, behind him, hand placed upon the white table to stabilize himself. His back a bit arched, showing the indent of his pecks and abs through his black sleeveless tight compressed shirt. His waist looking so snatchable as his legs slightly crossed over one another.

Drinking the cool water did nothing to ease the burning tension inside of you.

Rafayel places his water down on the table, his hand reaching out to his shoulders to rub them a little. All while he rambled on and on about his problems, Thomas nagging, and blah blah blah.

That was it you can't take it anymore.

"I swear, I bet Thomas is calling my phone about no-"

Quickly you made your move on Rafayel. You grab at his thighs tightly making him blush and shut up. But then you start to lift him up, causing the man before you to gasp and wiggle in your hands.

"[Y/N]! Aah w-wait!"

You didn't listen to his gasps and pleas, as you use your full strength to pick him up and place his ass on top of the table. His legs wide and spread for you, almost wrapped around your waist. His water bottle accidently falling, spilling onto parts the table and floor. You kept a good tight hold onto him, giving his thighs a good squeeze,

Your lips meet his to kiss him briefly, a tease at the most. Before moving to his cheeks and nose, even his exposed neck.

Rafayel's hands were on your shoulders, not knowing whether to push you off of hold you close to him. His face was redder than a tomato, ears included, as he watches his own girlfriend assault him like this.

You then pull away with mischievous smirk on your face, all you could see was Rafayel with that sweet brattish pout pursing his plump lips. He looks at you, eyes narrowed but it was soft. Rafayel gives you a look of incredible disbelief and shock from what just happened.

"I-I can't believe, did you just..?!"

You laugh at him, causing his cheeks to flush even more. His eyes looking away from your gleeful face. It was adorable to witness it. Seeing him in this type of position. Your hands moved, sliding up to his ass, you can feel him tensing up, his breath getting heavy as though he was working out again. You gave him gentle pats at first, but them with your right hand gave him a hard smack placed upon his cheek.

Rafayel lets out a gasp mixed with a whine, his eyebrows furrowed in a glare. Looking at you with such a appalled face. He was truly was embarrassed.

"H-Hey watch it!"

"What, are you embarrassed baby~?"

Rafayel says nothing, the nickname only making him groan, letting out a long dramatic sigh. His eyes once again still darted away from your owns.

"This must what it feels like to be a woman, being preyed upon by others. I'm all defenseless here, it's scary thing. My own bodyguard taking advantage of me, in my own gym."

"It's not my fault my boyfriend is so beautiful. You really are, looking so pretty while you worked out today."

Rafael didn't really say anything, but you can he was trying not to let your words get to you. But it was failing, as your compliments only made his heart race even more. Fidgeting while you held on tight to him trying to distract himself with the gym appliances around the room.

"Sooo...you're saying you don't like it?"

You give him another kiss on the cheek playfully, making him turn his head finally towards you. His legs bringing you even closer, wrapping fully around your waist to lock you in. While his hands wrapped around your shoulders. It made you giggle, his actions way louder than his actual words.

"I never said that."

You smile as he can't help but smile back at you. He couldn't prolong his pout anymore, he's just too damn infatuated - and slightly aroused - at this new position of his. He leans in to kiss you on the lips, the kiss starting off as sweet before slowly turning deep and passionate. His eyes haze over with a growing smirk of his own.

"I'm definitely not going be able to finish my art piece now cutie~"

════════════════════════════

#love and deepspace #lads #headcanons #zayne x reader #caleb x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #fluff

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angelltheninth · 2 months ago

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The Thunderbolts Team Notices You're Injured

Pairing: Yelena Belova, Bucky Barnes, Antonia Dreykov, John Walker, Bob Reynolds, Ava Starr, Alexei Shostakov x Reader

Tags: fluff, injury, teammates to lovers, soothing kisses, care, feelings realization, praise, teasing, bridal cary

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Honestly I only went to see this for Yelena and I was NOT disappointed. The rest of the team was good too. Go Bob!

After the hell that Yelena just had to go through she isn't it well when people around her, people that she cares for, are in danger. Doesn't matter if the injury is big or small she will worry about you. But she won't let her team see that she's panicking about your injuries, but she knows you can see it on her face. She doesn't leave your side for the entire ride back and is constantly asking how you're doing.

Picks you up the moment your enemies are put down. He carries you in his arms and knows that his team will make fun of him because it looks like you just got married, well minus the bleeding from you. Bucky holds you close and kisses your forehead as you smile up at him, telling him that he's going soft on you recently but that you find it cute. While that might be true he is still able to beat up anyone else who calls him cute.

Has been trained to kill so protecting people is a bit of a foreign concept to her still. Still Antonia does her damn best to reassure you, and herself, that you're gonna be okay. It's just a broken leg, you'll be walking again in no time at all, she'll be by your side while you recover too. While she's not too good at cheering people up she will stare down anyone who implies that the injury was all your fault. She won't let anyone slander you.

Runs to your side the moment he sees you go down, cupping your face and yelling over the action and fights going on in the background. As you come to from being past out you see John breathe out a sigh of relief and feel him press his forehead against yours. He helps you get to the medical bed and doesn't leave your side until you're able to stand up. Will even sleep in the chair for as long as it takes.

When Bob sees you surrounded and unable to fight back against mutual enemies he almost lets his powers go out of control. Instead of losing control he completely he pulls them into the Void one by one and making them pass out shortly after. He isn't killing them or making them go crazy but they sure as hell will have nightmares for months to come. The last thing he wants is to be a monster, but for you he can be close to one.

Being able to go invisible is a huge advantage when it comes to saving you and Ava will use every ace up her sleeve to do so. She was worried about you after the punches you took but that smug, charming grin of yours put her mind at ease a little bit, Despite that she's not exactly comforted by how much you're bleeding and fainting against her as she's helping you walk. How you still have the strength to flirt like that she will never know.

For him it's pretty easy to barrel through enemies when he sees that you went down in the middle of a fight. Alexei is by your side and carrying you, running with you on his back, dowards the carrier to get you out of harms way. He holds your hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it while assuring you that you're gonna be okay. Of course you'll be okay, you need to be tough and badass if you made him interested in you.

#yelena belova x reader #bucky barnes x reader #antonia dreykov x reader #john walker x reader #bob reynolds x reader #ava starr x reader #alexei shostakov x reader #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #thunderbolts x reader #marvel imagine #mcu imagine #marvel headcanons #mcu headcanons #marvel fluff #mcu fluff #marvel x you #mcu x you #x reader

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blueberrisdove-sideblog · 4 months ago

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𓂃 ࣪⋆💿˚ ༘ . HIT IT RAW !

✿ tws : multi-fandom men x fem!reader. nsfw/smut, creampie, dubcon, hair pulling, chocking, rough s*x, possessiveness & obsession, crying & tearing during s*x, mocking and humiliation.

CRUEL MEN… who seize control without hesitation, their strength undeniable as he slams his cock inside you with no warning. There’s no tenderness, no patience—only the raw, unrelenting force of his desire as he claims what’s his. Your breath catches in your throat, a sharp gasp torn from your lips as your body struggles to keep up, your mind reeling from the sudden intrusion.

“Too late to back out now,” he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement as he grips your waist, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. “You can take it.”

He doesn’t wait for you to adjust, doesn’t offer you a moment to process—because he doesn’t need to. You’re his, meant to be used, meant to be molded to his will, and he makes sure you understand that with every brutal thrust. Your protests dissolve into choked whimpers, swallowed by the overwhelming mix of fear and something darker, something addictive that coils in your stomach.

“You’re shaking,” he muses, his pace never faltering. “Does it hurt? Or do you like it?”

His grip tightens as he pulls you onto him again and again, taking what he wants without a second thought. He fucks you like he owns you, like he has no intention of ever letting you go. The sheer intensity leaves you dizzy, toes curling, pleasure and pain blurring together into something that steals the air from your lungs.

“Look at you,” he groans, voice thick with satisfaction as he watches you crumble beneath him. “Fucking perfect when you’re like this.”

You’re helpless, trapped in the heat of his body, lost in the dizzying force of his dominance. And yet, even as he pushes you past your limits, even as your body trembles from the force of his claim, you can’t bring yourself to pull away. Because there’s something intoxicating about his cruelty, about the way he takes without asking, leaving you with no choice but to surrender.

His cock drives deep inside you, stretching you open with every brutal thrust. There’s no hesitation in the way he takes you—only raw, ruthless desire. Your pussy clenches around him, trying to keep up, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t let up, only fucks you harder, making sure you feel every inch of him.

“Fuck,” you gasp, fingers gripping onto anything for support, but it’s useless. He’s relentless, his cock slamming into you over and over, the wet sounds of your pussy only spurring him on.

“That’s right,” he chuckles darkly, one hand sliding up to grab your tits, fingers pinching and rolling your nipples until you whimper. “So fucking sensitive. You like this, don’t you?”

You try to deny it, but the way your body reacts betrays you. Every time he buries himself to the hilt, your clit throbs, the pleasure mixing with the sharp sting of his rough treatment. It’s overwhelming—the way he uses you, the way he claims you without mercy.

“Say it,” he growls, leaning in close, breath hot against your ear. His pace never falters, every thrust knocking the air from your lungs. “Say you love it when I fuck you like this.”

You barely manage a whimper, your mind foggy, your body too lost in the sensations to think. But he won’t let you off that easily. His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that make your legs shake.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice dripping with dominance.

“I—” Your voice breaks, another sharp thrust making you cry out. “I love it… I love it when you fuck me like this.”

“Good girl.” His smirk is nothing short of wicked as he fucks you harder, faster, making sure you understand exactly who you belong to.

His hand tangles in your hair without warning, yanking your head back so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, filled with something possessive—something dangerous. You barely have time to gasp before his other hand wraps around your throat, fingers tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.

“There it is,” he murmurs, watching as you tremble beneath him. “That little look in your eyes… You’re scared, aren’t you?”

You try to shake your head, but his grip keeps you still. The truth is, you are scared. The way he’s fucking you—relentless, merciless, like he doesn’t care if it’s too much—has your body torn between fear and something far more dangerous. Your pussy clenches around his cock involuntarily, and he groans, his fingers tightening around your throat in response.

“Liar,” he breathes, his grip flexing just enough to make you lightheaded. “Your body tells me everything I need to know.”

His cock slams into you again, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and your moan is choked by the pressure around your throat. His pace is brutal, your slick dripping down your thighs as he takes everything he wants, stretching you past your limits. Your tits bounce with every thrust, and he watches them hungrily, his hand sliding down to squeeze one roughly.

“Look at you,” he sneers, voice thick with amusement. “You act so innocent, but your pussy’s sucking me in like you were made for this.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as the pleasure builds unbearably fast, your clit throbbing from the way he’s fucking you so deep, so rough. His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing cruel circles around your clit, and your whole body jolts.

