#p: good will lightning | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 3 months ago

Text

TRACKSTAR?!

Synopsis. He’s not running a marathon with you, he’s fúcking one.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, MARATHONS, overstím, creampíes, cúmflation, dúmbifícation, making them whímper, cervíx kíssing, breaking the bed, ínnapropríate use of powers, pússydrúnk men, true form Sukuna, dp, bréeding, p talking, they’re FÉRAL, manhandIing, BÚLGES, spítting, cúmplay, L bómbs, boss!Higuruma, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week!!

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 5 rounds

“C’mooon- only round five n’ you’re already this gone, mama?” Toji departs a breathy whistle from his scarred lips, jaded eyes rolling in time with your cute whimpers.

And you’re just trembling underneath him - your legs turned into complete mush and your eyes permanently homed all the way in the back of your head. A big fat wad of creamy white drips out from your sensitive slit and makes you groan– “As if you’re any hck! better.”

Grumbling gruffly, “Huh? S’that backtalk, doll?”

“M-maybe…”

Well- what else could he have expected after completely breaking your rickety bedframe, two desks, and damn near the floor you were drooling all over.

Toji’s plush pecs grinding firmly against your shoulder, scorching skin-against-skin as one beefy arm loops underneath to keep you arched. The other patting that inflationary, throbbing lil’ bulge rested inside your tummy with a leer, “Because all she’s tellin’ me s’that you’re gonna take this next round like a champ.”

Next.

A marathon - fuck, a marathon.

So many rounds upon countless rounds and he was still aching for more - the fat n’ girthy shaft of his painful cock drip-drip-dripping with even more sappy precum. Flooding your sheeny entrance as if he was slobbering, the cutting edge of his mushroom tip swirls around your milked entrance to open you up further.

“Yeah…” Toji drawls under his breath, low. Pinkish tongue flicking out at the pretty, pretty vision of your ruined pussy– “Tellin’ me she’s gonna t-take it alright.”

And if he stuttered, if his voice broke then you don’t notice - because soon enough your brain melts into nothingness as he traces your teary slit with a harsh jab of his crowned head. Dribbling veering into straight-up bawling from between your legs.

Your head lolls back stupidly, striking the plane of his sharp collarbone. Hands scrambling for anything on the floor right about now, “Oh- oh, please. Toooji–!”

“What, huh? S’that pretty lil’ ngh- head scrambled already?” A hoarse snicker breezes out from above you, in unison with the splintered creeeak! that resonates out once one of his clammy palms press up against the nearby wall.

No- you want to say.

But the only thing that spills out of your spit-glued lips is a few whimpering wails of Toji’s name, your knees weakening as he keeps rutting his bludgeoning cock deeper and deeper.

Fucking you like an animal. He was so big that you could feel his pounding veins scrape every inch of your insides, lightning bolts rubbing up against your snug walls in a way that was so sensual. Zig-zagging across your gooey pussy as your bottom lip catches on your teeth. “Harder h-harder.”

So dizzy that you felt like collapsing-

“Whoops- upsy daisy.” Before you can even blink your tear-stuck lashes, Toji cradles your neck with his bulging bicep. In exactly the lecherous way that makes your mouth spill over with a splash of excited slobber, seeping right down his toned arm. “Tch, made a mess too.”

Manhandling you like you’re boneless, you’re pressed up against every rippling muscle. Every glissading ab, a hot trickle of sweat drips down from Toji’s temple.

“Please- nghhh please, it feels t-too good–”

“Too good, huh?” And you already know he’s rolling his eyes lazily. Grouching out, “M’not even all the way hah- inside this cute lil’ pussy. So tight s’like she’s gonna fuuuuuck- break.”

The image made you want to squirm, held down by the briefest, barest flex of his arms. Knocking out every ounce of wheezed air stuffed inside your lungs, Toji gazes down at you when you moan and sneers.

“And look at that- she’s still throbbing.” His free hand’s flicking over your relentless tummy bulge until ivory cum splatters down your shivering thighs. “Lettin’ out a damn hngh- fountain, too.” Skin glued together with the mess he’d made inside– and somewhere far off in the distance, your eardrums register a sharp snap!

Because Toji Fushiguro was out of control. Out of his mind.

Sharp tendrils of his inhuman power breaking every piece of furniture inside of your heady bedroom, and making his slender hips rut with a sharp spank! It echoes, the sound.

Clap after clap after clap where he’s cluttering your velvety dripping insides with that fattened circumference, gooping out splashing wads of precum that skids right on over to the target of your tummy bulge. Inflating you up even more.

“Tight fuckin’ th-thing–” He’s gasping into the crook of your neck, eyes ogling down at the globular bump through his shaggy Stygian bangs. So sensitive. So tender, the underside of his cock was flinching with every slip n’ slide deeper. Wincing at your saturated clench, “-fit- fit- fit, goddammit.”

Shit- he’d plugged you so full with glutinous bucketloads of cum that every snagging buck pulled your walls so taut.

Struggling to even fit, he’s rovering his thick fingertips over to that invisible line he was jackhammering inside you and pushing. Hard. Snickering to himself as your pussy torrents out a milky flood with a splurch!

You think you might be cumming - you think you don’t even realize as your vision of the wall splinters with splotches of pure white. Clawing down his sweat-simmered skin, your throat tastes rusty with a strained moan of “T-Tooooji—!”

“Yeah- yeah yeah, doll. Scream f’me. Even she’s louder than you.” Smoothing over the doughy patch of his palm on top of your glittery pussymound. His words carry out over the vulgar paps of flesh, stinging your mounds. And even the scratchy gliiiide of Toji’s tufted happy trail leaves your skin all tender, “Scream- scream, because…”

And then there’s a sudden crack!

Thundering across your ears; you’d have thought that your poor bedroom floor would be the last thing that even Toji wouldn’t be able to break. You’d have thought you were safe down here.

But his hand plants away from the wall, a crumbling handprint embedded deep into the plaster. Oh.

That very same one patting your womb - with both his calloused fingers outside your tummy, and the ruby-red cockhead on his vast shaft. Bottoming out until he was shoveled balls-deep, he shivers. Primally, “-because this next one’s gonna be a biiiig one, mama.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 8 rounds

“I want to be your…cumdump, Kento.”

That was what had started it - that was exactly what had broken whatever was left of Nanami Kento’s sanity until he’d bent you over and taken you in the lewdest, rawest mating press right then n’ there on your marble kitchen counter.

His thick, frigid wedding ring roams between your swollen pussy folds, peaking right between those slippery edges to watch the way your pretty face twists into a whine. “Are- are you hah! alright? If you can’t, darling-”

“No no- I want it, Ken–” Your words huff into a pout almost as much as your delicious lips were, and Nanami finds himself leaning in to smear a laaaazy peck. “-want you to fuck me rough- again, please?”

“Aww, my love…an eighth round? S’gonna be a biiig stretch, y’know?” And for a second you think he simply won’t agree, for a second you think he’ll simply kiss you dizzy and make slow, sensual love to you.

But, no.

No- what your husband does next is sternly loosen the yellow speckled tie still stuck to his perspired neck, cording it tightly around your own. A sinful little loop that pulls your head off of the frosty counter and up to him.

“-then you better open ‘er up wiiide, m’kay?”

There was something hard in his rugged tonality, something so…feral. And the only thing more feral were his hips, prying apart your puckered lips until you were gasping around his plumped-up girth. Every ridge and vein pushing and pushing until his massive cock was working you open - you could never get used to Nanami’s sheer size.

“Please-” You’re clawing down his half-open shirt, drenched through with such slabs of sweat until you could count every ab. Your head throws back as he further thumbs open your filthy hole with a soppy squelch–! “Please please please-”

Stretching and stretching. He couldn’t get enough of you - your rubbery hole was already opened up so that he could take you maddeningly.

Nanami’s aching tip was burning hot, slurping up your gooey insides with such famishment. And every pistoning drill had his golden happy trail itching your perked clit until you saw overstimulated stars-

“M’kissing you here.” He gruffs out from the depths of his guttural throat, veering an index in a straight line down your cunt. “And here.” Mazing into one of your favorite spots, battering a bruise. “And here…”

Skidding a stripe of pre just millimeters below your throbbing g-spot; your melty insides clench oh-so-adorably at the sensation and Nanami finds himself almost cumming. A singular thin, stringy knot of seed dribbling out of his sensitive orifice and targeting your g-spot - almost like he’d planned it.

He’s smiling as your chest heaves with a wail– “And m’kissing you ngh- there.” Your lips tremble as he leans over to nibble down on your dewy-glossed lips like a gummy, “My favorite. This here-” Your thighs jittery uncontrollably as he draws a firm line across, “-love you up to right here. Love you more.”

“K-Ken- oh!”

And it might be the eighth- was it? You think you’ve lost fucking count. The only thing on your mind right now was the way he hiked a capped knee over to angle his drilling hips just so.

“Mmm– keep these open.” A softened palm latches onto the underside of your thighs and splays you out until your legs hit your tits, such a burning stretch. And yet, Nanami himself was even hotter - even more feverish. Blond bangs tickling your face- “Squeeze- squeeze.”

Before you can even think of listening to his spat-out words, he’s slouching his head back to dart your pussy like a fat splat of spittle. Formulating a shiny sheen right over your entrance, “My pussy- fuck! Squeeze, my wife, m’gonna make sure you c-can feel allll of it. Gonna make sure.”

The swell of his vein-covered shaft protrudes against some of your sweetest spots, probing. “I feel- feel it-”

“Yeahhh—? S’she memorizing it?”

It’s like every vulgar whack has Nanami more pussydrunk by the sultry seconds.

Pound after pound that made the counter shake dangerously with his sheer force, you’re sure that if you tilted your head enough you’d see the way that his toned pelvis was stinging red from his bulky base.

The driveling crown of Nanami’s cock slips across your womb and you cry out, letting him clench that vice-like tie even tighter. Needier.

“She- she is.” You’re croaking out, embarrassingly belated. Oblivious to the way his molten eyes widen, heavy lashes fluttering furiously to remain open. A thin line of saliva leaks from your mouth, which Nanami tenderly wipes away. “Want you to- fuck- faster. Harder.”

Oh.

You evil, evil thing. Lengthy digits curling into a fist, he’s slamming it down inches away from your head at the white-hot sparks of pleasure that sprints through Nanami’s body. He wasn’t just fucking you on the kitchen counter, he was fucking you into it.

Meaty pecs heaving with a wheeze– “M-marry me.”

“Wh-what?”

“Marry me.” Damn near ten inches that drove crazily inside each n’ every time, pummeling out a clean circular bruise on the pinpoint of your spongy cervix. “Marry me marry me marry- fuck!”

He feels the moment you cum before even you do, a sparking hot flash of heat. Not even electricity, not even peaks, just sizzling tingles that make your dripping wet cunt spit out a few more pearly drops of sappy slick.

“Ken- fuckfuckfuck–” Your back arches almost completely off of the cool surface, and right into his arms. “-m’cumming m’cumming–”

The metallic frames of his glasses sag even loser, making him look such a mess. All burnished flush, hooded eyes, and a sleekly slobbering mouth that shapes to form- “Mhmm— cum, cum, my love- n’then m’gonna fuck! wife you up. Make you my gorgeous wife.”

He really was that pussydrunk.

Your shimmering lips crash mindlessly into his and your usually-stoic husband finds himself bloating even larger. Wrenching your head back with every snagging catch of his rock-hard cock, ba-dump–! goes the very bottom of your watery pussy.

Your words are soaked in such utterly loving, “We’re already married, Ken–”

“O-oh.” You never thought you’d hear the day that Nanami Kento stutters - almost even whines. Looking helplessly towards your prettily fucked-out face, and then your matching rings. Oh.

“Then…” But you can’t revel in your accomplishment too much before he rendered you thoughtless with yet another splosh of scalded seed overstuffing your soppy cunt. Spraying down your cervix until you could feel every loooong slide of those heavy ribbons. Eyes widening- did he just cum from realizing you two were married…Nanami grunts, Nanami begs.“-make me a dad?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 7 rounds

“Mmm, gorgeous–” He’s purring, cherry-pink lips now all stained white with the leaky remnants of his cum. Clinging his greedy maw ‘round your seed-frothed clit and draaagging, “Ya taste even sweeter after the heh- sixth round.”

You’re whimpering, tastebuds overflowing with the saturated taste of your slick saliva. It gurgles at the back of your throat and gushes the very instant Geto flops his prolonged tongue inside your filthy hole, “Sugu- Suguru–”

“Mmm– what’s that?”

“Sugu, I want-”

Before you can even think of finishing your sentence, Geto’s slender fingers come slamming down to leave your dripping pussymound aching. Spank! The manicured crescents of his nails just slightly catching on the hood of your clit while he pinches and leaves you breathless-

“N’ who was talking to you?” The sloped tip of his nose meanly nudges your pert nub, flaring out a scorched huff of laughter right where it struck you the most. “Mhm- s’rude ta talk outta turn, you know?”

And Geto’s gulping so loud it’s just filthy. Letting his heated mouth open wiiide enough that you’re displayed with all the dewy droplets of syrupy white that glisten down his dampened muscle.

Your thighs try helplessly to clench together, mussing up his long, inky locks - in a way he’d never admit that he fucking loves. “B-but, Suguru…” He really doesn’t make it easy for you, thrusting his tongue in rapid, greedy gyrations in and out. Mewling, “Really wan’ you to- to fuck me again.”

Ah, there it went - Geto halts, he gasps - his sanity.

Again? Again?

Oh. And somewhere in the back of his husked throat, he giggles. Has the audacity to fucking giggle whilst his eyeliner-smudged irises drift up to your fucked-out expression, the way you were so needy still. Begging, actually.

“R-round seven?”

He was so pretty - all tear-glittered eyes, lips that were swollen and sopping wet with oozing dredges of his own creamy white seed. He looked like he was about to fucking ravish you to soothe his permanently-drenched throat.

The only thing you can do is fucking nod - before Geto Suguru makes lecherous use of his swift battle prowess to latch a hand on the side of your waist and flip you over.

Sweat-simmered abs kissing up against your arched back, his long bangs tickling down your spine. Down, down, down– inches over where he’s swabbing your drooling cunt with three repeated strikes. One to make your pussy just whoosh! with syrupy gumdrops of sap - coating a burnished lacquer where his glinting piercing was-

“Heh- yer more honest here, gorgeous.” The stretchy band of your hole rings out with a burning streeeetch once Geto’s teasing you with the sweltering hot crown of his length.

So unfairly wide that your teary eyes run away to the back of your head without even a single inch sunken in. Your boyfriend catches the sensitive slit underneath his pretty swollen mushroom tip right where your entrance was, “Mmm– spilling out so much. Take it- take it then, if you want it so bad.”

“More–” Your skin pebbles with so many endless goosebumps at the chilling orb of his Prince Albert’s piercing probin’ your cunt open. In in in- “Fuh-fuuuuck, gimme- gimme more.”

“Greedy girl.”

Dark yukata only half-off, pinning you down. And yet even seven rounds wouldn’t be enough to ever get you used to how truly big he was. Massive.

Fuck- he’s cradling his half-soft, sensitive hilt with those lengthy fingers of his. Tight. Pulling and pulling in tight, rapid tugs so that his aching cock bloats even harder. Whispering a staccato of ‘c’mon c’mon c’mon’, either side of his circumference molding your melty walls never-endingly open. You whine as his throbbing tip starts perking even deeper inside your innards, making himself so fucking painfully hard for you.

“O-ohhhh so big.” You’re gurgling out, knees skittering to a shake on your screeching mattress. “S-Suguru why are you so ngh- big.”

Ruby-red, blushed so fucking pink that it matched the maidenly flush overtaking Geto’s handsome features. “That’s what ya get for thinking more with this hck! pussy than that head.” A creamy ring of cum outlines your entrance as he bottoms out, tender balls-deep. “So take it- take it then.”

Shit, you were squeezing around him so tight that it made him groooan pornographically.

Knotted slivers of spit dolloping out from between his cracked lips and onto your back, Geto’s sneaking a foot down on your hazed head and holding you trapped. Eyed locked on what he could see of your expression while he delved deeply in—

Every minute change, every tiny squeal while his heavy cock drips out hot precum exactly on the target of your g-spot. As if his circular piercing was a spotlight tugging on every tender spot mapped out, “Yeahhh– atta girl.”

You always melted into such mush whenever he cooed at you that way, yeowling out while he opened up every cute lil’ crevice. “Sugu, kiss- kiss?”

How cute, his long, eyelined waterlines flutter with the overstimulated urge to pass out right then and there.

Instead, Geto’s dragging his neatly-trimmed pelvis against the mound of your jiggling ass until your skin scratches raw. “A lil’ kiss- you mean- here?” Pointing a cute lil’ splotch of thick precum where your sloppy entrance was clenching and unclenching furiously. “Orrrr here?” Another barreling poke near where your g-spot was, digging the curvature of his piercing right inside. “Or– oh, you like that, huh, filthy girl?”

“Yes- yesyesyes fuck–!”

Thwack! You’re hit with the edges of his knobbled digits, and then another second strike with a ropey splatter of saliva. “What’d I say about talking out of turn, gorgeous?”

Before you can respond, Geto flicks over a slash of his beaded piercing right over your clit. “Or…” Right prior to the way that rasping breath of his grows shaky. Unsteady. And no sooner are you hit with the realization that you’re positively walloped with the saturated swash of his stringy cum clogging you up. Stretchy, squeezing himself inside you as if he was trying to milk himself dry - and he truly was.

Bumping out an inflationary lil’ pouch where he was knocking on your womb, you felt so full that you couldn’t even breathe.

Finally, finally against your lips– you taste Geto’s cum and overstimulated tears. He whimpers, “-here?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 4 ½ rounds

Choso’s crying, he thinks he’s blubbering. Big, great tears that spill from the ends of his eyes and stream down his scorchingly blushed cheeks, “C-can I put it inside again, baby–?”

And almost as if he was afraid of what you would say, your poor boyfriend’s angling your leg just a lil’ higher from behind. Watery mahogany eyes fixed permanently on your expression from behind, on his side - every minute change whilst he slithers his blushing red tip inside to wrench out the sloppiest sluuurp–!

Once. Twice. Three filthy times in succession.

You just leak in milky ribbons of cum that he’d pumped inside of you, all full until his rounded hilt was dripping wet in sticky rings upon rings of it. Drenched.

“Ohhh- pretty pussy. What a pretty pussy.” His breathy gasps humidify your neck, heaving. Leering down, “Hey there— pretty.” Not even talking to you. Panting— oh, and you’re sure right now if you turned around then he would be flushed bright pretty pink. “Please, baby, let me give you one more?”

You can’t help but coo as you’re feeling his warm tears splatter your shoulder drenched, “Of course, Cho– All inside now- don’t be shy.”

“M’n-not…”

And for all he said, Choso has to rim his pearly white teeth over the tender crook of your neck and bite the moment he sinks in. Bloated mushroom tip so fat that it only eases in a single inch before he’s latching two hands on the flesh of your hips and bucking.

Wildly, achingly.

“Oh- oh my god…” He’s whispering into your skin. Chiseled abs stuck like adhesive to your back, the sizzling sweat between your bodies makes Choso’s fattened girth slip out with a lecherous pop! and he whines– again and again.

You run your hands through the sweaty valleys of his locks, “Aww, s’alright–”

But he gapes, stingingly swollen cockhead almost steaming in your heady bedroom air. Spurting out a viscid jetstream of pre as if to say he wasn’t supposed to be outside. Anywhere but your honeyed pussy. “No- nonono–” Choso mutters, nibbling down on his bruised lips to failingly hold back his soft gasping whimpers. “Inside. Inside.”

“Mmm– lemme help, baby.” You pop the ‘p’ and gaze adoringly at the way his girthy, fat cock massages your outer ring. Treacling out a gooey few splotches of pre that overrun your flooded entrance and stretch you open so wide.

Truly, Choso was way too big for his own good.

Heavy and hard. The curving ridges of his shaft’s help him lean exactly towards where your g-spot was located, smearing out a steamy line of sap straight towards his bullseye there. Your clingy walls were practically melting into him, keening at the curly brown hairs that tickle your inner thighs.

“S-s’it all ngh! inside, baby–?” Your head lolls to the side and drowns in your plush pillow, dragging in deep breaths with every even deeper stroke he was planting on you. Slowly, so that you can feel every sensual lightning bolt of his veins massaging your innards.

“Inside- inside oh-” Choso’s spit-glued jaw drops as if the thought only registered to him. And he’s flapping his long lashes furiously to blink down through the haze, “S’inside.”

As if to prove his point, he snakes over one of his sweat-moistened palms and crams down over where your spongy cervix was being kissed over n’ over. So many loving, lingering kisses that scrubbed his rounded cockhead polished with every glide.

“A-all inside, all safe and hck! sound.” He’s prattling away drunkenly - and you don’t know who’s more fucked, you or him. Another winding arm pressing you to him like two halves of one body, “For the f-fourth time. Fuck- m’gonna cum once more o-or die trying.”

He’s treating your dampened cunt like he’s worshipping you there, such loooong raw grinds that make your eardrums buzz with the intense gulping slurps. Every strike to your most favorite areas leaving your perpetual high just tingles.

Your hand reaches over to drag him by one of his dangling silver necklaces into a sloppy, sloppy kiss. “Mmm– all inside, m’kay? No ngh- missing, Cho–”

“No missing. No…no missing.” He nods from behind, chestnut bangs falling over those half-lidded eyes and still doing nothing to hide the glaring intensity in them. With a puffing heaval of his full lungs, he moans– “Won’t miss- won’t miss…won’t miss so you have to t-take it ngh- all, baby- m’kay?”

And it’s only a few more vulgar slap after slap before Choso throws his head back and cums. Lifting your hips almost middair so that you’re swallowing up each plump wad of seed.

There’s so much of it bursting inside, coating your every nook and cranny in a stark white. You could practically feel the knotted mess streaaaming down your gummy walls, the drooling slope of his crownhead targeting every sweet orifice.

And Choso counts- oh, he counts.

Something smoky that crackles underneath his baritone breath, just barely reaching your popped ears. “One-” Just as his first wiry ribbon weaves its way through your oversaturated walls, “-two-” Another one streaking down your battered g-spot. “-three.‘

That third and final clump of hefty cum could barely even be considered that - only a few pearly droplets before he’s reaching his high dry.

Sparks explodin’ behind those shuttered lids, his sweat-slicked brows furrowing almost painfully. Choso rears his head like some beast and bites down exactly where your pulse was beating the loudest.

Hard enough to break skin whilst he cums and cums and cums and nothing comes out.

“Ngh- nghhhh–” He gurgles from the throaty back of his larynx, voice broken. And it’s just about the most intense high of his life- “Please- take it. P-please take it, baby.”

And take it you do— with open arms, and your legs shoved even more fully open by one of his lanky legs. The skin of his thighs steaming against yours, your cunt throbs once and you leer. And he jolts, primally. “Cho– how about we try till five?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 11 rounds

There was one thing no one ever mentioned about the king of curses - one thing no one dared to even question. Never dared to find out.

And that one thing being…his heat.

The very thing right now that had you bent all out of shape on his centuries-old bed into the most filthy mating press; your voice achingly hoarse from crying out, and yet your gushing pussy even louder.

So fucking loud, in fact, that Sukuna himself can’t help but let his cursed second mouth come lolling out to give your dripping lips a lil’ peck. Loud and squelching, the sweltering hot gusts of his breath make you shiver. “Wh-why the hell is your stamina so ngh- good, Kuna–?”

“Heh- m’flattered, brat.” You’re feeling each prominent vein decorating his twin shafts throb, bloating up even bigger until your rubbery orifice was stretched to the max. Your very cervix stinging with how many times he’d whacked it with his globular slopes. “But if yer still sensical then m’not doing a good ‘nough job.”

Though, he supposed that was partly on him for seeping reverse cursed technique throughout your boneless body- but he couldn’t have his dear queen breaking any bones, right?

And if this was any other time then Sukuna’s husky baritone wouldn’t have shaken the way it did, hitching octaves higher as he’s slapping his monstrous tongue down once on your slick-topped clit.

The mushy tip of it flicking over a few glittering beads of stray cum up to his other mouth, and Sukuna shivers. All cleaned up once more for him to ruin. Pink locks of hair flopping over as he throws his head back, “Oh- ohhhh, here it comes- here it comes. Get that cute cunt ready girl, because m’heat is far from over.”

And you’re far from even registering the words in your melted mind before he’s inching his sculptured hips back and hitting them down with a wham!

You can only stare as he barrels his rugged cocks flawlessly, direct hits that simultaneously batter both your g-spot and your poor cervix. And that’s all that it takes for your clingy, overstimulated walls to hold onto his heated lengths for dear life and cum. Sparking with white-hot pleasure while he stretches and stretches and stretches you stupid.

Even the slightest, tiniest movement made your body curl– the burning sparks of bliss way too much for you to handle. After so many continuous rounds you didn’t even know how you hadn’t broken any bones. Spread-eagle by two of his big, beefy arms-

“Oh my god- ohhh s’so big. Kuna s’too big–!”

“Yeahhh, tha’s more like it.” Sukuna snickers from above, eyeing the way your maw gapes open with a torrent of spittle that stains his shoulder tattoos. A sleek gloss that makes his other set of lips smack, “Always love when ya ngh- fuck yerself stupid taking that biiig cock ya said was too big.”

Mindlessly, your hand skims over where he was pounding a rounded bulge right into your tummy. Filling you up snugly. “Please- p-please–”

Tilting his head almost mockingly, “Yeah? Wha’s that, ma?” Oh, his grin makes him look so feral - gleaming white canines on full display. He quirks a brow, “That cute lil’ bulge?”

Your inner thighs shake pathetically as he drifts a fatly-padded thumb right over where he was reaching such tender areas inside, deeper and deeper every time you blinked. “Heh- s’where m’breeding you, human. N’ I think I reeeeeally like her.”

One, two, three whacks of his dual curved cocks until you realize Sukuna wasn’t even talking to you.

No- he was cooing down at that cylindrical outline visible through your tummy. The way every tunneling jackhammer had him pouring out a generous helping of precum that made it inflate even rounder - all from the sensitive bawling divot that rubbed raw along the ridges of your insides.

One of his four hands palming down hard, “And you know what else-”

“Fuuuuck–! Wait- m’sensitive m’sensitive, Kuna-”

“-s’reminding me of…” There’s a filmy haze in his eyes, something feral and gone. And as Sukuna inches in closer, his saccharine steamed breath makes you sweat. Drinking in a deep whiff of your honeyed pheromones and he drools, “-wanting to get you all round n’ full.”

Your mouth lacquers over with a watery bout of sap, the cloying taste of it taking over your senses. Slight strings of it snapping and dangling from your panting crevice, “Y-you mean…?”

“Oh you know what I mean-” Honed fringes of his canines dig deliciously into your earlobe, “-ma.”

There’s an electric trill that runs through you - and not just because Sukuna had taken up to walloping your poor g-spot about four times every single second. Fuck, the man had stray bursts of red, red lightning darting devilishly all over his body with the sheer power it took to keep you two from breaking.

Hard, thorough thrust after thrust that rendered your mind dizzy - your brain clanging around the inside of your empty skull. Excess sloshes of seed that he hadn’t lapped up swashing on your innards, you barely even realize it when you’re hitting yet another orgasm with a shrill–

“M’cumming- m’cumming m’cumming, Kuna–” Your hands claw down his muscular back, feeling his sexily shifting muscles underneath your touch. Pretty noises so loud that he’s reaching up a palm with his second mouth manifested there for you to suck on- “I’m- mmpf-!”