“N-No—” you gasp, trying to squirm away, but he only tightens his grip in your hair, holding you still.

“No?” he echoes mockingly, dragging your body flush against his. “You think you have a choice, baby?” His voice is low, dark, sending shivers down your spine. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine. And I’ll take whatever I want.”

His grip tightens around your throat again, just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. Your body is burning, trembling from the overwhelming pleasure as his cock pounds into you mercilessly. It’s too much, too intense, but you can’t stop the way your body responds—the way your pussy clenches around him, the way your hips instinctively roll to meet his thrusts.

“That’s right,” he groans, feeling you tighten around him. “You can fight it all you want, but in the end, you’ll still cum on my cock like a good little slut.”

𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈 : FLAME REAVER, Blade, SUKUNA, Fyodor?, Panatalone, Scaramouche, DOTTORE, Capitano + your faves !

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

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whokilledsamara · 8 months ago

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hii!! I saw you write for homicipher so i was wondering if you could write some dark/yandere sfw & nsfw headcanons for mr scarletella 🥹 thank you so much & take ur time!!

MR. SCARLETELLA HC {N/SFW}

a Mr. Scarletella {homicipher} x reader n/sfw hc list.

{thank you for your support and nice words! :3}

warnings! : stalking, non-con, dub-con, hardcore, marking, slight gore, rough sex, violence, rough fingering, biting, cunnilingus, blowjobs, smut, murder mention, somno

{an : i didnt quite get what you meant when you said "dark" so hopefully this is what you meant. this is really hardcore. to the soft hearted people and people who cant handle ACTUAL freaky stuff, i wouldnt recommend reading this. there is a small section underneath the regular nsfw hc with a cw on it, so if you cant handle certain topics, there is still an nsfw section without it. he is my favorite character from homicipher ommggg hes so hot. id give him my name HAPPILY.}

SFW HC

sfw relationship/meeting him hcs

when you first meet him alone, he is very unexpected. his presence and constant facial expression is unnerving to say the least, but as long as you can manage that you will be fine.

if you end up "accepting" him, the relationship would be very weird.

he would be a wonderful partner despite the obvious other reasons, but dont think he wont be watching you constantly.

he will bring you daily gifts, consisting of anything he can find that he thinks you will like.

as for touch, he will let you touch him. usually he wouldnt let anyone even accidentally touch him, as he would teleport away, but one you are in a relationship with him, most boundaries he had before are gone.

he is rather fond of holding you. whether that be in his coat {for some reason} or just in general.

in Japanese culture {from my research, i am NOT Japanese!!} holding an umbrella with someone is a sign of love and acceptance. therefore he always likes you to hold it with him.

he isnt one of those "down-lo" kind of people. he makes it known everywhere that you are his.

he will do whatever it takes to please you. you are literally his princess/prince. even if that includes killing someone {he does it anyways}

if he catches anyone staring at you, or even remotely close to you, he will either teleport you away {if you are friends with the person} or kill them on the spot.

no matter how much he seems to be emotionless, anything involving you in pain or discomfort, it will flip a switch in him.

he has to be near you always. whether you know it or not, he will be there.

he hasnt quite grasped the concept of kissing or "romantic" things, but whatever you do he goes along with it. he rather enjoys hand holding or pressing his face into your neck.

he is the delulu type {this whole fandom knows it} and anything you do he will take as flirting. dont deny it though, hes too obsessed to care

he has a big thing for the height difference. he is a little over 8 feet tall, and feels a need to protect you at any cost.

any cost.

NSFW HC

what its like to have sex with him.

starting off, this man is a BEAST during sex.

he is a quick learner, and whether he is using his hands, mouth, or any part of his body, he will find those spots that makes you squirm.

one of his favorite things is you riding his thigh in public. say he was talking with Mr. Silvair, and happened to be sitting down. he would want you on his thigh "discreetly" getting off. bonus points if you cum.

he wouldnt be opposed to a threesome, but he has to trust the other person. a rare occasion.

anything you want to do, he will immediately comply. need him to go down on you? hes on his knees. even in public. need his fingers inside of you? absolutely. need his dick? against the wall you go.

he has a big dick, and luckily he knows it. he wont force everything inside at first, but eventually he will. you can take it. he thinks

he loves your body, and he makes sure you know it. even in his strange language, you can understand the things he is saying because he is touching you while he is doing it.

he makes little to no noise during sex, but not because he isnt enjoying it. he LOVES sex with you, but he prefers to listen to your noises. he would have it on repeat if he could.

you could look like anything and he would still find you to be the most attractive person on earth {or his earth, whatever}

for afab, he isnt one of those guys who has a hard time finding your clit. in fact, he doesnt even have to look. immediately his fingers will be circling that little nub that he loves so much.

he is a very dominating person, but it probably wouldnt be hard for him to let you dominate him. i say let because in no situation do you actually have control.

his fingering sessions are borderline violent, the pads of his fingers hitting that perfect spot with every curl.

cw! its about to get very dark and possibly triggering! viewer discretion is advised!

if you are one of those people who get off on your man killing for you, then he is the man. he will torture people in front of you as you touch yourself.

his sex isnt even borderline violent, it IS violent. if hes angry especially, he doesnt care if he hurts you.

afab, he will bruise your cervix and make you bleed. his tip hits so hard with his brutal thrusts that you will.

on certain occasions, {tw!!!} he will force himself on you. while it is rare, r...pe can happen, so be careful and dont piss him off.

he doesnt need sleep, so if hes horny enough then he will fuck you while you're sleeping. if you explicitly ask him not to, then he will just jerk himself off over your sleeping form.

dont expect to walk away from a rough fucking WITHOUT marks all over you. he makes it a mission to bite, claw, tear, any part he can. he wants you covered in blood, it gets him off faster.

will probably brand you with something

if you have a trauma kink he WILL use it to his advantage.

thats all bye bye!!! :3

{ made by @whokilledsamara }

#smut #afab reader #amab reader #mr. scarletella x you #mr. scarletella x y/n #mr. scarletella #cnc somno #mr. scarletella x reader #homicipher #homicipher x reader #dead dove do not eat

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zeroxxlhero · 6 months ago

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Visceral Need • Sevika

Warnings: 18+ characters, mutual pining, flirting, cunnilingus, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, dom! Sevika, sub! Fem! Reader, Sevika w a big dick, creampie, doggy style, vaginal sex, blowjobs, rough sex, ass slapping, mentions of Sevika having a happy trail

Pairings: Sevika x You

Fandom: Arcane (League of Legends)

Sevika had been plotting to get to you from a distance. Watching you, waiting for you.

The dim, smoky air of the Last Drop hums with tension, the kind you can almost feel crawling across your skin. You’re perched at the bar, fingers curled loosely around a glass of amber liquor, your sharp profile illuminated by the flickering neon signs. You know how to command a room without even trying, and Sevika is no exception to your quiet magnetism. She watches from her usual corner, where shadows bend to her will, trying not to make it obvious—though she doubts you’ve missed her lingering gaze.

It’s not the first time she’s seen you, but something about you tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the way you toss your hair over your shoulder, the faint smirk tugging at your lips when the bartender flirts just a little too boldly. Or maybe it’s how you lean back in your chair, self-assured and untouchable, like nothing and no one could ever rattle you.

Sevika’s jaw tightens as she takes another drag from her cigar, the taste bitter on her tongue. She knows how to take what she wants—except, apparently, when it comes to you. You’re too much, too radiant, too far out of reach for someone like her. But damn if that doesn’t make her want you more. She exhales slowly, watching the thin wisp of smoke curl toward the ceiling, hoping it might carry away her frustration.

When you glance her way—just a flick of your eyes, barely there—her heart jolts, a muscle-memory reflex she thought she’d buried long ago. Does she hold your gaze too long? Maybe. She’s not sure she cares, even though her pulse betrays her. She looks away after a moment, feigning disinterest, but her metal fingers drum restlessly against the table.

It’s pathetic, she thinks bitterly, this infatuation she can’t seem to shake. Sevika doesn’t pine. She’s not the kind of woman who waits in the wings, hoping for a glance or a smile. But here she is, doing exactly that, watching you from the shadows like a lovesick fool. She hates how vulnerable it makes her feel, how you’ve become a crack in the armor she’s spent years perfecting.

Her drink is almost gone, but she doesn’t order another. She’s too focused on you, on the way your laughter cuts through the dull roar of the bar like a blade. Someone’s talking to you now—some nobody who doesn’t know when to quit—and Sevika feels the sharp sting of jealousy twist in her gut. She shouldn’t care, but she does. She always does.

She wants to make a move, to cross the space between you and say something, anything, that might catch your attention. But every time she imagines it, her throat tightens, and her words die before they even form. What if she screws it up? What if you laugh her off, or worse—dismiss her entirely? She couldn’t stomach the humiliation.

Instead, she watches, silently yearning for something she’s too scared to reach for. Her metal arm creaks faintly as she flexes it, a nervous habit she’s never managed to break. She tells herself she’ll talk to you next time, but deep down, she knows it’s a lie. For now, she’ll settle for the stolen glances and fleeting moments that keep her tethered to the hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll notice her too.

The sound of shuffling cards and low laughter fills the back corner of the Last Drop, where Sevika sits hunched over a rickety table, a cigarette smoldering between her lips. Her prosthetic hand clicks faintly as she taps her cards against the wood, but her eyes aren’t on the hand she’s been dealt.

They’re on you.

Across the room, you’re leaned against the bar, your smile sharp and wicked as you chat with someone Sevika’s never seen before. Some tall, well-dressed stranger with too much confidence and not nearly enough sense to keep their hands to themselves. The sight of them leaning in, their shoulder brushing yours, makes Sevika’s jaw tighten, and she nearly cracks the card in her hand.

“Yo, Sev, you good?”

The voice jolts her back to the table. One of the guys playing spades with her—an older Zaunite named Corbin—grins lazily, tipping his chin toward her. “You’ve been staring off like you’re tryin’ to set something on fire with your eyes.”

A low chuckle ripples from the others at the table. Sevika doesn’t dignify him with a response, but she shifts in her seat, flipping a card onto the table with more force than necessary.

“Focus on the game, not whatever’s got you so distracted,” Corbin teases, leaning back in his chair. “Unless, of course…” His grin widens as his gaze darts toward you. “You’re busy keeping tabs on that.”

The others at the table exchange knowing glances, and Sevika scowls, smoke curling from her lips as she glares at Corbin. “Play your damn cards.”

Corbin whistles low. “Alright, alright, my bad.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, but his grin lingers. “Didn’t know you had a thing for the untouchable type. Can’t blame you, though.”

The table erupts into muffled laughter, and Sevika’s glare sharpens. She’s tempted to throw her cigarette at Corbin’s smug face, but that’d only prove him right. Instead, she leans forward, her voice low and steady.