“Good…good.” His titters rumble out in a guttural gruff, prominent veins popping out on either side of his throat. “Mama’s always gotta cum first- n’now ta ngh- give ya my heir.”

Your chest heaves frantically, heart racing at his words. Set free from the heavy make-out with his lengthy tongue with a dampened pwah! “Will- will it even fit?”

Because Sukuna meant double the wadded cum filling you up, and with him being in heat…

“Of course ya can-” Probably, he’s musing inside of his fuzzy mind. And yet, it didn’t matter if a single knotted ounce leaked out because his cursed maw was already manifesting back across his tensed core. Licking its lips just as he twitches warningly inside you - so hard it leaves your tummy lurching- “‘-Kuna’s’ always right.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - 3 rounds

Ino can’t help but hitch out a tiny, rasping sob with each thrust; those sensitive veins covering each side of his red n’ swollen shaft massaging up and down furiously. “So sensitive- so sensitive, think m’gonna- gonna cum, pretty.”

Your throat clogs up with utter bucketloads of saccharine spittle, drenching Ino’s sexy ski mask that’d been stuffed into your sagging maw moments prior. Something about your voice being ‘too pretty’...

“What’s that? What’s that?” His weepy crowned tip stirs around your gummy insides, splotching out a hefty wad of creamed pre - a warning. So many pitches higher, feral. “C’mon m-milk me- milk me milk me with that pretty pussy, sweetness.”

Every vicious pap was so rough that it made your vision blister with pure white - you’re muffling out something that sounds like a jumble of ‘please’.

And before long you’re simply being soaked - if you thought your driveling pussy was wet before, then you weren’t ready for the absolute puddles it was formulating now. Heavy, clumped bucketloads of sappy cum that spills out of your saturated brim.

For the second time now.

Every crevice of your tender pussy is just flooded, the smooth waves of seed treacling down your sides is so sinful that your knees weaken. Doughy heels of your feet sliding down the sweaty skin of his slender waist ‘till his tawny happy trail hits your bleary cunt. “Mmm– feels so h-hot inside.”

So hot that Ino himself was burning, veins bubbling up from underneath his very skin – he’s flushing all the way down to his mahogany roots at the sight of that creamy frothing between your legs.

“Wanna see– s’alright if I- s-see?” And he’s not just probin’ the question at you, he’s targeting it to your pussy. Nodding along with every squelch after squelch emanating out as if holding his own lecherous conversation.

And the very moment that Ino lurches his hips and draaaag his ballooned-up cock out of you, your sloppy hole simply cascades.

So wet that a warm waterfall pours out between your puffed-up folds, enough to soak your sheets and right down to your bedsprings. They ricket creakily following every bulky slap of his round, cylindrical shaft down on your gluey slit.

Grunting, “Yeah- yeah yeah yeah so fuckin’ pretty- so pretty. D’you have any idea h-how hck! gorgeous ya are?”

A clingy, dripping mess dangles from his oozing divot by the time your cottony mind clears up enough to spit out his choking mask. Blubbering out a strained, “Please- please, Taku—”

Oh, that lil’ nickname makes Ino slouch his head back and groan.

“Don’t- fuuuuck, don’t say it like that-” His huffing words depart his chest with every stimulated twitch, full-bodied. Ino was shivering, those trembly thighs of his doing nothing to hide the way his ruby-red cockhead was blushing enough to resemble a lollipop. “Don’t say it or m’gonna…”

“Mhm—?”

You evil minx.

With a determined rut of his beastly hips, Ino’s spanking the tender underside of his length down straightly across your cunt. Making you see for yourself just how loooong and wide he really was, your greedy insides are clenching already.

Drawling up a steady finger to mark on your where he’d be using as his target, “Hiya, pretty- can ya handle one more? J-just- just the tip this time, ngh- okay?” Muttering - more to himself than anything. Those fawny doe-eyes look up at you and you’re noticing that his pupils are practically hearts. “Swear- just the tip, I swear-”

And he’s still so sensitive - so delicate from just cumming that even smooching your glossily saturated lips is enough to leave your pretty boyfriend gasping.

Nose crinkling at the bridge, “Just…just the tip…” He’s talking almost as if he’s in a daze, drunkenly lolling his head down to watch the way your bulging pussylips smear open with his wide circumference, “-for th-this third round- can’t be more than the ngh- tip, okay–?”

Punctuated with slow, sensual grinds.

The pulsating of his tip curves up into your g-spot precisely, over and over. Repeated, thorough strikes where he makes sure you’re being rendered dizzy on his winding veins. Your sensory walls feel along every zig-zagged pattern, rubbing back n’ forth back n’ forth back n’ forth.

“Fuuuuck– it feels so good, baby.”

“Sh-shit.”

He stills at your words - body aching out a ba-dump–! You mewl out, your overstimulation making the blissful sensations increase twofold. And a fat glob of cum spurts out of you as you quiver, heady gaze starin’ dead-on. “Want a bit more…Taku.”

There it was again. And Ino is falling even deeper in love with you, heart racing once he flits his hazed peripheries down to your pussy. Then you. Your pussy. Then you. Your drooling pussy-

“G-gonna…” He starts off, voice low. Rasping. Something primal in them jolting awake, he clings on a hand underneath one of your asscheeks and lifts you up easily. Pliably, to inch in just another solid bulk further, “-gonna take it alllll like a g-good girl, okay?”

Yes- but you don’t even have the time to revel in your success before you’re being split apart.

“Keep- keep your eyes open, sweetness.” You’re hearing grouch into your fuzzy ear canal, the stinging spank of skin-on-skin echoing right along with it. “Keep ‘em open n’ watch me all ngh- deeeep inside.”

Ino wasn’t giving you mercy, he wasn’t giving you even time to breathe before the very cum-capped tip of his cock reaches into your lungs. Carving out a stout, rotund bruise exactly on your sponged cervix, “One.” He counts - counts. “Two- three.” Every hit after hit to the ends of your gooey pussy that make you wail out in whimpers.

Your hands wrap around his craned neck, tangling with the sweat-matted curls at the base. “Are- are you gonna cum all hck! inside this time, Taku–?”

And how could he resist? He’s reaching up to ten before answering, a breathy pant of an answer. “Anything for you, sweetness…”

♡ GOJO SATORU - INFINITY?!

“Sweetheart, look- look at me.” Torrid clumps of spittle cling down Gojo’s lips in a shiny sheen, licked dripping wet as he takes in the sight of you all pretty underneath him and damn near swoons.

For the nth time tonight– you’d lost count.

The strongest frantically flaps his long lashes open, eyes bleary and hazed - your bedroom lights had long since shattered, and yet he was so honed in on you. On the way your slippery slope sloshes out with a creamy white pour of cum the second he slaps his sweltering crowned tip down. Thwack!

Octaves higher, wild. Gojo couldn’t even speak normally at this point- shit, you wonder if he was even thinking. “Look, sweetheart- o-oh my fuck, look.”

And you - you were so fucked dumb you could barely even breathe let alone twist your head ‘round to stare, teeth bitten cutely around the drenched edge of your silken pillow. “Please- please, Toru- d-dunno if I can fit any more…”

“Wh-what?” At this, the strongest has the audacity to flinch- fully bodily, his meaty thighs pressing down further on your ass to prevent you from squirming. You could count every tick and every flex of his calves as he pinned you down in the most lecherous, most raw prone bone ever.

A hot waft of breath empties out near your sensitive ear, “Y-you don’t ngh- mean that…do you?” Desperate. Fattened globs of something wet splatter on top of your shoulder, and only sultry moments later do you realize that you had him crying. Dewy sapphire eyes honed in on your expression of oh! “M-more- c’mon, say it- tell me what you want, my girl.”

Both you and the rickety bedsprings sing in unison as he rests his hefty weight over and smears a thick stripe of buttery pre where you were leaking out. Flooding, actually.

You were so wet that it’d formed a syrupy puddle, your ruined sheets sticking to your slammed skin as if they were made of glue. Because your dear husband had made sure to fill you up till the very brim, knotted ribbons of seed frothing at your entrance like a cap of icing.

Gojo rovers his hands near the base of your spine and arches you, “Again, c’mon- c’mon c’mon—” Your ears ring with a slobbering sluuuurp–! as his rounded mushroom tip leaves peck after peck on your sloppy hole. A huff of laughter vibrating his broad chest from behind you, “Look how loud- how p-pretty.” Yeah, those powerful eyes of his were locked on your dripping cunt. The way those dangling wires of slick streeetch ridiculously. “Look how badly she wants me- but I needa hear it from ngh- you, sweetheart.”

“F-from me?” You’re gurgling, and somewhere along the way he’s curling a dexterous hand around your throat to force you to look up.

He’s rutting into you like an animal - a promise of what was to come. “Mhm— you, my girl.” Those heart-shaped pupils of his finally dead-locking into yours- and a few axons in the air explode from simply the eye-contact. “Say it- say it. Tell me you wan’ me- want more. One more.”

He’d been saying one more for aaaaages now. For so many seconds and thirds and fourths.

If it was anyone but Gojo, then they wouldn’t have been able to catch the minute way your watery lips unfasted into a wobbly shape of something like ‘more’.

But this is Gojo Satoru - so of course, he notices.

“Wh-what was that?” He’s breathing out, globe-headed tip just starting to press against your awaiting pussy. Throb-throb-throbbing, his pounding vein massaging the hood of your clit. “Tell me- tell me what-”

One clammy palm of his reaches out to claw the crown of your head- whining for a second when his limitless flickers on and off. Feverish. Out of control. Gojo’s nose buries inside your throat to drink in your sexed-up scent, slobbering. “Tell your dear S-Satoru here, tell it allll t’me.”

“W-want it-”

“Want whaaat?”

“Want-” Your throat constricts with such a leaden ball of need, the saturated sweetness of it clogging your words. “-want you. Fuck me, Toru-”

And Gojo feels his ears pop! with pressure, every unbolted piece of furniture hovering numerous inches in the air when the strongest reels his toned hips back and slams you incredibly full.

So sensitive that the man flinches, head throwing back with a smoky groan of– “Oh. Ohhh m’n-never gettin’ tired of that.”

It’s a mind-numbing stretch, the taut pull of his girthy cock swabbing apart tender nooks and crevices that only he could. Mixing n’ matching new hefty piles of pre upon the remnants of seed he’d left behind prior. He was just so big.

Before you know it, Gojo’s rubbing one of his doughy-padded hands over your lower tummy. “Woah…” Eager tips of his fingers pressing down hard on the plump, cylindrical outline jutting out of you. “-can feel it-” Peripherals glowing, Six Eyes rendering him light-headed. “-can see it, sweetheart.”

Fuck- it’s about the fifth time that he was uttering those very words to you. And the simple sound of them had your thighs clenching, sticking together with a solid plap! of sprayed juices trapped in-between.

Gojo was so hot collapsing down into you like he was melting - everything from his pants, to his skin to his pace. Practically melting. A fast, pounding pummel over n’ over that rubbed your gummy walls raw every time he’s prodding about.

Can’t stop, won’t stop.

“Gonna- gonna fuck you, m’kay?” His pearly whites sinking down on your soft earlobe, Gojo’s grunts pour out after every slick gliiiide of his meaty muscled front down your prespired back. Up and down.

You think you count six- no, eight of his washboard abs before your cottony mind is put-together enough to mewl, “Y-you already- are. Fuck! Already f-fuckin’ me so deep, Satoru.”

“Oh…” Sexily half-lidded eyes of his fall down to where his viscerally fat length was prying your swollen folds apart. In and out. Split-ended tip rummaging up your gooey insides until hot pearly beads of cum were just oozing out with each thrust. “Oh.”

Was he seriously so pussydrunk that he’d forgotten? That it was the only thing on his mind?

You’re not getting too far with your half-formed thoughts until a few slender fingers drift over to toy with your knobbled clit and make your eyes swirl cartoonishly. “H-how’s it feel to keep the strongest ngh- hostage like th-this. To know m’not gonna go aaaaanywhere until I’ve plugged up this pretty pussy?”

Your heart races with the implications that his bass steeps primally in, “P-plugged up?”

“Mhm.” As if to prove his point, the rounded curvature of his tightened balls come spanking down near the treacly ends of your cunt. Enough to render you speechless, he floats his sensory touch over where a spurt of white was jetstreaming out. “Until I fill you up so much I c-can’t even fit anymore.”

Your vision’s flashing pure white, “And h-how will you do that?”

Oh- you were so fucked.

And if it wasn’t the way the bed was shifting- floating, then it was the way that something in the air shimmers with power. Your clit twitching as a few tendrils of buzzing cursed energy reach up your body with a low bzzzzzz–!

Whirling your droopy head to see that his pretty eyes were aglow, skin crackling with minuscule blue lightning.

“Gonna…” Gojo cracks a toothy smile - breathy, crazed. Canines gleaming with carnal slobber, “-mold you to my cock forever.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - 6 rounds

Your boss, Higuruma, was mean - and he fucked even meaner.

Tangling a hand near the satin base of your tight, tight office skirt– one that he all but rips off entirely. A few scruffy tatters of it stuffed into your stupidly unfastened mouth, Higuruma takes one good look at you and takes you for hours on his very own desk.

The mahogany surfaces crackles underneath your clawing, a dopey smile splaying out across your face. Feeling the tattered glide of that condom that was ripping off, “Fuck- more, more– Hiromi.”

“Hiromi?” Higuruma’s grouchy baritone rings across your ears and makes your toes curl cutely, vibrations skittering right down to the dewy spot between your legs. And where it rained, it poured. Out with every rummaging pound being planted on your poor, dripping cunt. “Who the fuck is ‘Hiromi’, angel? Forgot m’your hck! boss after five rounds, huh? Guess m’just gonna hafta- hah- jog- that- memory back-”

And every rut had him stretching and stretching at your gluey walls until you saw white, the pointed probe of his pre-topped cockhead bludgeoning you so thoroughly.

Higuruma throws one of your jittery legs over his shoulders and slicks down a solid splash of viscous spittle, prying apart those glossily stained folds until they let off a ringing sluuurp–! “Ooo– look at you, say ‘thank you’.”

“Th-thank you…” A hefty spitball bubbles out of the edges of your pathetic maw, one that Higuruma wastes no time slouching over and licking away with the edges of his tongue himself.

“Mmm– always welcome, sugar.” The curvaceous fringe of his thumb comes slotting down between your slippery slit, pokin’ just inside to tug on your cozy ring of muscle. “Now how about we test that hah- streeeetch.” Digging right along the sleek flesh to let both his rigid length and his fingers pull you taut.

One of his frigidly cool rings snag on your flooded hole and make you whine– “Please- s’sooo much, Hiro- sir.”

“Now now- don’t whine, angel.” Higuruma’s bloating his cock up a few more mind-numbing millimeters in width, dilated pupils latches permanently on the way it makes your kiss-bitten lips fall into a cute oh! “You begged for this with this- damn skirt n’ that-”

A blazing bite on your lower lip, the corners of his mouth turns up into a leering snarl as your boss takes his languid time draaagging it away. “-this damn s-smile and-” Steady pace getting sloppy, achingly filthy. “-this fuckin’ pussy.”

Oh, your pussy was just yeowling with every ramming slam.

Soggy squelches that rang across all four walls and seeped through the paper-thin plaster of the office. Higuruma watches with a smile as you slap your hand over your mouth, “Now now, let ‘em hear-” Tracing a wet streak of buttery pre that sandwiches each of your sweet orifices, he’s targeting your adorable g-spot and striking it like a dartboard. “-how many rounds- how- how many times have I fucked you stupid, angel?”

“S-s…”

“Speak up.”

Fuck- he was so hot. With his clean-cut, billowing jacket haphazardly draping off, and the way that Higuruma’s hair was uncharacteristically unruly. Mussed-up strands plastering to the perspiration-stuck plane of his forehead, he looked crazed.

Hitting your pussy faster and faster, it was a slaughter fest. “Speak up speak up-”

“Six!” You’re squealing, gasping. Unsure of what came first - the drawling yelp of your whine or the way that you’re running headfirst into your high.

“Oh– filthy girl. Look how she’s ngh- throbbin’ f’me.”

So powerful that every peak of it flashes your vision with nothing but white, and you can only stare up ahead at Higuruma’s sinfully fucked-out expression while he bludgeoned your pussy raw. Lugging you through one peak, another peak, another, another-

Voice cracking with tears at the sheer overstimulation running through your body, “Hiromi- inside, please. Wan’ you inside-” Before you know it, your hand reaches down as if magnetized to caress the dark happy trail leading up to his base. “P-please?”

“Please…?”

“-w-with a hck! ch-cherry on top.”

And almost immediately, Higuruma grins. Depraved.

Pulling out with a spectacularly wet plop! he’s leaving you clenching around nothing for the briefest nanoseconds. Tearing off the mess of rubber that was once a condom - one that was way too small for his massive size.

Because Higuruma was so big that your thighs flinch at simply the idea of fitting all of him once more, mouth watering.

But that’s exactly what you do - in one, sloppy shuddering ram. All the way from his rounded, gummy-pink mushroom tip to the very hefty base. All those prominently veins snaking down your snug walls, vehemently. You’re feeling his hips shudder–

“Inside-” You echo, just about the only thing you can do right now. “-don’t miss. Don’t miss–”

“Think m’gonna miss?” One sappy smack on the awaiting slope of your pussy for you to get your lil’ act together, and another just for fun. “Just w-watch me–” His hissing growl makes you clench; dark brows furrowing, toned abdomen snapping, achy cockhead bursting. “-m’gonna fill her u-up until she fuuuck–! can’t take anymore.”

Your overfilling pussy feels like a slushy as the first few ribbons of cum strike your sloshing bottom. Practically feeling the swashing sensation of a goopy second layer cloaking your insides, and he doesn’t just orgasm once.

No- your dripping cunt is being fed with so many seconds and thirds and fourths. Gripping pussy swirlin’ around the glossy mess until it pinpoints every magical spot inside you.

“S-see?” Higuruma’s stern baritone wavers, unsteady. Stuttering. He’s smoothing over a few dumbstruck droplets of spittle that slip out of you, “There- your Hiromi doesn’t miss. There we go- are we happy now, hmmm–?”

And you can only nod and nod and nod, in awe of the oozing oodles of sappy liquid that stuck your thighs together. “Y-yes, Hiromi.”

“Mmm– call me your…husband?”

A/N. Mwahaha I sense ovulation is near…

Plagiarism not authorized.

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em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

Text

Lovers

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.

Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.

Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!

Word Count: 10,244

The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.

But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.

His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.

You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.

Because your dress was–

”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.

It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.

And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.

”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.

“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.

”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.

“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.

Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.

And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.

You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.

“She’s not even thinking about us.”

“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.

“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.

That hurt worse than anything.

He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.

“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.

And Bob–snapped.

His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.

Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.

He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.

“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.

”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.

”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.

“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”

“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.

“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.

”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.

”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.

You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.

”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.

”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.

“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.

“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.

Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.

”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.

”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.

”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.

“Bob?” You questioned.

”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”

“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.

”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.

”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.

”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.

”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.

”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.

”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.

Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”

Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”

You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”

Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”

You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.

Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.

The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.

You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.

Bob.

He looked like he was breaking open.

Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.

And then–Bob.

His head lifted, slowly.

And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.

The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.

Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.

The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.

It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.

Then you leaned even closer.

Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.

Then–your voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.

Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.

“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.

Only a nod.

His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.

You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.

He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.

You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.

The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.

The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.

It was dim inside.

Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.

The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.

You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.

“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.

It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.

That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.

“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”

Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.

“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.

“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.

“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.

“Bob…” You breathed.

“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.

“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.

Then suddenly, Bob moved.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.

And then he kissed you.

It was not sweet.

It was not soft.

It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.

He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.

You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.

It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.

“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”

You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.

“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.

His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.

Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

And then–he moaned.

Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.

His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.

Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.

”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.

“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”

You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.

“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.

“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.

You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”

He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“Oh my god, Bob–”

That shattered him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.

“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”

He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.

“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.

Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.

You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.

Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.

“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.

“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”

His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.

“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.

“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”

You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.

Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.

“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”

Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.

“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”

Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.

He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.

“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”

And with a soft, choked sob, you did.

You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.

Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.

“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.

Sentry, of course it was him.

You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–

He lifted them to his lips.

He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.

A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”

When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.

Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.

Both of them.

“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.

“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”

You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”

Your panties.

His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.

He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.

The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.

“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No hesitation.

No teasing this time.

Just devotion.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.

His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.

You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.

“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.

He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.

“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”

You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.

And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.

Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:

“Come for me again, goddess.”

And you did.

Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.

You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.

His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.

And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.

His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.

“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”

The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.

You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.

“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.

“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”

His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.

“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”

You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.

“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.

“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”

But he shook his head before you could finish.

One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.

“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.

“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.

“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”

He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.

“…Who you belong to now.”

The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.

You could barely breathe.

He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.

The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.

Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”

And then–slowly–he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.

“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes.

The constant battle.

Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.

“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”

He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.

“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”

Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.

Your legs wrapped around his hips.

Your hands held his face like prayer.

And his thrusts grew stronger.

Still aching.

But with that edge.

That divine, desperate edge.

The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.

“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”

You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the light in the room began to flicker.

As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.

In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.

His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.

You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.

And then his mouth found yours again.

You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.

Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.

“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”

And that broke something in him.

His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.

You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.

“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”

You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.

“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”

His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.

And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”

You clung to him. Kissed him.

And you shattered.

Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And that’s when he followed.

His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.

You stayed like that.

Locked together.

Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.

”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.

You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.

“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”

Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”

Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”

Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.

“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.

“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”

You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.

Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”

You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”

Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”

Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”

Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.

“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”

You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”

Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.

The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.

You watched him.

Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.

And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.

Your chest swelled.

The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.

You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.

You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.

When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.

“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.

“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.

And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.

3K notes · View notes

geminiwritten · 12 days ago

Text

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captain,” you reply, nodding.

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

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

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She quick?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.”

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

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans.

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it.

God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years.

“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?”

You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?”

Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.”

You roll your eyes.

“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side.

“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.”

“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?”

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.”

He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.”

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles.

You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning.

You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.”

He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin.

“The usual?” she asks.

You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.”

She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead.

“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.”

You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity.

“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?”

His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.”

You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash.

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred.

“Does it matter?”

He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.”

You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks.

“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar.

You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.”

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger.

“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.”

Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move.

“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?”

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.”

As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much.

“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table.

“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks.

Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out.

“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown.

You glance at him. “Do what?”

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.”

“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.”

You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.”

There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?”

You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.”

Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought.

You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?”

“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.”

You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—”

“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.”

A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?”

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.”

You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?”

You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.”

Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Tall, pretty, a little cocky.”

You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?”

He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game.

“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?”

He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.”

You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.”

You scoff. “Yeah, right.”

“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.”

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.”

Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley.

“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.”

Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you.

He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.”

Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep.

“Mind if I play next?”

Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his.

“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.”

The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha.

Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat.

By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob.

You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy.

Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee.

“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row.

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.”

“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him.

You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?”

He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.”

Your mouth drops open.

Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.”

Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks.

Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.”

“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown.

Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show.

“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley.

Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later.

You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants.

It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second.

“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.”

Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes.

“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.”

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.”

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal.

“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no.

Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word.

You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.”

You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface.

“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.”

You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op.

“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.”

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.”

“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance.

Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory.

You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?”

“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?”

Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.”

The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat.

“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.”

The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

All from a look.

God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better.

By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO.

After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them.

Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little.

“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers.

He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.”

You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.”

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.”

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.”

“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder.

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming.

“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.”

He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.”

Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours.

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks.

When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are.

“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?”

“Pizza?”

You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind.

Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...”

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?”

You stop walking. “With who?”

He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.”

Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.”

“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—”

“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?”

He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—”

“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.”

He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?”

You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.

“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.”

There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.”

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word.

Good.

It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you.

Good?

Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with.

Good.

Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that.

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

A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob.

BOB FLOYD

📎 [Image attachment]

‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’

And there he fucking is.

Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband.

Holy fuck.

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe.

His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo.

He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture.

It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve.

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with?

You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and—

Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on.

You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo.

With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’

“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone.

A little notification pops up beneath your message.

Read. Immediately.

“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?”

You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute.

Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help.

But first…

You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids.

Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers.

The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all.

But you can’t stop thinking about it.

You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time.

And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again.

Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak.

Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week.

“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?”

You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus.

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat.

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch.

“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?”

“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.”

Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing.

“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.”

Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.”

“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.”

Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset.

“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.”

“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.”

“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.”

Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.”

Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim.

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.”

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly.

“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply.

“Did I beat Hangman?”

You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.”

You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?”

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.”

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate.

“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.”

Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.”

“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming.

“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.”

“So… a baby sim?”

“Basically. You’ll be fine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant.

You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.”

“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.”

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.”

He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp.

From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.”

“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.”

You snort. “You are a danger to national security.”

“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth.

“I’m coming in,” you mutter.

You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him.

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.”

“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” he says, grinning now.

You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out.

He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?”

“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.”

He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?”

“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.”

Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?”

You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.”

He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?”

“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.”

The sim bucks suddenly.

“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale.

You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.”

But it’s too late.

The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude!

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…”

“You eject,” you say dryly.

“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?”

You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.”

With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.”

Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?”

You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.”

He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary.

“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.”

A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.

“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him.

His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.”

You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.”

He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls.

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?”

“Confirming sim reset. You’re good to go,” he replies.

“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?”

He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him.

“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.”

He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip.

“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.”

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless.

“Now keep her steady.”

“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.”

You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.”

He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?”

“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.”

He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway.

You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.”

Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.”

“You know, not what Fanboy did.”

He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line.

“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.”

His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.”

You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller.

You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides.

If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now.

“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.”

You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.”

“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later.

You grin. “Nice shot.”

He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?”

“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.”

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back.

“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused.

It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing.

Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.

“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone.

“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.”

He does so without hesitation.

Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing.

“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.”

Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.”

Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster.

“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered.

You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.”

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing.

“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.”

He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.”

“You sure?”

He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him.

The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.”

He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still.

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE.

You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.”

Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?”

“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.”

He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and—

He falls forward.

You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down.

“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide.

He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours.

“Are you okay? Your head—”

Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist.

“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.”

He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek.

“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.”

Your laughter fades, breath catching.

There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance.

And then—

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang.

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

Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you.

Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op.

“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!”

Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob?

Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight.

After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report.

“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door.

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.”

“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.”

You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.”

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers.

Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot.

If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours.

You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out.

The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace.

But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name.

“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?”

“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—”

“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts.

You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it.

“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.”

“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.”

“Shame. Still hot though, right?”

“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable.

“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.”

There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat.

“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.”

“What, you’re not into her?”

“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything.

“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—”

Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat.

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.”

That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs.

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you.

“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—”

You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore.

Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home.

Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out.

His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage?

Fuck. That.

Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing.

Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something.

The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t.

You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it.

That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie.

You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship.

You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it.

Because it was Bob.

Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself.

Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart.

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd.

Fuck that guy.

By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice.

The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat.

So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other.

From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend.

“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him.

You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room.

“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.”

There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares.

Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once.

And you don’t look at him at all.

After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room.

Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until—

“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat.

You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.”

“That thing work?” he asks.

“What thing?”

“Your phone.”

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.”

Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard.

“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.”

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer.

You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.”

“What’d you watch?”

“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking.

And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies?

“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense.

Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral.

“Do you need something?”

He frowns. “What do you—”

“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.”

You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?”

You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.”

“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.”

You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?”

There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft.

You nod once. “Yep.”

Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook.

Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy.