“Worry about your hand, not mine. Or don’t—you’ll lose either way.”

The warning in her tone silences the laughter, and Corbin holds up his hands again, this time in genuine retreat. Sevika returns her attention to the game, but only barely.

Her gaze keeps drifting back to you. The stranger says something, and you laugh, your head tilting back slightly, exposing the curve of your throat. It’s a casual gesture, unintentional, but it hits Sevika like a sucker punch. She hates the way it makes her feel—jealous, possessive, like she has any right to be upset when she hasn’t even made her move.

She tears her eyes away again, focusing on her cards with a muttered curse. The game goes on, but her plays are sloppy, her attention split. It’s obvious enough that Corbin catches on again.

“You gonna stay in this game, or you wanna go shoot your shot?” he quips, shuffling the deck for the next hand.

Sevika glares at him, but before she can retort, you turn your head—and your eyes meet hers.

Her heart stutters. It’s only for a moment, but the intensity of your gaze is enough to leave her breathless. The corners of your lips twitch, and then you’re looking away, back to the stranger at your side.

Sevika exhales slowly, feeling the weight of Corbin’s amused stare. She can’t decide what burns more—your fleeting attention or the realization that she’s not the only one vying for it.

The bar’s hum is low and constant, voices blending into the clinking of glasses and the distant rumble of music. Sevika moves toward the bar, her empty glass in hand, but she’s not really paying attention to the drink she’s after. She’s already noticed you again, sitting at the edge of the counter, the soft neon glow catching the curve of your jaw.

You’re impossible to ignore. It’s not just your beauty—it’s the effortless way you carry yourself, like you know the world watches and you couldn’t care less. Sevika can’t help but stare, her steps slowing as her sharp gaze drinks you in.

She catches herself before she stops completely, shaking her head slightly. Get a grip, Sev, she thinks, but her feet still carry her closer.

Just as she reaches the bar, a man slides into your space. She notices him before you do—a wiry, slick-haired guy with a crooked grin that instantly sets her teeth on edge. He leans too close, trying to catch your attention with some line she doesn’t bother straining to hear.

You barely look at him, your expression unreadable, your attention flicking away almost immediately. But he doesn’t take the hint. He leans in closer, trying again, his voice louder now, a little sharper.

Sevika’s grip tightens on her empty glass.

The man doesn’t stop, his persistence crossing into territory that makes Sevika’s blood boil. Your body language stiffens, your disinterest now blatant, but he’s either too dense or too arrogant to notice. That’s when she decides she’s had enough.

With a measured stride, she closes the distance, her broad frame casting a shadow over both of you. She stops just behind the man, her voice low and dangerous as she speaks.

“She said no.”

The man startles, spinning around to face her. His mouth opens, probably to throw some defensive line, but the moment his eyes land on Sevika, the words die in his throat. His gaze flickers to her metal arm, then to her face, and recognition washes over him.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, holding his hands up as if to ward off a blow. “I didn’t—uh, I didn’t realize—”

“You didn’t realize she wasn’t interested?” she cuts him off, her tone calm but icy. She steps closer, looming over him, her prosthetic arm flexing just enough to make her point. “Or you didn’t realize who you were pissing off?”

The man’s face pales, and he stammers out a hasty apology, first to her, then to you. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean any trouble.”

“Then leave,” Sevika says, her voice like steel.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He retreats quickly, his shoulders hunched, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance.

Sevika watches him go, her jaw tight before she exhales and turns back to you. For a moment, she hesitates, unsure of how you’ll react. But then you glance at her, and your lips curve into a small, amused smile.

“Subtle,” you say, your tone light but edged with warmth.

“Wasn’t trying to be,” she replies, her voice quieter now.

Your gaze lingers on her, a spark of curiosity flickering behind your eyes. “Thanks. I could’ve handled it, but… I didn’t mind the assist.”

Sevika nods, the corners of her mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “Anytime.”

She starts to turn away, intending to head back to her usual spot, but your voice stops her.

“Leaving already? Thought you came here for a drink.”

She glances back, her brow quirking slightly. You gesture to the empty seat beside you, a playful challenge in your expression.

“Well?” you ask, leaning back against the bar. “You gonna join me, or are you just here to scare off creeps?”

For the first time all night, Sevika’s grin fully forms, small but genuine. She sets her empty glass on the counter and takes the seat next to you.

“Guess I’ve got time for one more,” she says, her voice low and steady.

It’s the beginning of something, she thinks. And for once, she’s not afraid to take the chance.

The smoky air of the Last Drop feels heavier tonight, buzzing with energy as Sevika sits at her usual corner table, deep into a high-stakes game of cards. The laughter and jeers from the surrounding players don’t faze her; her focus is razor-sharp, every move calculated, every tell read like a book.

You sit at her side, draped in casual elegance, your presence drawing more attention than Sevika’s winning streak. Over the past weeks, you’ve become a constant in her orbit, turning heads wherever you go together. You’ve yet to cross that line into something more, but the tension crackles like a live wire, impossible to ignore.

Sevika is used to being stared at, but with you, it’s different. You’re not just an accessory to her; you’re a distraction—the kind she can’t afford but doesn’t want to resist. Even now, with her attention locked on the game, she’s acutely aware of you beside her, your perfume, your presence, the subtle way your knee brushes against hers.

And you? You’re bored.

Sevika’s been winning all night, and while the crowd around the table watches the game with rapt attention, your interest wanes. You lean back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other, your gaze lazily sweeping the room. But then, your eyes land on Sevika, her sharp profile illuminated by the flickering light above.

A sly grin curls your lips. You know her focus is ironclad, but you can’t help yourself. You want to see if you can shake her.

Leaning in, you bring your lips close to her ear, your voice soft and teasing. “You gonna win this one too, or are you just stringing them along for the fun of it?”

Sevika’s brow furrows slightly, but she doesn’t take her eyes off her cards. “Trying to distract me?” she mutters, her tone even.

“Is it working?” you purr, letting your breath brush against her skin.

She doesn’t answer, but you catch the slight clench of her jaw, the way her fingers tighten around her cards. A thrill sparks in your chest.

You take it further, your hand drifting to rest on her thigh, your fingers light against the fabric of her pants. “You know,” you murmur, your voice low and sultry, “I was starting to think you were more interested in this game than me.”

Sevika freezes for half a second, just long enough for one of her opponents to notice.

“You good there, Sev?” the guy across from her asks, smirking.

“Fine,” she grunts, her voice rougher than usual. She glares at her cards, trying to refocus, but you don’t let up.

Your fingers trace small circles on her thigh, your touch maddeningly light. “You look tense,” you say, your tone dripping with mock innocence. “Should I stop?”

Her eyes flick to you, dark and smoldering, a warning in her gaze. “Keep it up,” she says lowly, “and I’ll make you regret it.”

Your grin widens, entirely unbothered by the threat. If anything, it eggs you on. You lean in even closer, your lips almost brushing her ear. “Big talk for someone who’s struggling to focus right now.”

That does it. Sevika slaps her cards down, the force rattling the table, and pushes her chair back slightly. The players around her start to laugh, sensing her irritation, but it’s not them she’s focused on—it’s you.

She leans toward you, her voice a low growl. “You really wanna test me?”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence, but the heat in her gaze sends a shiver down your spine. “Maybe,” you say softly, your smile teasing.

Sevika’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, it feels like the air between you is about to ignite. Then, with a sharp exhale, she stands, tossing a few bills onto the table.

“Game’s over,” she says curtly, grabbing your hand and pulling you to your feet.

“Where are we going?” you ask, laughing as she leads you away from the table.

Her grip on your hand is firm, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Somewhere I can deal with you properly.”

The spark in her eyes promises trouble, and you can’t help but follow, your heart pounding with anticipation.

Sevika's mouth is hot and hungry on yours, her tongue delving deep as she backs you up against the wall. The smooth plaster is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of her body pressed against you. She breaks the kiss, leaving you both panting for breath.

"God, I've wanted to do that for so long," she pants, nipping at your jaw. "Wanted to taste you. Feel you." She rolls her hips into yours, grinding her thigh between your legs. The friction is delicious, the pressure exactly what you need to chase the edge. You whimper, your head falling back against the wall as she licks a hot stripe up your neck. Your hands find her shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck Sev," you groan, your hips rocking against her in desperate search of more. "Need you. Fucking need you so bad. Please."

Sevika stops you with a firm hand on your hip, her fingers digging in until you're sure you'll bruise. "Ah, ah," she tuts, shaking her head. "Not so fast, baby." She cocks her head to the side, a wicked gleam in her eye as she looks down at you.

"First, you're gonna apologize for interrupting my game." She punctuates the demand with a sharp thrust of her hips, her hard cock grinding against your aching clit. Your jaw drops, a gasp tearing from your throat at the sudden burst of pleasure. But even as your body sings, your mind reels at her words.

"What?" you sputter, your brain struggling to process the shift in power dynamics. "But Sev, I..." She silences you with a finger pressed against your lips, her eyes hard and unwavering.

Sevika chuckles, the sound low and dark and dripping with all sorts of filthy promises. "You heard me," she purrs, her hand sliding down your body to palm your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. Your nipple pebbles beneath her touch, the rough pads of her fingers sending sparks of pleasure shooting straight to your core. You whine, arching into her hand like a cat in heat.

God, you need this.

Need her.

Your whole body is crying out for her touch. But you know she's right.

Now you owe her an apology.

That’s how you got under her skin, how you made her so crazy for you that she left a table full of high rollers to chase after you. "Fuck," you curse, dropping to your knees with a thud. The carpet abrades your skin through the thin material of your pants, but the pain is nothing compared to the pleasure you’re about to indulge in.

Sevika is one of those lucky bitches who was born with everything hanging down to her knees. But it's not just the size that sets her apart. No, the crowning glory is the curl - a delicious, meaty curve that was made to hit all the right spots like it was made for your cunt. It looks like it’s almost too big for you, having the capability of stretching you out in ways that would burn so good it was almost painful. But oh, the pain would be worth it. So worth it to feel so full, so utterly and completely stuffed full of her.

You lean forward, tracing the happy trail that starts just below her navel, the coarse hairs tickling your fingertips. The scent of her fills your nostrils, musky and dark and so distinctly her. She's an intoxicating cocktail, all brute strength and raw power and that sharp, sinful mind. You're addicted, thoroughly and completely.

Sevika's cock is too big for your hand, stretching your fingers obscenely as you wrap them around her dick. She's hot and heavy in your palm, the veins ridging her length pulsing against your skin with every beat of her heart. The sight of her, all big and hard and ready, sends a fresh gush of arousal flooding your cunt. You whimper, your hips rolling involuntarily as you stroke her from root to tip.