You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick:

‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’

Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller.

With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting.

“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move.

Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you.

You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face.

“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.”

“Copy,” Mickey replies.

“Copy,” Bob mutters.

You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth.

“Hangman, you ready?”

“When you are, boss.”

You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.”

Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful.

But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in.

“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease.

“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.”

“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.”

“Copy that. Repositioning.”

A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.”

“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.”

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.”

You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.”

He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant.

After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction.

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn.

“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.”

Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.”

Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable.

“Pilot ready?” you ask.

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.”

You nod. “Run it.”

The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence.

You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long.

He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost.

But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean.

Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter.

“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—”

“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.”

There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher.

“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen.

Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre.

But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow.

You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it.

But he knows something’s wrong.

- Bob -

After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off.

Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend.

“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group.

“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.”

Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?”

“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.”

“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.”

“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes.

“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk.

“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path.

“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!”

The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number.

“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.”

One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts.

“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.”

Bob glances up. “Hm?”

“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, I just—”

“Is this about Lucky?”

His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill.

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?”

Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?”

“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.”

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters.

“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.”

Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.”

“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.”

Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide.

She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing.

“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.”

He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid.

He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible.

You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you.

He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone.

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly.

Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him.

“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn.

Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.”

She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.”

“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots.

She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices.

“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat.

Bob frowns. “Where?”

“Hangman’s birthday.”

Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene.

“I don’t know, it—”

“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.”

Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.”

“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.”

After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press.

Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips.

God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base.

Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what.

His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more.

“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?”

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire.

Cute? You called him cute.

He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?!

He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you.

Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones.

Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach.

Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game.

He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses.

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’

‘She only uses Morse code.’

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’

When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband.

But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely.

And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it.

If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing.

The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap.

He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you’re all talking about Jake’s birthday party.

When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat.

It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading.

And then... there’s you.

It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options.

So you did.

The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin.

Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long.

The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him.

He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment.

The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos?

The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk.

“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions.

This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve.

He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years.

With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him.

Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts.

He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction.

He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it.

His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe.

His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer.

He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight.

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate.

God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop.

He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And—

His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache.

“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering.

He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more.

Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch.

The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline.

Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh.

Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants.

- You -

You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t.

Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes.

Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him

You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it.

But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours.

Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you.

And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure.

Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out.

Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage?

He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really.

You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter?

“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?”

The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying.

The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later.

“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.”

You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should.

“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her.

“All for you, baby.”

She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?”

“Show me the way.”

You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance.

“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”

There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head.

“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.”

Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?”

She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.”

“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.”

“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice.

You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked.

“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.”

The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point.

Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild.

“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.”

There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up.

A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball.

“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot.

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!”

You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces.

Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed.

You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him.

You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling.

Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress?

You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart.

After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop.

And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor.

You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands.

The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower?

The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over.

You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club.

You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen.

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea.

You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and—

Bob.

He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring.

He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in.

And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench.

Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you.

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide.

He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing.

It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out.

Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him.

“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!”

Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin.

“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—”

“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.”

Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.”

You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way.

Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin.

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea.

After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone’s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob.

He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake.

And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral.

His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob.

So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots.

You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music.

“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!”

Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night.

Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school.

Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive.

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all.

“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand.

They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around.

He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why.

“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.”

“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?”

Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you.

“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.”

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady.

“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.”

Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.”

Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham.

Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt.

After all, he’s the one who called you reckless.

“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.”

Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes.

Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm.

You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego.

You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob.

The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down.

The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all.

But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor.

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline.

Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly.

The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong.

You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips.

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him.

Bob.

He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit.

Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes?

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving.

There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room.

And you feel it.

The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in.

So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all.

But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you.

When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved.

The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away.

You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares.

Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you.

So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer.

You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting.

Then he’s there. Beside you.

He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go.

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls.

Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you.

He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?”

“What’s your problem?” you bite back.

“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?”

“Doing what?” you demand.

“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—”

“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?”

He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut.

You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know.

He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care.

And that’s the most confusing part.

“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging.

“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.”

He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—”

“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.”

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—”

“Then why would you say it?”

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?”

You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?”

“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.”

You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?”

“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.”

Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.

“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.”

His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache.

He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech.

God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music.

Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot.

“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady.

He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling.

“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward.

The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in.

Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor—like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more.

You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you.

“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.”

His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?”

“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.”

He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“You love me?”

“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.”

You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate.

One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast.

You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in.

The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs.

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time.

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry.

“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want.

His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore.

“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck.

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle.

“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk.

He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze.

“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw.

His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning.

“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.”

You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.”

That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second.

Then he’s on you. Everywhere.

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself.

He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple.

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue.

His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—”

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine.

“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?”

You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them.

He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you.

“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.”

He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting.

Then he grinds against you.

His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct.

“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked.

“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.”

His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you.

His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural.

“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control.

Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers.

“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together.

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.”

His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity.

His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one.

You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm.

He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.”

You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.”

That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again.

“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.”

He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward.

Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him.

You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him.

“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. ��You feel—fuck. So good. So good.”

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone.

His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast.

He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper.

“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.”

Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly.

“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky.

He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years.

His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go.

You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time.

He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering.

“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.”

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob.

The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years.

“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you.

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes.

Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin.

His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls.

He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known.

“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you.

Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone.

It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache.

You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast.

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else.

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.”

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.”

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again.

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then—

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried.

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches.

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask.

“Bob…”

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.”

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis.

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.”

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be.

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too.

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.”

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?”

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his.

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need.

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant.

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking.

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.”

You’re just about to kiss him again when—

Bang, bang, bang.

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?”

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.”

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock.

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist.

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?”

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?”

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.”

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all.

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.”

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor.

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing.

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?”

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.”

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist.

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.”

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?”

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass.

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?”

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?”

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.”

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red.

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted.

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away.

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

2K notes · View notes

ordinary-barbie · 2 months ago

Text

warm enough for you outside, baby (tell me if it's warm enough here for you)

summary: Rafe is sick of watching you hopelessly pine for another guy, so he decides to take matters into his own hands.

word count: 2.2k

tags: mean!rafe, rafe is lowkey jealous, unrequited love, enemies (sort of) to lovers, pet names (princess, baby, sweetheart), au where jj is a kook, jj x kiara mentions, everyone is about 21 here, unprotected p in v, oral (fem receiving), fingering, mention of reader having periods, insecure!reader, creampie

note: title comes from Drew Barrymore by SZA!

Smut incoming under the cut—18+ only! Minors DNI!

You honestly made Rafe sick.

Every party, it was the same shit: you'd follow Jackson Genrette like a puppy, lapping up any crumbs of attention he gave you. Rafe thought things would be different once JJ started dating Kiara Carrera, but somehow, you got even worse. You'd show up to parties with friends but send him longing looks the entire time, as if Genrette could read your mind and run into your arms.

Rafe clenched his jaw as he watched you watching JJ and Kiara. The two of them were cuddled on the couch, Kiara's head thrown back in laughter as JJ whispered something into her ear. Did you seriously not see how pathetic it was to pine over someone interested in somebody else?

Rafe got up, ignoring the eager looks other Kook girls were sending him, and sidled up to you. You had absconded to an abandoned living room corner, gripping a cup of punch in your hand as you stared longingly at your crush and his girlfriend.

"You know he's never gonna look at you like that, right?" Rafe blurted, startling you. You turned to Rafe, frowning.

"You don't know what you're talking about," you muttered, trying to keep your composure.

Rafe snorted. "Princess, come on. You've been giving him the same 'fuck me' puppy dog eyes since high school. Just face it—he's not into you."

You huffed, scowling at Rafe. "You're such an asshole."

"So I've been told," Rafe replied, smirking at you.

"I honestly don't know why I can't get over him," you admitted, your lip wobbling. "He's just so...nice. And funny. It hurts that he only sees me as a friend."

Rafe couldn't help but feel a little bad for you, but a bigger part of him was so done with the moping over fucking Genrette of all people. Not like he was doing the same towards you, yearning from afar. That was totally different, obviously.

"Well, you know what they say—the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else," Rafe casually replied, his grin turning downright lecherous. You gulped, that smile sending a bolt of lightning straight to your core.

You rolled your eyes. "What are you even talking about, Cameron?"

Rafe chuckled. "I mean, why waste your time simping over Genrette when you have other options?"

You froze, not knowing what to say. Was Rafe Cameron, of all people, offering to hook up with you?

"If this is some weird pity fuck, you can forget it," you snapped. "I don't need you feeling sorry for me."

Rafe's smile grew lopsided. "Is it really that unbelievable that I would want to hook up with you, princess?"

You shrugged, fixing Rafe with a deadpan stare. "A little bit, yeah."

Rafe tsked at you, shaking his head. "You've been spending so much time making goo-goo eyes at him that you can't even see what's right in front of you, huh?"

He moved closer to you, brushing his lips against your ear. "Let me make you feel good," he murmured.

Your heart was racing. You got a whiff of his scent—an earthy, musky scent that made you want to bury your head in the side of his neck and inhale. You thought Rafe was cute—he may be a bit of a prick, but you had eyes, after all—but never would've imagined talking to him, let alone being with him in that way.

Fuck it. The boy you'd been crushing on since ninth grade would never return your affections, and at least Rafe was showing you some interest. You quickly downed your punch, letting the red solo cup drop to the ground with a thud.

"Make me feel good then," you said breathily, staring deeply into Rafe's eyes.

Rafe let out a low groan. "You're fuckin' killing me, sweetheart," he mumbled, before grabbing your hand and quickly leading you up the stairs of whatever Kook's house this was.

Rafe found a random room and kicked the door open before quickly locking it behind you. You wanted to look at the decor, but Rafe's lips were on yours before you could scope out the place. You supposed it didn't matter anyway, since Rafe would have you buried into the mattress soon enough.

You looped your arms around Rafe's neck, timidly kissing him back. You hadn't had much kissing experience besides the odd game of Truth or Dare or Seven Minutes in Heaven at a party, so you were a tad nervous. But then Rafe lightly bit your lip, enjoying your soft moan before sliding his tongue inside, and you found yourself passionately kissing him back.

"Take this off. Now," Rafe commanded, tugging at the hem of your blue sundress. You readily obliged, stripping down to just your underwear.

Rafe looked at you hungrily, eyeing your chest. "Fuckin perfect," he rasped. "Can't believe you've been hiding these tits from me."

He easily picked you up and threw you on the bed, shedding himself of his clothes save for his Calvin Klein boxers. Rafe climbed on top of you, burying his face in your chest and nipping at your breasts. You whimpered, which seemed to spur him on more as he soothed the bites with kisses.

He continued leaving a trail of kisses down your body until he reached your thighs. "Open up for me, princess," he murmured, running his fingers down your legs.

You tried to protest. "Rafe, I haven't shaved—"

"I don't give a shit. Lemme eat you out," Rafe demanded, his pupils blown out with lust.

You complied, spreading your legs open for Rafe. He pushed your panties to the side easily settled into his new position between your thighs, diving into your cunt like a starved man. He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking it with a fervor that made you loudly gasp, bucking your hips.

"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart—you taste too fuckin good," Rafe mumbled, pinning your hips down with both hands. He flattened his tongue, lapping at your folds before lazily licking your clit. You whined, feeling a white-hot pressure down in your gut.

You felt Rafe's smirk against your inner thighs. "Gonna cum for me already?"

"Uh huh," you mumbled, too caught up in your pleasure to form a coherent response.

Rafe slid one of his hands down to your clit, pressing down on it and rubbing circles on it with your thumb. You moaned, arching your back off the bed and clenching your thighs around Rafe's head as you came undone for him.

Rafe removed himself from your cunt and sat back, licking his lips. "Goddamn, baby. Genrette is a fucking moron to miss out on this."

You looked up at Rafe, your eyes instantly drawn to the straining erection in his black briefs. "See something you like?" he asked cockily.

Your cheeks grew warm. "I mean—I guess so," you bashfully replied

Rafe chuckled lowly. "You're so shy, princess. It's adorable."

You rolled your eyes. "Just—are you gonna fuck me or what?" you grumbled, your core throbbing with pent-up frustration.

Rafe's grin was devilish. "All you had to do was ask, baby."

He tossed his briefs to the side, revealing his thick, throbbing cock, its tip flushed an angry red. Your mouth went dry as you gaped at Rafe, just in awe of how a dick could be so...pretty.

"Fuck, I gotta see where Chase keeps the condoms," Rafe said, dragging a hand over his face.

"No need—I'm on the pill," you said, smiling shyly.

"Oh shit, are you actually getting some? Maybe you're more of a freak than I thought," Rafe teased, his dick twitching at your confession.

"It's to help regulate my periods, you perv," you said sharply. "Unfortunately, I'm still a sad little virgin."

Rafe's cheeks turned pink. "'m sorry, I didn't mean to come off like an asshole," he mumbled, sounding contrite.

"I just always imagined he'd be my first. That's pathetic, I know," you admitted, laughing bitterly. "When we were, like, fifteen, he and I made this dumb pact that if we were both still virgins by the time we graduated, then we'd sleep together. Obviously, that didn't happen."

Rafe's jaw ticked. He'd never been Genrette’s biggest fan, but you'd given him even more reasons to dislike the guy. You were sweet and sarcastic and beautiful—how could he not see this? How could he casually offer to take your virginity, not realizing that you'd given your entire heart to him?

"Gonna fuck you so good, you forget his name," Rafe growled, pushing himself inside of you. You moaned, enjoying the feeling of his cock inside you, stretching you out.

Rafe began thrusting into you, brushing up against your clit with his tip and setting every nerve in your body alight. "Fuck, Rafe—feels so good," you gasped.

Rafe lifted up one of your legs and put it atop his shoulder, allowing himself to plow even deeper into you. You mewled, feeling his tip all the way in your cervix. Your body tingled, legs trembling, and you came apart for Rafe again, creaming all over his cock.