Your thumb catches on the weeping tip, smearing the pearly bead of pre-cum that's gathered there. You're overwhelmed, completely bowled over by her. By this. By the sheer, breathtaking perfection of her cock. A cock that's all for you.

Sevika moans, a low sound that makes your clit throb. "That's it, baby," she praises, her voice rough with desire. "Just like that." She thrusts into your hand, her hips rolling in shallow little circles that send pleasure shooting up your spine. You can’t help but moan, your eyes fluttering closed as you lose yourself in the feeling of her, hot and hard and so fucking perfect in your grip.

"God, your hand feels so good," she pants, her grip on your hair tightening until it's just shy of painful. "But I bet your mouth would feel even better." The words are a challenge, daring you to prove her right. To take her down to the base and show her just how good you are with your tongue. You open your eyes, meeting her gaze head on.

You look up at her through your lashes, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. The simple act, so quick and innocent on its own, is dripping with intent in the charged air between you. Your message is clear: you're going to devour her. Swallow her whole until she's begging for mercy. She inhales sharply, her eyes darkening with lust at the blatant promise. "Fucking hell," she breathes, the curse little more than a whisper." You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?"

You just smile, slow and filthy, before diving forward and swallowing her down. The surprise and pleasure mingling on her face at the first touch of your tongue is almost as satisfying as the taste of her, salty and bitter and so delicious.

Your mouth is hot and wet and eager around her, your tongue working feverishly to coax more of those heady drops from the tip. Sevika shudders, her grip on your hair tightening until you're sure you'll feel it for days. The sensation sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you, your clit pulsing with the need for attention. You whimper around her, the vibrations of the sound traveling down her length until she's keening, her hips rocking into the blessed heat of your mouth.

You let her fuck your face, taking her down to the root with every pass until your eyes are watering and you're lightheaded from lack of oxygen. The discomfort is a small price to pay for the sheer depravity of it all, for the knowledge that you're the one driving her to this, making her fall apart with just your mouth and hands. You're insatiable, gluttonous in your desire.

Sevika is lost in the bliss of your mouth, her head thrown back and her eyes screwed shut as she chases her high. She fucks your face like it's her sole purpose in life, every thrust designed to push her closer and closer to the edge. You're along for the ride, letting her use you for her own pleasure. Because fuck, it's hot. Watching her like this, all wild and undone and so beautifully debauched. The noises she makes are obscene, low and filthy grunts and groans that make your cunt clench with want.

Her words are even filthier, praise and profanity tumbling from her lips in a steady stream. "God, your mouth," she pants, her grip on your hair bordering on painful. "So fucking good. Love watching it stretched around my cock." Her thrusts speed up, growing erratic as her climax nears.

Your nose presses against the neat thatch of curls at the base of her shaft, the musky scent of her arousal flooding your nostrils. Her hands are fists in your hair, holding you in place as she grinds against your face.

Your jaw aches, your lungs burn, but you don't stop.

You can’t stop.

Not when she's so close, not when you can feel her pulsing against your tongue as she fights not to come.

The need to make her fall apart is a living thing inside you, driving you forward until she's writhing, her legs trembling with the force of her impending release. And then she's coming, your name a ragged groan on her lips as her cock jerks and twitches and spills down your throat.

The sound of your name on her lips is sweeter than any praise, more potent than any aphrodisiac.It sends a fresh gush of arousal flooding your cunt, your clit throbbing with the need for some much needed friction. You work her through her release, milking every last drop from her as you greedily swallow it down.

The saltiness coats your tongue, slides down your throat in hot spurts. And god, it's delicious. A perfect complement to the musky taste of her skin, the spicy scent of her cologne that clings to your hair and skin. You're drunk on her, high on Sevika.

In this moment, you'd do anything for her, be anything she wants you to be. Even if it means falling on your knees like some cheap whore and choking on her cock like your life depends on it. Which, right now, it feels like it does.

Sevika tugs you to your feet, your legs shaky and unsteady as she pulls you into her arms. She doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath before she's kissing you, her tongue delving deep to taste herself on your lips. You open for her, letting her invade your mouth just like she's going to invade your body. Her hands are everywhere, roaming over your curves like a woman starved.

She squeezes and kneads and leaves bruises in her wake. Marking you, claiming you for her own. And fuck, if it doesn't turn you on. You've never been so aroused in your life. Your pussy is dripping, your panties soaked through with the evidence of your desire. She breaks the kiss, only to trail her lips down your neck, sharp teeth nipping at your pulse point. You moan, your head falling back to grant her better access.

Your head hits the pillow a split second before Sevika is on you, her body a warm, solid weight pressing you into the mattress. She kisses you again, her mouth slanting over yours in a filthy embrace that steals the air from your lungs and the sense from your head. The scent of her is dizzying, the taste of her a heady ambrosia on your tongue. You're drowning in her, lost in the drugging pull of her lips and the hot slide of her skin against yours. Your hands roam, mapping the dips and curves of her body like you're trying to commit them to memory.

You'd happily spend the rest of your life exploring every inch of her, tracing each freckle, licking each scar. But right now, there's only one thing on your mind. One thing your body is screaming for with every frantic beat of your heart and every ragged breath in your lungs. You need her.

Sevika is a woman of contrasts, every inch of her hard planes and sharp edges. The smoothness of her skin is a shock against the roughness of her hands, the gentleness of her touch at odds with the desperate need in her eyes. She worships your body like it's a religious experience, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your sternum until she reaches the valley of your breasts. There, she pauses, her hot breath ghosting over the peaked nipples. Your back arches, seeking friction, but she just chuckles, the sound rumbling through you like a shockwave.

"So pretty," she murmurs, her fingers ghosting over the straining peaks. The skimmed touch is torture, leaving you aching and wanting and ready to beg for more. But then she's taking you in her mouth, sucking you deep like she's trying to pull your soul straight from your body.

Sevika sucks harder, her teeth grazing the sensitive nubs and sending sparks of pleasure-pain zinging straight to your clit. You're keening, your hands fisting in the sheets as she works you over with lips and tongue and teeth. She's relentless, determined to push you to the brink until you're a mewling, writhing mess beneath her. And fuck, if it doesn't work. Your cunt is clenching, juices trickling down your thighs as she drives you insane.

Just when you think you can't take anymore, she's pulling away, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach as she makes her way down your body. Her tongue dips into your navel, teasing the hollow there before she's moving on, nipping at the jut of your hipbone. You gasp, your fingers tangling in her hair as she settles between your thighs.

She inhales deeply, her nose brushing against your clothed mound. The scent of your arousal fills her nostrils, and it’s so fucking perfect. She can't wait any longer.

Can't deny herself the taste of you.

Then she’s tearing at your panties, her fingers ripping the delicate fabric like it's tissue paper. The cool air hits your overheated flesh, making you shiver, making your cunt clench with want. But it's nothing compared to the heat of her breath, the first lap of her tongue against your dripping slit.

You moan out, your hips bucking up to meet her, to grind your cunt against her greedy mouth. She moans, the sound vibrating through you, making your toes curl and your eyes roll back in your head. She's everywhere, her tongue delving deep, her nose grinding against your clit as she eats you out.

Sevika throws a thigh over her shoulder, opening you up to her in ways that are almost obscene. And then she's diving in, her tongue delving deep to taste you as her lips and chin get slick with your juices. You're incoherent, babbling a stream of curses and praises as she works you over like a woman possessed. She doesn't let up, fucking you with her tongue like she's trying to lick you inside out.

Your clit is throbbing, aching for attention, and she gives it to you without hesitation. Then she’s there, laving the sensitive bundle of nerves with long, slow strokes that make your vision white out. You're so close, teetering on the knife's edge of release, your cunt clenching around nothing. But you need something more, need to be filled up, stretched out until you're a quivering mess.

“Feel good, baby?”

You say yes, a wordless cry that's swallowed up by a moan as she doubles her efforts. Her tongue is everywhere, in your cunt, on your clit, over every inch of skin she can reach.

And she reaches a lot, her long arms spanning your body as she holds you open for her assault. You're lost in it, drowning in the pleasure, in the knowledge that she's the one giving it to you, driving you wild with nothing but her mouth.

Then need for more is a living thing inside you, a clawing desperation to be filled up in a way only she can provide. But she's too good at this, too skilled at drawing out your pleasure. Each touch of her tongue brings you closer to the edge, closer to that blissful precipice where you'll shatter into a million pieces. And you want it. Want to come on her face until you're shaking and boneless and spent.

She doesn't let up, fucking you with her tongue as she's trying to taste your very soul. Your cries are getting louder, higher in pitch, until you're sobbing out your pleasure, your voice breaking on each desperate moan. She's relentless, her lips and tongue working in tandem to push you over the edge.

And then, finally, she's hitting that spot deep inside, the one that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. You come with a shout, your cunt clamping down around her tongue like a vice as your orgasm crashes over you in waves of searing bliss.

You're thrashing, your legs shaking and your nails scoring the sheets as she wrings every last drop of pleasure from your body. It's too much and not enough, the sensation bordering on pain as it pushes you past the point of ecstasy and into something else entirely. Something primal and raw and so deeply, soul-shakingly intense.

Sevika comes up your body, her kisses reverent against your sweat-damp skin. The slow press of her lips to your thighs, your hips, your stomach, is a soothing balm against the aftershocks still coursing through you. She takes her time, mapping your body like she's trying to memorize every inch. Your fingertips tangle in her hair, keeping her close as you bask in the warm glow of your release.

"God, you're gorgeous when you come,"she murmurs against your skin, her words sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. She nuzzles into your neck, her breath hot against your ear. "Love watching you fall apart. Love knowing I'm the one who made you do it." Her cock is hard and hot against your thigh, a silent demand for its own release. But she doesn't rush her, doesn't try to mount you and fuck you into oblivion.

She rolls you onto your stomach, her hands skimming over the planes of your back, the dip of your waist. She takes a moment to admire the view, the curve of your ass, the long line of your legs. You're exquisite, all soft angles and warm, supple skin. And she can't wait to sink into you, to bury herself balls deep in your perfect cunt. But first, she's going to taste you again.

Her tongue traces the swell of your ass, dipping into the cleft between. She takes her time, kissing and nipping and laving at your flesh until you're squirming beneath her, desperate for more. Your legs fall open, a silent invitation that she's all too happy to accept.

Sevika dips her head, her tongue dragging over your dripping slit from clit to hole. Your taste explodes on her tongue, musky and sweet and so fucking perfect. She moans, the sound vibrating through you as she devours you like a woman starved.

Her hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as she feasts on your cunt. She eats you like she's trying to crawl inside you, like she wants to taste every inch of your body. And fuck, if it doesn't turn you on. The need to be filled by her, to have her stretch you wide and take you hard, is a clawing desperation inside you. You're panting, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets as you push back against her mouth. Your clit is throbbing, aching for attention, and she gives it to you in spades.