Rafe pulled out, panting, his eyes fiery with desire. "Turn around for me and show me that ass," he ordered. You rolled over on your stomach and he hummed appreciatively, smacking your butt. "Fuck. You're like a work of art."

Your cheeks grew warm again; you were still unused to being desired like this. In the past, JJ had told you you looked nice, and you'd held on to those casual comments like they were love letters. But Rafe? He gazed at you as if you were Aphrodite, ready and willing to worship at the goddess's altar. You knew you didn't need a guy's validation, but damn if Rafe didn't make you feel beautiful right now.

Rafe slid back into you, fucking you faster, and grunted when your pussy tightened around him. "You're so fuckin tight and wet for me, princess. i love this sweet little pussy."

Rafe gripped your hips, his cock throbbing inside of you. "Gonna cum," he warned. "You ready for me to fill you up, baby?"

You clenched around him again, and Rafe chuckled. "Oh, you like that, yeah? Such a good girl for me."

Rafe let out another grunt as he released inside of you, ropes of his hot cum filling your pussy. Rafe pulled out slowly, admiring the way his creampie was leaking out of you.

You and Rafe lay next to each other, your chests heaving as you recovered. "Hey—thanks," you shyly said to him.

"For what?" Rafe asked, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you to his chest.

"For the sex, of course," you joked, causing Rafe to snort. "But also for breaking that spell over me. I wasted so much time pining over someone who never saw me as more than someone to play Mario Kart with."

Rafe kissed your collarbone. "He's an idiot," he mumbled. "But I'm actually glad. Because it meant I finally got to do this."

You laughed, beaming at Rafe. "Rafe Cameron. Do you have a crush on me?"

Rafe lifted his head up, his ears flushing bright red. "Shut up. Maybe I do, alright? It's not a big deal."

You looked at Rafe fondly. "You're kinda cute. I guess I'll keep you around."

Rafe lazily smirked at you. "I'm all yours, baby."

You got up to clean yourself, but Rafe grabbed you by the waist. "Where d'ya think you're going, huh?"

"Gonna clean off all this cum, thanks to you," you quipped.

Rafe’s mouth curled into a smug grin. “Nah, put on your panties and keep it inside of you for the rest of the night. Want you to remember who you belong to.”

You shivered, weirdly loving his possessiveness right now. You got off the bed and pulled your underwear back on, moaning a little at his sticky cum in your panties. The thought of walking around all night, still stuffed with his load, made your pussy throb.

“Now, cmon,” Rafe said, jumping to his feet and putting his clothes back on. “Get dressed—there’s a whole party out there we’re missing.”

#rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfiction #tiff writes ✏️

2K notes · View notes

neoplatinum · 2 months ago

Text

save a horse, ride a cowgirl | sophia laforteza

synopsis: the wife you never wanted to see again has re-appeared like a phantom, with nothing else but "let's get a divorce". you have more than a couple words to say to that effect.

pairing: (ex-ish) wife!sophia x cowgirl!reader

tags: angst, slow-burn, fluff, smut, g!p reader (don't like, don't read), tension, marriage troubles, guns (no one dies!), cheating but also not really cheating, slight religious themes, cowboys/cowgirls, a-list-celebrity!sophia, more...

wc: 14.5k

"you'll probably leave later, anyway it's love made in the usa"

(part 2)

it was on a tuesday.

up by 5am, ready to get the daily chores moving. bold strides across your bedroom, feeling the hardwood creak under your feet as you cross into the bathroom. you give yourself a once over as you brush your teeth. the soreness from your daily activities wears into your body.

loose hair falling over your brows as you wash your face. the water trickling through your hands, and a little wax to keep your hair back.

afterwards, you’re whistling to yourself, light tunes that keep you in motion as you slide on the long thick denim pants, holster on the right side, and boots that have worn in over the years.

your favorite black leather pair.

there’s nothing more serene than being in the quiet, the soft sounds of animals, and the wind blowing at the windchimes.

and soon you’re out the door, chewing on a stick. taking a long view of the most gorgeous yellows and oranges peering just over the horizon, lifting slowly into the sky.

signaling yet another day on this planet.

and with the click of the heel you’re headed down to the barn. stride in pace with the snapping of your fingers.

you can already see charlie in the distance, curled up next to the barn. soft breathing as his ears twitch.

you let out a whistle as you approach. and charlie has shot up like a lightning bolt. eyes alert and ears forward. the cattle dog making a mad dash for you when he spots you in the distance.

he halts to a quick stop and sits in front of you, panting loudly.

“good boy, let’s get our day started.” you give him some pets as you continue to travel down the graveled path. he lets out a loud bark and runs for the chicken coop.

the chickens are clucking loudly, already rounding towards the fence.

they know the drill, the sight of you in the early morning means feeding, and they’re happily clucking.

you unlatch the small door to the coop, reaching inside for a couple of eggs, and dropping them into a basket. you quietly fill the buckets of chicken feed, checking the troughs thoroughly and then closing the gate behind you, the basket full of eggs bouncing against your leg as you leave it on a crate.

you’re rounding the back to fill their pots with fresh water when you hear charlie.

your head perks up and you stride towards the sound. it's the loud kind of bark that hits you in the chest. sound rattling your body as he growls at something in the distance.

your eyes following a dust trail that reveals a big car. one that’s unfamiliar, and one that definitely does not belong on these paths.

the dust from the ground is forming a cloud. shielding it until it comes to a stop by the entrance of your ranch.

a big shiny grey suburban parks right out front.

“this can’t be any good, charlie.” you’re walking towards the car, listening to the heels click as you try and look into the car.

it’s tinted and the dust cloud is settling.

you get close enough before you shout.

“good morning, anything i can help you with?” there’s no movement. and you’re tempted to kick one of the headlights out.

“this is private property, if you have no business here, then leave.” you shout again, hand clutching your belt buckle.

charlie’s eyes are wide and he’s drooling, ready to attack at a moment’s call. he continues to bark until you pet him, and he stills. unlike him, you continue to tap your feet until you notice a movement.

one of the side doors opens, a tall man fitted in a black suit starts to approach you. sunglasses pressed up the bridge of his nose and without a smile to match.

“hello sir, are you lost?” you ask, and he’s got something in his hand. a manila folder that he hands to you, no further words.

you look at him a little puzzled, grabbing the folder and opening to the sight of:

STATE OF NEW MEXICO

DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE WITHOUT CHILDREN.

and right there at the bottom of the page is that signature, the same one that you were smiling at years ago when you were getting married.

sophia laforteza wants a divorce.

you continue to stare at the papers, eyes already a bit blurry, the resounding thumping of your heart hitting your ears and all you can hear is the panic that ensues in your own body. it’s getting harder to breathe calmly.

you’re feeling the pressure hit your head, until you let out a shaky breath.

then you rip it to shreds, all of it. all the mentions of a divorce, you tear it right in his face. pieces of paper flying all over the ground. either for him or for yourself: the reminder that sophia signed this doesn’t exist anymore.

he doesn’t make any movements, face as stoic as he came.

“don’t ever come by here again.” you say slowly at him. he doesn’t move or respond.

“did you hear me? or are you deaf?”

he’s quick to draw a gun, but not as quick as you, the barrel already aimed at him, trigger cocked back. and he’s aiming you down with his handgun.

“i’ll slam this bullet right in your family jewels if you don’t leave right now.”

you poke it at his liver, and lower it slowly at his groin. he doesn’t flinch. and now you’re staring into sunglasses that stare back into you. the sun’s shining into your eye, but you keep your hand steady. not missing the way a bead of sweat drips down his forehead.

you’re both standing off from each other, and a door opens from behind him. you peek over his shoulder and wait for someone to show themself. he barely moves an inch and you’re already ready to blow him away.

he tucks his gun away.

returning to the side of the car and lending a hand as someone gets out of the car.

your gun is still aimed at him.

and out she steps.

you swear to yourself that you must be sick, some parasite must have infected your brain functionality, infected your vision, infected the way your eyes are seeing the world.

you blink a couple times, swear that the sun is hitting the figure and refracting the light in such a way that what you see before you cannot be true.

because in the flesh, your not-so-dead-ex-wife sophia is looking at you.

“can you put the gun down? we need to talk.” she sighs.

you let out an long breath, lowering the gun back into your holster.

so much for a relaxing tuesday.

in front of you is a woman you’re too familiar but not familiar enough with. she’s sitting in the home you two built but she doesn’t belong.

she looks even more gorgeous than you remembered. well tamed hair, heavy makeup and a bold lipstick to match. her red bottom heels sticking into the floorboards and earrings that dance in the sunlight.

she doesn’t fit here, at least not anymore. her clothes are too clean, her posture is too straight and you reckon she feels the same way.

“i’m sorry for showing up randomly, but i want a divorce.” she speaks to you gently.

and it’s like listening to a ghost.

one that you’ve already mourned, but here she is in all her glory. bone, flesh and talking to you.

you think about how there’s an empty casket right behind the laforteza’s backyard. how you had to comfort mrs. laforteza for months, her weeping into your arms. the tears are still staining your shirt and your heart.

you remember the long nights with mr. laforteza. working with the county police and even going to the state to locate the very woman in front of you. you remembered the way his eyes went hollow after days of no updates. the way he begged you to bring his daughter back home.

you felt like you failed. you were supposed to protect her, keep her safe. you swore at their feet that the only priority in your life was her, that you married her to help her blossom.

and then she disappeared. like an echo into the night, she disappeared into nothingness. you searched for her day and night. you practically galloped the whole city, searching high and low for her. no one else knew anything either. you talked to every town person, telling them to notify you if there was any news.

you lost sleep, weight, and hope in the process. everyday that she didn’t return, you could feel yourself getting restless. the bags under your eyes grew bigger, your shirts draped over you, you barely could stomach a meal. townspeople would give you pats on the shoulder with that look in their eyes.

so before you is the very woman that you had long held in your heart, not one you were ready to see again, live in the flesh.

you especially remember how you laid down her favorite boots in the casket. headstone in big bold letters “SOPHIA LAFORTEZA”.

“fia, i thought you were dead.” you don’t even lift your head up as you utter the words. your finger fidgeting with others, picking at the nails.

the slow drip of the faucet is the loudest sound in the house. you’re left speechless again.

how is she so pretty?

why does she want a divorce?

why does she not look like fia?

where does she live now?

how is she?

“i’m sorry.” she can’t meet your eyes now, hands clasped together.

she looks harder around the edges.

“i wanted to tell you, but i needed to do this for myself.”

she brushes her hair back, revealing dazzling earrings that are worth more than your ranch.

you’re just begging to reach out, to touch her. to feel her, you can’t even be sure that she exists. your hand nearly reaches out before you grab it with your other hand. you still yourself once more.

“do what?” you ask softly, you’re scared that if you even speak too loud that she’ll vanish, just like she did that night.

“i needed to leave, i needed to chase after my dreams.” she speaks just as gently as you, worried that you’ll be set off. she knows how vulnerable she left you, she might have been better off dead considering how you’re reacting.

“i found hollywood.”

hollywood?

you remember those nights, where sophia would explain to you how she wanted to be an actress, to be under those bright lights, and shine brighter than the stars in the sky.

you recount how she’d often re-enact lines from the movies that you two watched, how she sang to the cows as she worked, and how her eyes sparkled whenever you allowed her one-woman dialogues at the dinner table.

“so what now? you’re a big star actress?” the heat’s starting to build up, the more you listen to this story, the rage is slowly building.

“you could say that, yes i am.” she watches the way you’re rapidly tapping your foot, tucking hairs under your hat like a childish habit.

she’s half tempted to reach out as well, to flip down the collar of your shirt.

the faucet continues to drip.

“why didn’t you tell me?” you were scared of asking this the most, to know that she might not trust you enough to tell you how she wanted to explore her dreams.

in the dead of the night, when you had too much whiskey to remember your name, you would sit on your porch, eyes wandering the moon as you asked into the air all the questions that lived within your head. brimming over with anger or sadness. the biggest question you had was “why?”

“this ranch, the lifestyle that we grew up with, i wanted more. you were always so happy about growing this ranch, and i couldn’t take you away from this life. but i also had to chase my dreams.” she explains slowly.

and you always suspected that she was still alive.

maybe it was a coping mechanism, but you once knew sophia laforteza inside and out.

but it hurts.

it hurts to hear that she considered your side and still left without another word. it hurts in a way that destroys the core of who you are as a person.

“fia, you could’ve talked to me, we’re married for God’s sake!” your eyes are darting around, and you’re out of your seat. it’s not typical of you, but you can’t make sense of anything anymore.

she stares at you with all the sadness that she’s pushed down. the idea that she left behind her spouse. who she swore to their family and under God that she would be there until her last breath.

she can feel the tears starting to well up, it’s all too much, to return to this place that she’s unsure of. unsure where her place is anymore, and it hurts more knowing she’s the reason.

“i thought you were dead!” you seethe. your eyes are angry, eyebrows dropped low, and an accusatory finger aimed straight at her. “we all thought you were dead!”

she’s trying not to let the tears come out, her lips are trembling and so are her hands.

“i fucking mourned you. laforteza.” your tears are still flowing down your face, but you’ve hardly blinked at all. eyes like glacier: chilly and icy.

“do you know that? do you know how hard it was holding your mom in my arms? she was begging me to bring her daughter back. do you fucking know that?”

she stands up suddenly, chair hitting the floor.

the words continue rolling out of your mouth without missing a beat.

“i had to lower an empty casket. in your name, fia! and you come back from the dead. asking me for a damn divorce.” you stride close to her, with every punctuation of word, she steps backwards. until her back hits the kitchen counters.

“forgive me, God. but you. can. go. to. hell.” you push your finger into her chest.

and with that you leave. quick steps bounding for the door, slamming the door wide open.

and running towards the stable. charlie’s quick on your tail. he looks back at sophia once, then turns to chase after you. the tears are sliding off your cheeks, angry tears that stain your skin, reminding you just how much she can still affect you.

in five breaths, you’re riding your house out the ranch, disappearing into nowhere.

you don’t even know how long you’ve been riding buckeye. just the feeling of hoofs clacking against the road, and charlie panting beside you.

you remember crying into your shirt, all but a snotty mess. you’ve barely processed sophia’s death, and now she’s come back to life. treating you like you’re a pair of car keys that she left behind, not worthy enough to peer into her soul.

you remember screaming into the night, screaming how much you hated her. hated the way your heart still beat for her. as if she didn’t crush yours, as if you meant anything to her.

you remember the way she still gently walked over that part of the floorboards, the soft spot in the corner of the floor. the way she sat in her seat, the very same one you made for her as a gift.

you’re slow to return to the ranch, buckeye’s slow clopping on the ground still present.

knowing sophia, she probably left. she knows better to try and talk to you now. even after you’ve cooled off, you’ve always taken longer to come to terms of talking through things.

so you slide off buckeye’s saddle and give him some extra carrots for the sudden ride. he’s nudging into you, as if he senses the sadness that emanates from your body.

“i’m okay buckeye, thank you for today.” you give him some more scratches and lock him in his stable.

returning to the house with charlie at your side, he’s whining a bit as he walks against your leg. you give him some scratches too, leaning into your hand with quick tail swishes.

he’s sniffing around the house, nose leading him into the house, and he waits patiently at the door. it’s closed. you slowly turn the doorknob, hoping that sophia’s gone.

you don’t know what you would say to her now. the last thing you need after the exhaustion is to try and bring up discussing the divorce again.

and she’s gone, almost like she never even showed up.

except she leaves a note, a short message.

i’ll be back tomorrow. please, let’s talk this out.

-love, sophia

underneath there’s a bowl of your favorite meal, saran wrapped and steam hitting the surface. the same one she would make for you. and you sink into the chair. eyes are getting blurry again as you nearly crumple the sticky note.

so you didn’t imagine her. she was here.

the conversation was real, and she wants a divorce.

you slowly dig into the bowl of food in front of you, and it’s like you’re twenty again. coming back from a long day of work, exhaustion set into your bones. but enough to crack a smile for sophia. as she would hand you a bowl of your favorite meal. dropping into the chair as you two recounted your day, happily scraping the bowl until mere lines of gravy were left. you remember the way her hair would be tied back, strands falling to frame her gorgeous face. kissing her in between bites when she was rambling.

do you even remember the taste of her lips?

you cry into your bowl, tears streaming into your food as you ate it, a reminder of who she once was for you. you smile as the tears fall, savoring the way it still lit up your tastebuds.

you would destroy your body for years if it meant being able to eat this dish until your last breath.

you set the bowl into the sink, letting the faucet slowly drip into the bowl. washing away the reminder of her presence. letting only the soft glow of the moonlight illuminate the kitchen, as every second goes by and more droplets fill the bowl, you let out a final breath and trudge upstairs to fall into your bed.

tomorrow you would take care of everything, but tonight you let yourself be haunted by shiny brown eyes that have kept your soul captive for as long as you lived.

on the other side of town, sophia’s finally calmed herself from the explosive interaction that was meeting you after years of disappearing.

she knew what she did was wrong, but her fuel to become a star was greater.

she remembers that night like a haunting dream. she left with kisses to your face, to remember them in her heart. the way you held onto her like she was home.

and she swore her heart cracked a little more with every kiss, the way your face looked so calm in your sleep. she brushed your hair for hours, admiring every little feature of yours. and then she left in the middle of the night, hoping to make a name for herself, leaving behind her old life.

leaving you behind.

she also regretted how she left her parents, she knew it would break their hearts. so not only did she tear yours to shreds, now she needed to mend their hearts.

approaching the steps to their house was just as tough as she thought, each step weighing on her feet. the porch light was on, and she could see figures within the house. she hadn’t even prepared what to say to them, her family that she left behind.

and then she knocked on the door. the seconds felt like forever, but she heard the footsteps. the way the floorboards creaked behind the door. then it opened, and she was flooded with the smell of her mom’s cooking. of soup and the smell of wood, the same warm glow from the kitchen light. and the sight of her dad behind the door.

“sophie, is that you?”

her dad’s gotten older, more white hairs in his hair. his skin looks rougher but his voice still has that gruff low timbre. he has on his light brown cowboy hat, and then sophia’s mom steps into frame.

“hi dad, it’s me.” and then sophia’s pulled into a bone-crushing hug, her dad hugging the air out of her.

“sophie? jesus come here.” and her mom’s pulling her out of his embrace. hands trembling as she holds her daughter’s own face. her mom’s crying, the vision breaking her heart instantly.

she has never seen her mom cry before, not even when she had lost her own parents. her mother holds her head softly before pulling her into a hug. and her mom still smells the same, of lavender and herbs.

it’s like she’s six years old, coming back with scrapes on her knees and loud wails.

her dad encloses all of them as he hugs them as well, thankful to have his very alive daughter in his arms once more. his prayers have been heard.

“sophia, where have you been?” her dad’s voice comes out soft and confused. sophia wipes her tears away and pulls away from them. the sadness from their faces seared into her mind.

“let’s sit down, i have a lot of explaining to do.” sophia explains, and her parents share a look.

sophia stares at the headstone, a little worn down but the flowers are fresh. she has yet to figure out how she feels about her name being splayed across the top.

in memory of a loving daughter, sister, and wife.

the light blows of the wind pushes hair into her face.

she doesn’t know what’s worse: being known as dead but being alive, or being truly dead?

she could feel her heart breaking at the idea of you burying an empty casket of hers. she notices the empty headstone right next to hers. it’s a chilling reminder that you would’ve been buried next to her. until death were you meant to part. she can’t bear the idea and turns away, walking back towards her parent’s ranch.

the conversation between her and her dad had gone sour. he grew angry with her, not understanding why she left.

after he went quiet and left for his room, her mother stayed behind and they talked for hours. about sophia’s current life: all the red carpet events, the glamor, the paparazzi and how she felt coming back.

then she asked sophia how she felt about coming back to you.

and then sophia broke down all over again, she regretted leaving you the most. you were happy with sophia, you loved life on the ranch and you loved her.

sophia loved you but she didn’t love life on the ranch. she enjoyed the tranquility that came with this life, enjoyed nights alone with you under the dark skies and how you were so charming.

she kept breaking her own heart by chasing her own dreams, she could smile at all the accolades on the walls, the way people swarmed her for autographs. all the brand promotions and award shows.

but when she went home, she felt the loneliness of living by herself, a huge mansion to herself and the recognition of the masses, but when the night gets too loud, she wishes she were in your arms. in your a-bit-too small bed and the sounds of the wind hitting the house.

she wished for you with her.

and she searched for you in places that were safe: her co-stars, random athletes, and singers.

all of which couldn’t make her feel the same way at night, she doesn’t want to trace their skin. she didn’t want to embed herself into their souls. she doesn’t stay for long in relationships, something miniscule always sets her off, and then she pulls away. she knows who still has her heart all these years, and she’s lost herself in a facade of quick intimacy.

she long gave up on trying to rekindle your relationship. she didn’t know where she stood anymore with you, whether you would throw her out the second she arrived. or would you welcome her with open arms. which was definitely wishful thinking on her part.

but she needs this divorce, she needs to set you free. and set her own heart free. to be free from the haunting reminder that she once had you in her arms. had you so close and tossed it for her dreams. a sacrifice that she’s still not sure if she regrets to this day.

all she regrets is how she left.

her mom gives her a look when sophia mentioned getting a divorce from you, it’s the same look she gave sophia when she came back drunk in the dead of the night when she was a teen. the same look of worry when she disappeared for three days after a long argument with her dad.

it’s the very same look that speaks,

i don’t agree with what you’re doing, but this is your life.

she pokes and prods into sophia’s mind, wondering why she would come back for a divorce. when she replies, sophia’s mom gives her a quiet nod, not one laced with approval but one that shows understanding, and maybe one of pity.

maybe sophia’s lost sight of her dream, and who she wants it with.

she doesn’t want to confront the ugly truth, one that would leave her vulnerable, and maybe without you in the end.

she makes her way over to your ranch with conflicting thoughts in her mind.

you’re busy cleaning the stables when she arrives. the first thing you notice is that she’s wearing her old clothes, the same red flannel you bought her when you were 18. your eyes see the poor patch job you did to the right sleeve.

the second thing you notice is that she’s forgone wearing her tall heels. wearing old boots, making her shorter like you remember. it pulls you back to fond memories, taking on the daily tasks and laughing at charlie trying to round up all the chickens.

you put the brush away, and stare at her. she hasn’t said a word since she stepped in. and you’re already feeling ready to leave.

you take a couple steps out the stable, when sophia catches hold of your arm.

“please, can we talk this out?” she’s pleading with you, and you’re already ready to let your guard down, but the hurt rises in your chest.

“i don’t want a divorce, fia.” you say.

she makes the mistake of looking at you and it’s like she’s 19 again, staring into gorgeous eyes that made her swoon. and she doesn’t know why she’s asking for a divorce anymore.

she’s always liked you with your cowboy hat on.

“i understand, but it’s either you sign this now, or we wait for the divorce to default.” she explains, and you’re already grabbing a saddle, sliding it onto buckeye.

you turn around, facing her with anger in your eyes.

“fia, you won’t even tell me why, and you come here after years of disappearing and expect me to click my feet together and sign divorce papers. you must be out of your damn mind.”

you’re prepping buckeye to go out for a ride, when you notice her slide a saddle onto honey.

great, she’s not letting up.

“i’m headed to the general store.” you say reluctantly.

and she nods.

you head out, buckeye trotting and whining as he walks out the ranch. you don’t have to look over to know sophia’s following behind you, honey happy to have her favorite rider back.

charlie’s also warmed up to sophia too, once he smelled her enough and recognized her. he walks beside honey, tail swishing lowly, watching sophia every so often. maybe you aren’t the only one that’s missed her.

it feels like everyone’s rushing to welcome her with open arms, but you’re off-kilter.

you let out a breath when she’s picked up the pace. both of you are riding towards the town. you still needed to tend to the ranch, despite sophia’s insistence on begging for a divorce.

she lets the topic of the divorce go, as you make it into town together.

it hasn’t been like this in years. watching your back as you ride, the familiar swish of the tail from buckeye. or charlie sniffing happily along the trail. reminding herself of her discarded life.

her heart is cracking at how disjointed this all feels. stuck between a path of two lives that she’s tried so hard to separate. she’s not too sure if she wants to sacrifice you anymore.

maybe she’s selfish, maybe she wants everything and more. she wants to be greedy.

you hook your horse onto a fence, instinctively you hook sophia’s horse to the fence too.

she doesn’t point it out, but a small smile stretches her face.

and soon you’re entering the general store.

“sophia? is that you, honey?” mrs. teller races around the desk. pulling sophia into a tight hug and shaking her a bit.

you wander off the aisles of the store, knowing mrs. teller would talk sophia’s ears off. picking up some rope along the way, taking your time. you can still hear the two catching up, and in between rows you watch them.

sophia’s smiles are still warm.

you grab some nails and head to the counter.

“are you back, dear? for good?” in the hopeful tone that you’d expect from your grandma. sophia breaks her heart again, shaking her head no.

mrs. teller pats sophia’s hand and all she can feel is guilt. she left behind a community that watched her grow up. townsfolk that looked after her at almost every stage of her life.

she gets lost in her thoughts, until the sight of you buying rope and nails moves into her field of view.

“mrs. teller, did you get those shipments of horse feed? i placed an order with mr. teller last week.” you’re fishing out money from your wallet when sophia steps in. placing bills in mrs. teller’s hand before you could take it back.

“yes dear, it’ll be in tomorrow!” she shuts the register. “bring charlie around the house, the grandkids love playing fetch.” mrs.teller giggles to herself watching how you two are arguing over sophia’s gesture.

“sure can, thanks again mrs. teller. have a lovely day ma’am.” you lift your head to bow at her. you’re grabbing the merchandise and heading out with sophia hot on your tail. “fia, i could pay for that myself.”

you both don’t see it, but mrs. teller is smiling at the sight.

“i know you can pay for it, i simply wanted to.” she explains, grabbing onto honey and mounting onto the horse.

maybe you woke up on the wrong side of the bed. maybe it’s the way you hate her paying for you, but it’s upsetting. it erupts in annoyance.

“fia, go back to hollywood, i won’t sign those divorce papers.” you say to her, and her smile from that interaction in the shop has dropped.

you’re no fool and frankly it’s insulting for her to think a small gesture would change your mind on something as big as divorce.

“i can’t. i need that divorce.” she stares at you with desperation in her eyes, there’s something hidden, she’s not telling you everything.

“why?” you ask.

“i can’t tell you.” she offers, and it’s honest. she can’t explain the deals she’s made, how she’s under the strings of a puppeteer.

and she wants to save you, save the last bit of happiness she can give you, setting you free from her.

you swallow the heaviness that sets in your chest.

“you want to get rid of me that bad?” you ask. she doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are getting watery.

she thinks about the vows she wrote and said to you, to her parents, to everyone here. she’s betraying everyone and her own desires.

you take the silence as a sign.