She spreads you open with her fingers, her tongue delving deep to lap at your dripping walls. You're keening now, begging her for more, for something, anything to fill the aching void inside you. "Please," you whimper, your voice hoarse and broken. "Please, Sev. I need you. Need your cock." She pulls back, her lips shiny with your juices as she looks up at you through lidded eyes.

"Need this, baby?" she purrs, fisting her dick and giving it a languid stroke. You can't tear your gaze away from the sight, mesmerized by the thick, veiny length, the bulbous head already weeping with precome.

You nod, too far gone to form the words.

But she knows.

Reads it in the desperation in your eyes, in the way your body arches up into her.

You nod, unable to form the words to beg. But it doesn't matter. Sevika reads it in the desperation in your eyes, in the way your body arches up into her. With a low, feral sound, she's on you, settling between your spread thighs. The head of her cock nudges against your pussy, smearing precome over your slick lips. You moan, your hips lifting to meet her, to urge her deeper.

She thrusts in slowly, torturously so, her thick length splitting you open inch by inch. The stretch is delicious, the bite of pain giving way to pleasure so intense it borders on overwhelming. You clench around her, your inner walls fluttering as they try to adjust to her size. But she’s too big, too thick. Even as your body yields to her, you know it will never be enough.

Now she’s in balls-deep, her thick cock stretching you in ways you never thought possible. You shudder, your body convulsing around the sudden intrusion as you struggle to adjust. It's too much, too full, too fucking perfect. You can feel her in your throat, her cock nudging against your cervix like it's trying to burrow into your womb. Your clit throbs, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of your heart as your cunt clenches desperately around the thick length. The need to move, to fuck herself on Sevika in a desperate, mindless frenzy, is a living thing inside you.

But she doesn't let you. Her hands grip your hips, stilling you even as she pulls out until just the tip remains before slamming back in with a force that steals the air from your lungs.

You sob at the drag of her thick cock against your sensitive walls, your voice breaking on a guttural moan. "F-fuck," you stutter, your nails scrabbling for purchase in the sheets. "D-daddy, it's too big. S'stretching me out. Gonna break me."

Your voice is high, thin and reedy, like it doesn't belong to you. But the words do. Those filthy, desperate pleas for her to ruin you, to fuck you until you can't remember your own name. Then she’s only too happy to oblige. She sets a brutal pace, her hips slamming against yours with every thrust. The headboard slaps against the wall, the obscene rhythm mixing with your cries and begging until it's a carnal symphony. She fucks you like she wants to split you open, like she wants to crawl inside you and never leave.

You can't catch your breath, can't do anything but take it as she fucks into you. Your legs come up to wrap around her waist, ankles locking at the small of her back as she pounds you into the mattress. The new angle lets her go even deeper, the head of her cock battering against your cervix with every thrust. The need for more is a living thing inside you, a clawing desperation that drives you to meet her, to push back against the relentless thrust of her hips. But she's too strong, too overwhelming.

She just holds you down, pins you in place with her weight as she takes what she wants. What you're begging her for with every wild thrash of your body. You're a moaning, writhing mess beneath her, lost in the pleasure and the pain until there's no distinction between the two. It's all Sevika, all this hot, hard, perfect cock splitting you open.

"Did you want this, baby?" Sevika grunts, punctuating the question with a sharp smack to your ass. You yelp, the pain mixing deliciously with the pleasure radiating from your core. The smack makes you clench, your cunt gripping her cock like a vise.

"You wanted this, yeah? Wanted me to fucking wreck this good pussy?" She yanks on your hair, forcing your head back to expose the slender column of your throat. She latches on, biting and sucking, intent on marking you as hers for all the world to see. Your hand flies to your mouth, your fingers plunging between your lips to muffle the scream tearing from your lungs. Your hips buck, trying to meet her, to take her deeper, but she just pulls harder, holding you in place.

Sevika’s slaps your ass again, the sharp sting sending a jolt of pleasure racing through your veins.She doesn't let up, her hand coming down again and again until your skin is hot and aching. The need to beg for more, to plead with her to hurt you, is overwhelming. But she's already giving you what you need, what you crave. Her filthy words wash over you, praising your tight cunt, telling you how good you feel wrapped around her cock. You're sobbing, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as she pushes you higher, fucks you harder, takes you deeper. The need to cum is a physical ache, a desperate clawing at your insides.

But you can’t.

Not yet.

Not until she says so.

You cry out, your voice cracking on a sob as she sets a brutal pace. She fucks you like she's trying to imprint herself on your very soul, her cock driving into you with a ferocity that borders on violent. Your body is a puppet on her strings, jerking and twitching with every thrust. You're incoherent, babbling pleas and praises as she wrecks you. Your cunt is like a vice around her, fluttering and clutching like it's trying to keep her inside.

"That's it, baby," she pants, her grip on your hips tightening until you're sure you'll have bruises. "Take it. Take my big fucking cock." She's so deep, so fucking huge. You can feel her in your stomach, in your throat. It's overwhelming, more than you ever thought you could handle. And yet, you want more.

"Cum," Sevika demands, her voice rough with need. That single word is all it takes. You shatter, your release crashing over you in waves of blinding ecstasy. Your cunt clenches, spasming almost violently around her cock as you gush, squirting your release all over her thick dick. It's filthy, obscene, the evidence of your pleasure dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets below. But Sevika doesn't care. She spurs her hips, fucks you through your climax until you're shaking, boneless, spent.

Your lips move in a wordless litany, begging her to stop, to ease up, to give you a moment to breathe. But she doesn't. If anything, she fucks you harder, her thrusts growing erratic as she chases her own release.

You're whimpering, keening cries that barely qualify as words. The sounds are lost in the harsh slap of flesh on flesh, in the creaking of the bed frame as it strains against Sev’s brutal pace. She's relentless, pistoning into you with a single-minded ferocity that steals the air from your lungs. The sweat drips down her brow, her muscles standing out in sharp relief as she holds herself up on shaking arms.

She's fucking you now, not into the bed, but into the fucking room itself. Her hips snap forward, the drag of her cock against your sensitive walls sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. You're whited out, lost in the sensation, the sheer overwhelming bliss of being fucked into oblivion by your own personal god.

"Fucking hell," Sevika breathes, her voice ragged with effort. Her hips are moving now, the pace growing erratic, stuttering as she nears her peak. Thenneed to feel her come is a desperation, a clawing hunger that makes your teeth ache. The need to be filled with her, marked by her, owned by her.

"I'm gonna cum," she warns, her fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise. "I'm gonna fucking cum in this pussy and make you take it all. Gonna fucking fill you up until you're dripping with it. Until everyone knows who you belong to." Her words are punctuated by a final, brutal thrust, her cock spearing you deep as she erupts. Her cum floods your channel, hot and thick and endless.

You shudder, your cunt clenching and fluttering around her pulsing cock as your own release crashes over you. The need to be closer, to feel her all around you, is a visceral thing. You turn your head, your mouth seeking hers in a desperate, sloppy kiss. She meets you halfway, her lips crashing into yours like she can't get enough.

Can't taste you deep enough to satisfy.

Your moans are muffled, swallowed up by the kiss as you grind against her, fucking yourself on her softening length. She tastes of dark promise and forbidden pleasure, and you can't get enough. She kisses you through your orgasm, her words tumbling into your mouth in a filthy litany. Telling you how good you are, how perfect you are. You seek and find her praise, the need to hear it drowning out everything else.

Sevika pulls out with a wet sound, her softening cock slipping from your well-used cunt. Instantly, you feel empty, bereft. But it's only for a moment. Then the first gush of her cum dribbles from your hole, sliding down your inner thigh. A second later, her mouth is there, her tongue lapping at the pearly trail like you're her favorite treat. She cleans you thoroughly, her lips and tongue mapping every inch of your swollen flesh.

She doesn’t stop until you're spotless, until not a single drop of her release remains on your skin. Satisfied, she comes up to curl around your sweaty body, her arms wrapping you in a secure embrace. Then she calms you down, pressing soft kisses to your temple as she murmurs soothing nonsense. The need to be close, to be touched and held and cherished, is a visceral need.

Sevika gives you a chance to breathe, letting you bask in the afterglow for a second. Then she’s flipping you over, manhandling you onto your stomach like you weigh nothing at all. The sheets are cool against your heated skin as she settles over you, the hard planes of her chest a delicious contrast to the soft material.

She kisses your body, her lips trailing over each bump and hollow like you’re the most fascinating thing she's ever seen. "You did so good, baby," she murmurs, her voice low and rough and filled with a dark satisfaction. Then she's praising you like you're the finest prize, like conquering your body has been the ultimate accomplishment. And maybe it has. Because in this moment, with your legs spread and your cunt throbbing from her possession, you feel owned.

Consumed.

And utterly fucked out.

#arcane #arcane league of legends x reader #reader insert #arcane league of legends #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika x you #x reader #arcane smut

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prettygirl-gabi · 5 months ago

Text

Title: Only I Get to Lift You

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Rating: T (Teen)

Warnings: Mild jealousy, light angst, fluff, playful possessiveness

Summary: With TikTok supposedly on the verge of being banned, you’re determined to convince Paige to do the Jacked and Kind trend as a farewell. Paige refuses, saying she won’t even post her drafts, unlike the rest of your teammates. So, you ask someone else...

“C’mon, Paige, please?” I whined, leaning my full weight against her as we sat on the couch in her dorm.

Paige groaned, not even looking up from her phone. “Nope.”

I pouted. “It’s a farewell to TikTok. You have to do it with me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to do anything.”

“Paige—”

“No.”

I let out a dramatic sigh, flopping against her. “Everyone else has done it! Ice, Azzi, Sarah, Jana—”

“And that’s exactly why I don’t need to do it,” she cut in. “I don’t even post like that, Y/N. I have like… a hundred drafts, most are ads that having been set to drop yet.”

I gasped. “And you’re not gonna post the non ad drafts?!”

“Nope.”

I sat up, scandalized. “You’re the worst.”

She smirked. “And yet, you’re still in love with me.”

I grumbled under my breath before pushing off the couch. “Fine. If you won’t do it, I’ll just ask Jana.”

Paige quirked a brow. “Jana?”

“Yup,” I said, grabbing my phone. “She’s tall, she’s strong, and unlike some people, she actually likes to have fun.”

Paige snorted. “Go ahead then. Have fun.”

Oh, I would.

Convincing Jana had been way easier.

“You wanna do a TikTok trend with me?” she repeated after I explained.

I nodded. “Yeah, you just lift me on your shoulders for the ‘Jacked and Kind’ thing.”

She smiled. “Okay, sure.”

Easy.

Sarah started the music, and I grinned at the camera as we recorded.

Jana crouched, letting me carefully climb onto her shoulders. She stood with ease, my legs dangling as I gripped her head for balance.

Everything was going great—until I saw Paige standing across the gym, her arms crossed, staring hard.

I could tell exactly what was happening in that pretty little head of hers.

Something clicked.

Something possessive.

And suddenly, the video was no longer cute to her—it was personal.

The second I hopped off Jana’s shoulders, Paige was right there.

“Redo it.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

She gestured at my phone. “The TikTok. Redo it. With me.”

I stared at her for a second, then smirked. “Ohhh, now you wanna do it?”

Paige clenched her jaw. “Only I get to lift my girl on my shoulders. No one else.”

Azzi, Ice, and Sarah cackled in the background.

Jana, bless her heart, just looked amused. “I mean, I don’t mind—”

“No, you’re good,” Paige said quickly. “We’re doing it again.”

I bit back a laugh. “Oh, so when Jana does it, it’s a problem?”

“Yes,” Paige said without hesitation.

Sarah whistled. “Damn, she’s pressed.”

Paige ignored her, just crouching down. “C’mon, up you go. Alright, run it back,” she said.

I rolled my eyes, but agreed to letting etting Sarah re-start the sound. We waited for the sound to start playing.

Once the sound started playing Paige stood, her grip on my waist firm, like she needed to prove something.

I smiled as the song restarted, she lifted me up with ease. With me now resting on her shoulder, Paige smirked up at me, squeezing my calves. “Now it’s cute.”

I laughed, shaking my head. This girl was ridiculous.

But, honestly? I loved her for it.

The second I posted the TikTok, I knew it was over for Paige.

The comments were rolling in within seconds:

@paige4mvp: “FINALLY she did the trend, took her long enough ”

@wnbabuckets: “Paige, just go ahead and clean out those drafts while you’re at it.”

@uconnfancam: “Bueckers, drop the drafts, we BEG.”

I scrolled through the flood of replies, laughing to myself as I sat on the couch. Paige, who was sprawled across my lap, raised an eyebrow at my amusement. “What’s so funny?”

I turned my phone toward her, showing the endless comments demanding that she post the TikToks she had sitting in her drafts.

Paige groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “Ma, I told you they were gonna start on me the second you posted it.”

I smirked, playing with the ends of her hair. “Well, maybe if you actually posted anything instead of letting your drafts collect dust, they wouldn’t be on your ass like this.”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “I don’t even have that many—”

“Paige, you have like 105, and I'm pretty sure 50% of em are yet to be released ads and sponsors.”

She sat up, giving me a look. “How do you even know that?”

I gave her an innocent smile. “I may or may not have taken a little peek while you were editing our video.”

Paige groaned again, flopping dramatically against me. “You’re the worst.”

I laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “And yet, you still love me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled. “Whatever, you say baby.”

A few hours later kk had convinced me to do a TikTok Live with her

“Alright, y’all, what’s up?”

I grinned at the screen as KK adjusted the phone, setting up the TikTok Live. The chat was already moving at lightning speed, comments rolling in about the Jacked and Kind TikTok.

@paigeismybabymama: “Y/N, YOU SNAPPED WITH THAT POST ”

@kkfanclub: “KK AND Y/N?? ELITE LIVEEEEEE”

@paigeslockscreen: “Where’s Bueckers?? She still hiding from the comments??”

I laughed as KK read that one out loud. “Nah, she and Jana are building something new once again. Probably about to break our damn apartment, from the way they are yelling at each other.”

The camera shifted slightly, showing Paige and Jana sitting on the floor, surrounded by wooden planks and an instruction manual that Jana is reading out loud only for paige to tell her to slow down or she's not making any sense.

KK snickered, before adding fuel to the fire. “Hey, P boogers! The chat said you need to come out of hiding and post your drafts.”

Paige didn’t even look up. “Tell them to mind their business.”

I smirked, leaning toward the phone. “Y’all heard her—keep commenting about it.”

More comments flooded in instantly.

@nukebueckers:“POST THE DRAFTS, PAIGE. STOP PLAYIN.”

@wnbawatchparty: “NAH, WE AIN’T LETTING THIS GO.”

Paige sighed dramatically, setting down the drill and turning toward me. “Y/N, baby, you’re supposed to have my back.”

I gave her an innocent shrug. “I am. I just think you should give the people what they want. Cause its also what I want”

She squinted at me, then at the phone. Then, with a mischievous grin, she stood up, stretching her arms above her head.

The chat immediately went wild.

@paigebiceps:“NAH WAIT WHY IS SHE BUILT LIKE THAT”

@fypuconn:“PAIGE IN THE SPORTS BRA AND GREEN PJS HELLO????”

@wnbabuckets: “IS SHE ABOUT TO DO A TIKTOK ON LIVE???”

I raised an eyebrow as Paige walked over to me, now standing directly behind the couch. She leaned down, resting her chin on my shoulder. “You wanna put on show for TikTok, baby?”

I smirked before turning to look at her. “You trying to redeem yourself?”

She grinned, kissing my cheek. “Something like that.”

The chat was moving way too fast now.

@paigefanclub: “SHE CALLED HER BABY AGAIN BYEEEE”

@jukebueckers: “NOT HER BEING ALL FLIRTY ON LIVE—”

@y/nnation: “SOMEONE SCREEN RECORD THIS”

KK, who had been watching with amusement, shook her head. “Nah, this is actually crazy. Go ahead, do the trend again, since Paige wanna prove something.”

Jana, who was still trying to assemble the furniture, looked up and smirked. “Oh, this I gotta see.”

“Alright, P baby. You ready?” I say as I stood up going to stand in the middle of the floor.

She smirked. “Always, ma.”

Paige stretched again, showing off just enough muscle to make the chat go feral. Then, with zero hesitation, she reached down and grabbed my waist.

I let out a small yelp as she lifted me effortlessly, settling me onto her shoulders like it was nothing.

The chat? Absolutely losing its mind.

@paigeisstrong: “I KNEW SHE WAS STRONG BUT DAMN”

@y/nluver:“THE WAY SHE JUST PICKED HER UP LIKE THAT—”

@uconnfans:“OH SHE OWNS YOU FR”

I laughed, holding onto Paige’s head for balance.

The two of us did the trend flawlessly, Paige flexing way more than necessary, making sure to show off just how effortlessly she could hold me up.

As soon as we both finished, she had a menacing idea to toss me back down onto the couch. Letting out a yelp, as I landed on the couch I sat up only for Paige to put me in her lap. Her hands lingering on my waist as she pulled me close. “That good enough for y’all?” she teased the camera.

The chat was a mess.

@fypnation: “PAIGE JUST BE LIFTING READER LIKE A FEATHER, HUH?”

@wnbastans:“THE WAY SHE HOLDS HER???? THIS AINT EVEN FAIR”

@paigebucketsss: “YEAH OKAY, THEY’RE IN LOVE. WE GET IT.”

I grinned, leaning into Paige. “See? Was that so bad?”

She hummed, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Not if I get to do it with you.”

KK gagged in the background. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Y’all got the people going insane.”

Jana, still struggling with the furniture, snorted. “At least someone’s getting something done today. Paige please come finish helping me.”

Paige just smirked, wrapping her arms around my waist. “So, what I’m hearing is… I should post at least one?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Paige, just post your damn drafts already, and go help Jan.”

She sighed, pretending to think. “Ehh… maybe I’ll just keep making y’all wait, and fine give me the drill,”

The chat lost it again.

And I just shook my head, knowing damn well she was never gonna let this joke die, or post them damn tiktoks.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

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ofstarsandvibranium · 9 months ago

Text

Don’t Mess with My Girl

Fandom: Marvel (Mob Boss AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You come home from work and you make the mistake of telling Bucky that a guy has been harassing you at work.

Warning: harassment from a male coworker

A/N: the snippets of Bucky in the Thunderbolts trailer have ignited my love for him again omfg.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Bucky's already home when you arrive from work. You let out an exhausted sigh as you place your things on the kitchen island and kiss Bucky's cheek, "Hi, lovey."

He hums and looks at your slumped figure, "What's wrong?" he asks with furrowed brows, concern written all over his face.

"Just a rough day at work," you reply, opening up the dishwasher to grab a cup and snort as you see Bucky's metal prosthetic resting inside.

You turn back to him, "Explain," you say pointing at his arm.

He gives a sheepish grin and shrugs, "Today was a bit messy, is all." You chuckle and roll your eyes. You grab a cup from the top rack of the dishwasher and grab Bucky's arm, laying it on the counter.

"What happened today?" you ask as you fill your cup with water from the fridge.

Bucky shakes his head, "Nope. I asked you a question first," he walks over to you and cups your face with his right hand, "What's made my girl all upset?"

You groan, "A new hire, Noah. He's very...persistent."

"Persistent how?"

You shrug, "He just keeps asking me out, getting a little too close-"

"Fire him," Bucky immediately says.

You groan, "But he's a good employee!"

"Doesn't matter if he keeps harassing you."

"I wouldn't say he's harassing me..."

Bucky cocks a brow and places his hand on his hip in a very intimidating manner, "Does he get aggressive when you reject him?"

"...yes."

"Is he constantly berating you and not taking no for an answer?"

"...yeah."

"Does he scare you?"

"A little bit."

"Baby, that's harassment," he says as he walks over to his metal arm, placing it onto the notch and locking it in. He looks down and flexes his arm, "I can take care of him for you, easily. The fellas and I can grab him and-"

You immediately wave your hands and shake your head, "No, no, no. No! Don't hurt him! I'll-I'll handle it. I'll talk to Joan and let her know what's been going on."

"Good and if that doesn't stop him then, I'll pay him a visit," you give him a playful shove and he chuckles, "What? No one messes with my girl and gets away with it!"

____________________________

As soon as you got into the bookshop the next day, you immediately tell Joan of Noah's behavior. When he comes in, Joan pulled him aside to talk to him. You thought that everything would be good after that...but you were wrong.

When you were in the back, putting books away, Noah corners you, "Did you really have to tell Joan our business?"

You can't help but scoff at his audacity, "Well you wouldn't stop asking me out after I said no and reminding you that I have a boyfriend."

It's Noah's turn to scoff, "Oh yeah, your boyfriend," he says with air quotes, "You say you have one but you don't have him as your lockscreen and you haven't showed any pictures of him."

"He's a private person, but that's not the point! I told you 'no'! You should've stopped after that."

Noah rolls his eyes, "Oh just because someone says 'no', doesn't mean they mean it! Means they want you to try harder."

"Actually, it just means 'no' and you fuck off," a deep voice cuts in-between the confrontation between you and Noah.

Both of you turn to see Bucky standing there with a hard glare on his face.

You gulp, "Bucky, what're you doing here?"

He holds up your lunch bag, "You forgot your lunch at home," he holds it out and you rush over to him, grabbing the bag and remaining at his side.

Noah looks at Bucky with wide eyes and then at you. His face loses color as he realizes, "W-Wait, you-you're dating the White Wolf of Brooklyn?"

Bucky smirks at his nickname, "Yeah, she is. And my girl told me you wouldn't leave her alone. Sounds like even with your job on the line, you still don't seem to get the hint." He slips off his blazer, handing it off to Steve. He then starts rolling up the sleeve of his metal arm, the dim lighting of the book shop reflecting off its metal plates.

"I can definitely figure out a way to get the message through to you."

Noah stutters out a response, "N-No. Th-That's not necessary, s-sir. I-I won't bother, Y/N again, I promise."

Bucky hums, "If I see or hear you harassing my girl or anyone else, I'll make sure your body will never be found again. Scum like you don't deserve second chances, but I'm feeling a little gracious today."

Noah nods, "Thank you. I-I won't behave like that ever again."

"Good. Now apologize to Y/N," he nods to you.

Noah gulps and stutters out an apology. You simply reply with a nod and Noah scurries away.

You let out a deep breath that you didn't know you were holding. You look at Bucky, "Thanks."

He shrugs, "Anyone gives you a problem, they have to go through me," he mumbles pecking your lips.

"Y/N, do you know why Noah suddenly qui-ah," Joan turns the corner to see you and Bucky. The older woman puts her hands on her hips and gives Bucky a scolding look, "Barnes, what did you do?"

Bucky shrugs, "Just gave him a warning, ma'am. He shouldn't have been treatin' my girl like that!"

"Very true, but you know I don't condone violence in my shop."

He holds his hands up, "No violence happened, ma'am. Just a little threatenin'." Joan looks to you for confirmation and you nod.

She sighs, "Very well. Guess I need to look for another employee again."

An idea came to mind, "Actually, I know someone!"

______________

"Seriously, Y/N, I owe you one for this!" the young brunette exclaims as he follows you with a box of books in his arms.

You chuckle, "It's no problem, Peter. Besides, we both get something out of this. You're doing a much safer job like your Aunt May and Tony wanted and you get to keep an eye on me for Bucky. It's a win-win situation."

The bell above the shop's door rings and Peter immediately places the box of books down, "I got it!" he rushes to the front, "Hi, welcome to-oh! Y/N!" Peter's voice echoes through the store.

You shelf a book and head to the front, "Yeah?" you break out into a smile as you see Bucky there.

"Hey!" you approach him, giving a little wave to Steve, who stands behind him. Steve waves back, but says nothing else. You wrap your arms around Bucky and peck his lips, "What's up?"

"Had a meeting at Wanda's shop, brought some pastries for you, Joan, and the kid," he hands over the maroon pastry box with Wanda's logo on it.

"Yay! Here, Peter," you hand it off to the young man and he jaw drops, "Oh, sweet! Thanks, Mr. Barnes!" and he heads into the back to share the pastries with Joan.

Bucky places his hands on your waist, "How's he doin'?"

You chuckle, "Fine. He's very enthusiastic and a hard worker. Plus, he doesn't hit on me because he's in love with MJ."

Bucky's brows shoot up in surprise, "Jones' kid? Pft. Good luck, Parker."

You giggle and then back away, "Alright, big mob boss, I need to get back to work."

"Fine. But seriously though, you feel better? Safer?"

You nod, "I do. Thank you," you kiss his cheek and he softens, "Like I said, no one messes with my girl," he gives you a wink and wave as he exits the book shop.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #mob boss au

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tbaluver · 6 months ago

Note

HEYYYYYY

I reeeeaaalllyyyy love your father/husband headcannons and I’ve been pondering about how the lad boys would treat mc if she was pregnant?

Hope you have time to do it, but it’s completely fine if you don’t want to!!! <3

I love your work and your kindness! Keep up the amazing work and happy new years!!

How They Treat You When You're Pregnant- The Love And DeepSpace Men

parings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader genre/ tags: fluff fluff a/n: HIHI again my angel !! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ this req reminds me of my first headcanon i ever did for this fandom and i feel like this one is a more accurate one (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) i am always grateful to hear you guys love my work thank you so much luv MWAH ILY !! it always motivates me to write and create more for you all and i hope you're having a happy new years so far !! hopefully i did this req justice lmk what you think !! ahh i hope we get to chat again and i hope you enjoy reading luv (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

Pregnancy can make sleeping uncomfortable for you and whenever you’re feeling restless, he’s always right there by your side. Whether it’s waking up to comfort you, watching your favorite show together to help you unwind, or adjusting pillows to help you find a comfortable position for you, he’s happy to help. He’ll patiently wait until you’re sleeping peacefully first before he settles back right beside you.

He also doesn’t let you put on an scary movies or shows because you might scare the baby

His face would light up when he hears you want to try one of his favorite weird snack combos. Highlight the word, snacks, because you’re definitely not letting him cook near the microwave or stove.

Xavier is even more protective of you than before, if that’s even possible. Whenever someone gives you a lingering glance in the baby aisle, he’s keeping you close, his arm securely around your waist while giving that person a glance back. When you’re out in public, he doesn’t let anyone get close to your belly bump. Before they can even reach out, he’s already stopping their hand and gently guiding you away.

Xavier attends every doctor’s appointment with you. However, he does NOT like the idea of going to the OBGYN especially if it were a male doctor. You two would be out of the room immediately. However, if you're uncomfortable with any of the doctors in general, he’ll gladly switch and find a better one for you without a second thought.

He’s constantly seeking out new information on pregnancy and babies he can find and has probably read every single online article. He does all of this because he’s determined to learn everything he can to care for you and your future child.

If it were even possible, Xavier would be even gentler with you. He talks softly to your belly, his hands resting gently on your hips as he presses his ear against your stomach, listening and waiting for any movements of your future child. As long as you’re comfortable, he’ll lay down between your legs, his face against your belly while you run your fingers through his soft hair. He’ll mostly fall asleep in this position

Zayne:

Zayne would already notice the subtle signs that you were pregnant before you even realized. He’d pick up the sudden fatigue you’ve been feeling or the way you’ve been extra sensitive to smells. He’s already by your side, holding your hair back as you kneel by the toilet, vomiting. He’ll guide you back to bed, making sure you stay sitting up while he grabs you a couple crackers and a cup of tea.

Zayne is truly an organized and prepared man. He keeps track of everything, noting it down on both his and your phone so that you both have access to all the important details and reminders. He has every date for your checkups, ultrasounds, and any other appointments that are related to both your health and the baby’s. He even makes sure to keep track of which foods are safe for you and which ones to avoid. He’ll keep all the important documents in a file and even keep pictures of the ultrasounds on his desk. Zayne would also have a bag prepared months before your water breaks.

He would let you indulge in anything you crave, as long as it’s safe for you and the baby. He goes the extra mile to prepare you each meal with care and love, making sure that every dish nourishes you and supports the health of your future child. Zayne would have to gently discourage you to not eat dirt covered rocks if you were thinking of craving them. He would also ask his mother some tips when she was pregnant with him.

A surgeon's hands are trained to be precise and steady which makes him the perfect person to give you a massage. With practice care and skill, he’s able to help you release the tension in your muscles, easing every knot and carefully tending to each sore spot. He would not mind if you sat on his lap and guided his hands to your aching breasts or any sore muscle. He'll happily knead and massage them.

You would always know his schedule, so you’re aware when he has to work late. To make sure you’re taken care of when he’s working, he’d stock up on your favorite snacks and meals, making sure to place them within places you can easily reach. Throughout his shift, he’d check in on you during his breaks, texting to ask if you’ve eaten and drank enough water. He’d also make sure to call you during his lunch break just to make sure you’re doing okay and also because he misses you.

Mood swings are a nightmare and not once have they ever bothered him. Zayne is one of the best listeners to any of your worries and also in general. He understands your fears, concerns, and even the times when you overreact. He’s always there to offer you constant reassurance and to take down any fear you had. He would never belittle your emotions and always prioritizes you with unwavering support.

Unfortunately there are nights when he has to come home late, already finding you peacefully asleep in your shared bed. He can’t help but let out a quiet sigh, a soft smile displayed on his face. Quietly, he approaches your sleeping figure, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and then to your lips. His hands delicately trace the curve of your rounded belly before pressing a gentle kiss to it, whispering, “Good job, you didn’t wake up mommy.”

Rafayel:

The studio would ACTUALLY be clean. You’re not really sure if he stopped being lazy or if he hired someone, probably Thomas, to take care of it for him. The floor would be clear of scattered art materials, dried up paint, and the desks would actually be organized. All so you don’t accidentally step or slip on anything or have anything poking or rolling onto your belly when you sit by his desk.

Rafayel is prepared when it comes to baby names. He actually keeps an organized list in his notes app, with his favorites marked by an emoji so he can easily find them. Each name on the list has its own meaning and references. The two of you would cuddle up in bed, sharing new name ideas and laughing at the ones you can’t pronounce, making sure to cross off the ones that didn’t make the cut.

Mood swings were completely new to Rafayel and to you but he quickly learned to keep up with them. He understands that these emotions aren’t easy for you, so he’s always there, even when you need space. He’s always ready to listen and offer support through every high and low and will be there to lift your spirits up whenever you need him.

Sometimes insecurities can weigh on you and you might feel like hiding your baby bump especially when it feels like the maternal clothing isn’t quite your style. But Rafayel is always there and never fails to remind you just how beautiful you are. He’ll go above and beyond to find the perfect maternity clothes that match your taste.

Rafayel would want to document everything so you both have memories to look back on. He’ll take countless pictures of your growing belly each month, capturing the progress so you can look back on how much has changed. He’ll even create his own little maternity photoshoot for you because no other photographer can capture your beauty like him.

Rafayel loves gently caressing your baby bump, often talking to it, hoping that they can hear him. He’ll throw out random names, saying things like, “give me one soft kick if you dun like this name, two kicks if you realllly love it!” and if there was a quiet moment, he’ll say “it’s okay maybe baby glubs is just sleeping.” So he’ll just hum to you and your belly a Lemurian lullaby so you can all drift off into a peaceful slumber.

One of his favorite things to do is preparing a relaxing bath for you. He fills the tub with warm water and adds calming scents, making sure they’re not overpowering, and a few bubbles to help you unwind and soothe any aches or tensions. As he gently washes your body, his hand gently glides over your growing belly, washing away the soap as he imagines the three of you one day swimming together in the ocean as a family.

Sylus:

Every time you wake up or whenever he walks through the door after a long day, he greets you with the sweetest affection. First, a gentle kiss on your forehead, then a soft on your lips, accompanied by a “Hello sweetie,” His eyes then soften as he looks down, his hands gently caressing your baby bump, “and hello our little dove.”

You can always expect pampering from Sylus. He’s right by your side with endless shoulder, back and leg rubs. He can’t imagine how uncomfortable it must feel growing a little one inside of you and how much it takes out, so he’s determined to ease any discomfort in every way possible. He’s learned how pregnancy can change your sense, so he’s careful to use any lotions or oils with certain scents, avoiding anything that could make you feel nauseous or unsettled.

Whenever you have trouble sleeping, he’s there to gently prop up some pillows to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible. He’ll go through his vinyl collection, picking out your favorite or ones that will help you unwind and relax.

He loves you deeply and he knows you’re capable of being independent but he does not want you lifting a finger once your baby bump starts to grow. Even in your early stages of pregnancy, he gently encourages you to take it easy, reminding you that you don’t need to push yourself. With the doctor’s advice to rest often, he’s got all the reasons he needs to insist that you relax. Not a single dish in the house will be washed by your hands and no clothing will be folded by you. He wants you to relax as much as possible and focus on yourself and your little one.

It’s not hard to wake up Sylus. In fact, he’s already awake before you slip out of his arms to satisfy your late night cravings. Quietly, he trails behind you, wrapping his arms around you. His large hands rest on your tummy as he presses a soft kiss to the back of your head, his warm chest gently against your back. He already memorizes your cravings at this point unless it was something new, so he guides you to the chair by the kitchen counter. “What are you hungry for, sweetie?”

In your early stages of pregnancy, shopping for your baby was fun and something you both enjoyed planning together. But by the time you reached your third trimester, the long walks were beginning to wear you out. So he suggested online shopping together. He didn’t want you to feel left out and he loved seeing your face light up when you found something adorable for the baby, even if it was another plushie to add to the collection. The two of you would settle in on the bed or the couch, face masks on , hair tied back, happily chatting and laughing about the cutest finds and everything the baby needed.

Every doctor’s appointment, he’s right by your side. He’ll hold your hand the entire time, his thumb gently rubbing soothing circles. He knows how nerve-wracking these visits can be, especially the anticipation of any results. But just having him there by your side brings your comfort and reminds you that you're never facing it alone.

In general and throughout your pregnancy, he’s always been someone you can lean on. With all the emotions and changes in your body, he’s there to listen and offer comfort. He becomes your safe space where you can express yourself openly with no hesitation.

He can’t deny that he secretly loves being called a to-be- dad’ by Luke and Kieran. There’s a smile that never seems to leave his face, knowing that he will be the father of your child and to experience a new form of love together as a family.

Caleb:

Caleb pampers you every second and every minute of the day. He’s ready to prop up pillows for you and offer massages for any sore or tense areas. He’d also help with any self-care routine, even offering to gently apply belly oil to keep you moisturized. Whatever you need, he’s more than willing to help and he’s always happy to support you in any way he can

There would be no chores for you to do at home unless something came up then you can expect him to immediately do it for you.

He’ll run as many errands as you need. If it’s in a different state, then that’s fine, he’ll just fly over there to get it for you! He’ll make sure to get you a little thoughtful gift on his way there or his way back to make you even more happy

Caleb is always and I mean always, there for every single appointment with you. Whether it’s ultrasounds, doctor visits, or even signing up for a childbirth class. You would never catch him miss a single one and he will always be by your side.

“Baby proofed” the house even though there aren’t any little ones around yet. He’s made sure all the sharp corners are covered or anything that might get in your way, moved. He doesn’t want you bumping into them or risking an accident.

He would wake up every single morning to make you your favorite breakfast as quietly as possible so he doesn’t disturb your sleep. He’ll bring it to your bed, gently waking you and your belly with a soft kiss. “Good morning, honey and good morning my lil co-pilot”

Whenever he cooks anything, he makes sure to open a window or close the doors in the rooms you’re in, making sure the smells don’t make you feel nauseous or irritated.

Caleb loves cooking your pregnancy cravings no matter how weird you may think they are, he doesn’t care. Not one bit. Whether it’s the weirdest combination or something you suddenly crave, he takes note of every ingredient and immediately gets to work on fixing it up just the way you want it.

Having extremely weird pregnancy cravings in the middle of the night? No worries, just wake him up and Caleb is on his way to make it for you in the kitchen or if it’s a certain snack then he’ll be right back to get it for you in the store

Near your due date and you’re having really mild cramps, he makes sure to take to his little buddy in your belly, “Hey little fella, don’t be greedy in mommy’s belly. You can come out any time you want.”

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geminiwritten · 2 months ago

Text

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find.

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.”

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off?

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter.

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter.

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash.

It was actually quite an impressive stunt.

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass.

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good.

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.”

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.”

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors.

You almost make it out without looking back—almost.

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots.

All but one.

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl.

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now.

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday.

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base.

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else.

But it wasn’t worth it.

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off.

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room.

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.”

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.”

Smug prick.

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin.

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.”

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room.

“You’re going to let me fly?”

He chuckles. “Of course.”

“But-”

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.”

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.”

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.”

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable.

You quirk a brow. “You?”

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?”

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?”

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.”

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.”

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought.

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive.

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not.

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.”

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off.

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost.

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign.

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs.

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit.

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.”

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs.

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along.

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room.

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.”

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.”

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms.

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest.

You nod. “Yep.”

“Where were you before this?”

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.”

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.”

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.”

“Thanks, Phoenix.”

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off.

You like her. No bullshit.

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried.

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble.

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely.

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room.

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction.

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen.

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?”

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.”

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer.

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.”

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach.

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.”

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe.

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?”

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.”

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.”

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall.

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team.

“Nothing fancy today, alright?”

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet.

You frown at it. ��But my helmet-”

“Has your callsign on it.”

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad.

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean.

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime.

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good.

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms.

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?”

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly.

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?”

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy.

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.”

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds.

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky.

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead.

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.”

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now.

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face.

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of.

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet?

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall.

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when—

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.”

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room.

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again.

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to.

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks.

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.”

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.”

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.”

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them.

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts.

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.”

You snort quietly.

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in.

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes.

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.”

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now��run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance.

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight.

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley.

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start.

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip.

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence.

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment.

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep.

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him.

Ugh. Gross.

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork.

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there.

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack.

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet.

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.”

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass.

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.”

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.”

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?”

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.”

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-”

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief.

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.”

“Punishment?”

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself.

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-”

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!”

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.”

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.”

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.”

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.”

“It’ll be too late.”

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley.

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod.

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.”

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar.

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid.

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections.

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley.

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time.

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles.

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles.

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.”

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath.

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.”

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.”

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.”

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear.

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults.

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?”

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.”

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?”

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?”

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.”

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer.

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does.

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer.

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over.

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.”

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay.

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.”

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips.

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.”

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face.

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.”

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling.

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?”

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.”

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.”

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?”

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.”

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him.

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.”

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet.

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner?

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke.

But what the hell is that supposed to mean?

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to.

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull?

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.”

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf.

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced.

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.”

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.”

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words.

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to?

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings.

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them.

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech.

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward.

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door.

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water.

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?”

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.”

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe?

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer.

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm.

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink.

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest.

“This is just my luck,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.”

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue.

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?”

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly.

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.”

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.”

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.”

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter.

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.”

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely.

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?”

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found.

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.”

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.”

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at.

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly.

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.”

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?”

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.”

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.”

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.”

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you.

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?”

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.”

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move.

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…”

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth.

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.”

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows.

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still.

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur.

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?”

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.”

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away.

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.”

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?”

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck.

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him.

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral?

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?”

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.”

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?”

You nod. “Yep.”

“When’d you get it?”

“Flight school.”

“Is there a cool story behind it?”

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.”

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?”

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway.

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question.

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?”

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?”

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-”

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?”

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.”

This man is actually trying to kill you.

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.”

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.”

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.”

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.”

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect.

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?”

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.”

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.”

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.”

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?”

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?”

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.”

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar.

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade.

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.”

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?”

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot.

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly.

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight.

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable.

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap.

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm.

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin.

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving.

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap.

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself.

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief.

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.”

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours.

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not.

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle.

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you.

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct.

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable.

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover.

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like…

Holy shit.

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit.

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe.

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life.

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door.

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed.

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early.

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case.

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?”

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.”

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.”

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.”

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk.

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices.

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.”

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?”

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?”

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.”

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you.

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.”

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking.

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!”

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?”

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.”

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move.

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?”

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet.

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time.

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame.

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective.

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light.

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.”

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening.

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well.

Maverick.

Your stomach drops.

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery.

You're never living this down.

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.”

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.”

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.”

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.”

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again.

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?”

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.”

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?”

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.”

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.”

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-”

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused.

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk.

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.”

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together.

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills.

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit.

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone.

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning.

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him.

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left.

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought.

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last.

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world.

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut.

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with.

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone.

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in.

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.”

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit.

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you.

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?”

You don’t react.

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.”

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.”

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault.

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?”

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up.

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn.

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.”

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does.

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?”

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap.

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care.

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you.

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.”

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.”

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.”

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t.

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.”

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths.

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.”

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle.

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place.

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly.

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots.

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement.

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful.

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?”

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too.

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone.

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.”

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.”

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive.

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended.

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do.

At least you’ll die happy.

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask.

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction.

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.”

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.”

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible.

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back.

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest.

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next.

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast.

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.”

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base.

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six.

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.”

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat.

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.”

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight.

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.”

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?”

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.”

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp.

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask.

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.”

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust.

All you need is the green light. The words.

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever.

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze.

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn.

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline.

“Flip the switch, Jinx.”

You’re gone before they can take their next breath.

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble.

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice.

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind.

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.”

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up.

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.”

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.”

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat.

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares.

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate.

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.”

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.”

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.”

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze.

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.”

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.”

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp.

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?”

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly.

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?”

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!”

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy.

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly.

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly.

“Boo,” you whisper.

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!”

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there.

Tone lock. Missile fired.

“Damn it!” Reuben groans.

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun.

Then you wait.

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation.

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps.

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement.

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit.

Then you dive.

Fast. Precise. Dead-on.

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams.

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin.

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard.

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop.

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly.

Jake looks up.

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger.

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide.

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.”

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown.

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face.

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?”

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.”

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base.

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.”

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you.

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend.

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline.

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.”

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.”

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you.

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-”

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm.

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley.

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.”

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything.

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.”

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh.

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-”

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside.

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.”

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?”

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots.

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease.

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared.

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.”

You don’t think. You just move.

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word.

And then you kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this.

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match.

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash.

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching.

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear.

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.”

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.”

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw.

“We’re never living that down, are we?”

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.”

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest.

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room.

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him.

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close.

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.”

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs.

“Don’t fucking tempt me.”

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting.

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him.

END.

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