“30 days. give me 30 days of your time, fia. then we’ll go our separate ways.”

she has nothing to say to you.

wasn’t this what she wanted?

you don’t know it but you break two hearts.

you turn around, not wanting to look at her. you tuck your hat a little lower, just enough to shield your eyes. shielding them from welling up, you’re signing away a life that you promised under God that you would protect.

you give a tap to buckeye and you’re riding out of town.

sophia taps honey and follows you.

the silence consumes you both on the ride back. and you’re both thankful for that.

in a week’s time, sophia’s back at the ranch. gone is the heavy makeup and opulence from when she first showed up. she looks younger like this, softer eyes and you’re reminded just how beautiful your wife is.

over the past week you’ve been preparing for sophia to be back. you thought about why you even offered that deal, maybe a part of you likes the pain, or is trying to prolong what’s inevitable. or maybe you’re too much of a coward to let things go.

whatever the reason may be, you had your wife back. and for the solace of a month, she was yours as well.

sophia’s out in the front, playing with charlie who hasn’t left her side since she’s arrived. the first thing you told her when she returned was how charlie kept whining and pawing at the door when sophia left.

you want to welcome her like charlie can, but touching her feels like ripping your heart further. opening the old wounds you tried so hard to mend close.

you walk towards her, basket in hand and pass it to her.

“chicken duty, let’s go.” you start walking down the path to the chicken coop and sophia’s still playing with charlie.

she watches you as she plays with charlie.

she hates that you’re so distant but so close. each time you pull away, she wishes it was just all a terrible nightmare she could wake up from. hates that she has to ask for this divorce and is devastated that you agreed.

inside her there’s a war of want and need for safety. some days she thinks about running away from all her responsibilities, and just drift into a fantasy land with you. but she knows this mess was one that she created, and you didn’t ask for this.

she watches the way you move through farmwork like you could do it blind. she’s a bit rusty and as she grabs one of the chickens, she nearly falls over when it escapes from her grasp.

“easy, laforteza.” you’re holding her steady, strong arms that keep her from falling over.

you give her a smirk and let her go.

“i’m fine.” she brushes herself off.

“a thanks would be nice.” you scoff and sophia’s ready to argue with you.

“thanks? you act like you saved the world.” sophia’s trying to get a rise out of you.

“saved your pretty ass from falling into chicken shit.” you reply. watching the way sophia’s face heats up.

“whatever.” sophia storms off, chasing after the chicken that’s escaped her grasp.

the smile on your face doesn’t leave your face the whole day.

not even when you’re having the worst time rounding up the cows. and charlie’s chewed up another sock of yours. you don’t even complain when sophia’s eaten the strawberries that you were saving up for dinner.

you have half the mind to feed one to her.

one night curiosity bites you in the ass. you’re too curious for your own good.

spending years asking God to bring you the answers you were longing for. you ask her about it during dinner, when you two have already grown a little more comfortable with each other.

“so, did you make it?” you ask her, chewing a piece of beef slowly. “did you make your dreams come true?”

she slows her fork, setting it down on the plate with a clank. she smiles wider, and your heart warms.

“i made it, someday i’ll fly you out to one of my premieres.” sophia starts, a sparkle in her eyes that glow brighter than the night stars.

“i’m being called left and right for roles, and they want me to be apart of this major franchise soon.”

as she talks about the accolades, the way her eyes brighten and shine, you realize you couldn’t take this from her even if you wanted to. she shined so bright, and who were you to hold her back.

you continue to bite into your food, letting her take over the conversation.

it seems you no longer know sophia, you don’t know her friends, her interests, her sense of style.

all you have are old fragments of what once was.

“i’m glad you achieved your dreams, fia. genuinely.” it pained you, but it was true. you were genuinely happy for her.

“what about you?” she’s curious.

“what about me?” you questioned back.

“did you achieve your dreams?”

“no.”

you shift your feet a bit, the floor boards creaking. sophia is understanding, but you’re not painting the full picture for her.

“it’s okay, you can keep trying.” she offers, there’s kindness in her voice.

you don’t have the heart to tell her that this divorce will crush your dreams.

“thanks, fia.” you stare out, she’s chipping at the walls that you’ve concealed.

there’s something to it, the sadness that hangs in the air. how you never fully say what you want.

it makes her skin crawl, no longer does she bear the secrets to your heart. you’ve long thrown the key away when you lowered the casket in her name.

she doesn’t mistake how you’re unable to look at her. she wants the obsessed version of you back. how devoted and caring you once were.

she figures she lost that privilege when she disappeared from you. she grabs both her and your plate and begins washing the dishes. you get up with a sigh.

“need a hand with that?” you grab a dishtowel. holding a hand out as she passes cleaned utensils for you to wipe off. she feels more at home than she’s felt in months. nights of partying and meetings with co-stars and agents has left her soul feeling more than isolated.

but in this small house, with a few too many creaky floorboards, and a leaky faucet, she misses how simple this life is.

of course her passion still lies in acting, but she’s not sure how much she wants that without you.

the next afternoon, the laforteza’s visit came unexpectedly. you spot mr and mrs. laforteza with wide smiles and a truck filled with gifts as they roll into the ranch. mr. laforteza gives you a hug that makes you want to cry.

sophia’s parents know this divorce is not what you wanted.

but they also know that you would prioritize sophia’s happiness over anything. it’s why they were so accepting of you marrying their only daughter.

“mr. laforteza, it’s great to see you too.” you pull away from him, and he gives you a shoulder pat before walking towards sophia. he doesn’t have to say much to convey how he feels about you.

both her parents seem so happy to have her daughter back. you want to feel the same, but the history between you two is entangled like vines. to unravel each branch might just tear you two apart.

so instead, you help unload the truck filled with gifts of horse feed when sophia comes up to you.

“hey, did you know they were visiting today?” she asks, grabbing a bag of horse feed off the truck bed. you stack another bag onto the pile.

shaking your head, “no, i figured you asked them to visit.”

she shakes her head too. “i didn’t.”

mrs. laforteza is happily walking into your house, charlie wagging his tail happily as he follows her. clearly he has a favorite human.

you walk in after her, looking at her taking groceries out of a bag.

there’s a silence that envelops you both.

“you look too skinny.” mrs. laforteza says as she takes out a pot, filling it with water. “and you look sad…are you sad?”

she has a knowing smile on her face as she watches you. you lean against the fridge, and contemplate the question.

are you sad?

this past week with sophia has been revealing how much you missed your wife. the instinctual habits that you forgot you had are coming back to light. when you always scoop her helping of food first. how you always leave the left side of the couch for her to sit on. how you always tuck your boots next to hers. it’s a familiarity that you want to relish in. but in less than a month’s time she’ll never be yours again.

so maybe you are sad, maybe you’re devastated that you’ve betrayed your wants in favor of giving sophia what she wants. maybe you’re losing yourself by giving it all to sophia.

“i’m not sure what i am anymore.” you reply.

she can feel how lost you are. from having sophia come back after years of mourning her disappearance. she feels for you. as if you were her own. and her daughter wants a divorce. she still doesn’t understand why and it’s the elephant in the room.

“honey, you don’t want this divorce. what made you agree?” she turns off the faucet. you reach over to place the pot onto the stove.

she smiles at the gesture.

“i don’t want sophia to feel trapped with me, and it’s clear she left without telling me for a reason.” you explain even though it’s cracking your heart. her mom gives you a light pat on the cheek and shakes her head.

“that girl has never stopped from loving you. i know her. this is killing her as much as it’s killing you.”

you want to believe that, truly you do. but you have a heart to protect too. are you going to be a fool and let it be torn all apart again?

“then why is she doing this?” you’re tired of hearing how sophia still wants you from other people. it hurts more.

“i don’t know why either, dear.” she speaks gently to you.

you stare out the kitchen window, watching sophia’s dad talk to sophia. you can’t hear what he’s saying to her, but she’s listening intently, and at one point she turns to look at you.

feeling caught, you avert your gaze.

but she watches you, eyes trying to commit you to memory.

it’s later at dinner, when you and the laforteza’s are eating together. laughter loudly echoing around the house that you forget that you’re about to be divorced.

you bathe in the happiness that emanates throughout the night. mr. laforteza retelling stories of how he courted mrs. laforteza. with eyerolls from his wife and sophia hanging on his every word.

charlie’s seated right by sophia, curled into himself as his tail wags slowly.

this is what you envisioned your home to be. to be warm and filled with life, and eventually down the line you wanted kids. wanted to create your own family with sophia. to have her parents come down to babysit the grandkids and play with them.

for charlie to have another person to play catch with.

you don’t even notice the tear that rolls down your face. it stains your jeans as it free falls. you continue to laugh along with a funny joke that mrs. laforteza has said.

sophia’s eyes notice it immediately, reaching out to cup your face.

the laforteza’s share a look with each other.

“are you okay?” sophia’s using her sleeve to wipe it off.

“oh, yeah, yeah i’m good.” you snap out of your daze, feeling the way sophia’s eyes are filled with worry. the way she lightly dabs at your cheeks. and it feels too much like home.

“well, we ought to get out of your hair, it’s getting late.” mr. laforteza stands up, brushing off his pants and sliding on his cowboy hat. ms. laforteza stands up as well, a warm smile adorning her face as she follows him out.

you and sophia stand up, wishing them on their safe travels. you watch them as they go out the ranch, until you can’t see their tail lights anymore. maybe in a distant world, you get to have everything. the big family dinners filled with laughter and excited screams from kids. but reality is always more grim than fantasy.

you let out a sigh and turn around, sophia is silently waiting for you.

“come on, let’s go to bed.” she says, hand open for you to take.

your finger twitches. you nearly step forward.

“i was going to take the couch.” you say a bit too quietly. this whole time that sophia’s been here, you’ve been sleeping on the couch, offering the bed to her. she doesn’t tell you how it breaks her heart that you don’t follow her every night.

“let’s go to bed.”

she shakes her hand a bit. in turn, you scratch your neck a bit, and take a step towards her. hand slipping right into hers like a glove.

she smiles at it. lifting your intertwined hands as she places a gentle kiss on your hand.

you don’t know it, but when you’re long asleep. the sensation of sophia tracing every ridge and dip of your face, your nose bridge, your cheekbones, your jaw. she’s found an angel on earth and you’re laying next to her. she slides closer to you, giving you gentle kisses on your face.

she wants to cry all over again, how cruel it is to leave you again. she closes her eyes once she feels that she’s left parts of her soul on you, covering your skin with her love.

it’s unspoken but you don’t take the couch ever again.

the next week you’re arriving at the rodeo in one of your cleaner shirts, a darker cowboy hat that you saved for special occasions. sophia’s by your side.

you initially were planning on going by yourself, but when sophia heard you mention it in passing, she invited herself.

so she’s wearing her best denim jacket with her hair styled up in a ponytail. makeup enhancing her gorgeous eyes and glossy lips to pair. she caught you staring at her getting ready, held under her trance. maybe she wanted to give you a show, maybe she took extra long getting ready, knowing your attention was stuck on her.

you enter the large barn, seeing crowds of people surrounding the fenced in rodeo. there’s an experienced rider on top of a wild bull. shouts and whistles being thrown around, and the sounds of bells clinking all around. this was going to be a good night, you could feel it in your bones.

you begin walking towards the fences, when sophia pulls you back.

“can you get us some drinks?” she asks sweetly, using that smile that makes you weak in the knees.

“of course, fia, two beers?” she gives you a nod and you’re bound for the bar. it’s filled with older cowboys and cowgirls. one of them tips their hat to you, in which you do the same. he helps signal over a bartender for you.

you’re walking back to sophia with two drinks in hand, excited to watch some real bull riding and wanting to enjoy a night with sophia. when you notice the crowd surrounding her. there’s cameras in her face, and people shoving papers into her hand.

you push past some people, trying your best to reach your wife, when you hear the shouts from the crowd.

“sophia! i love you!” a man shouts.

“you’re sophia laforteza!” a woman shouts.

“can i get your autograph? please, it’s for my daughter!” another woman shouts at your wife.

you finally push through the bodies and find your wife looking cornered, the encroaching crowd pushing her into the fence. within a couple steps you wrap your arm around her. pulling her out of the crowd.

“please, give her some space!” you shout at everyone. a couple of the cowboys recognizing you and pushing the crowd away. giving you a tip of their hats when the majority of the crowd disperses.

you’re thankful for the help, but you hadn’t anticipated sophia to be recognized here.

“i got your beer.” you slide the cold bottle into her hand and she nods. she’s tapping her feet rhythmically. grabbing a hold of your arm and sliding her arm through.

“thanks, for back there.” she says, placing a kiss on your cheek.

your face heating up at the affection.

“you’re welcome, fia.” you say. “does that happen often?”

you signal your hand. gesturing at the commotion that was. the only celebrity that you’ve come close to is the town mayor and his family, but even then it’s mostly to badger him for public works.

you’ve never seen a real-life swarm of people asking for autographs.

“hm? oh, all the time. i mean i can’t even walk down the street without bodyguards sometimes.” sophia’s speaks about it casually. to be known and approached by the masses for the recognition of your talent. you don’t know if you could stomach that life.

“do you miss it?” you ask into the air, but there’s more to it. you want to know if she misses her life in hollywood, the one she chose over you.

she shakes the beer bottle a bit. you don’t even realize you are holding your breath. waiting for the second shoe to drop.

“i miss the human interactions, when people would tell me how inspired they are by my acting. how it made them want to go into acting themselves. i don’t miss having camera flashes in my face when i’m trying to go buy groceries or enjoy a lunch outdoors.” she speaks

you listen earnestly. her life feels so foreign to the one you both grew up in.

“sometimes, when life gets too much out there, i rub this necklace and wish i was still back at the ranch. i wish i could have both.” she shows off the necklace that you’ve seen her wear for years, a family heirloom that you’ve never seen her take off.

and with the sound of a bell there’s a new bull rider entering the arena.

loud hollers around the barn echoing as the rider hangs onto the bull firmly. the bull is running around with kicks and swishes of the head to knock him off. but he’s holding firm.

sophia pulls you closer to the other side of the fence. getting a better vantage point of the scene. she makes some comments about how the rider’s pretty good. letting his body move enough to bend to the bull’s movement, but doesn’t let himself tip too far.

maybe you’re fishing for compliments, or maybe you want her attention on you. either way you spout it before you can stop yourself.

“i can do better than that.” you scoff, taking a swig of beer. she raises an eyebrow, taking a sip as well. she hasn’t seen you ride a bull in years, but she remembers how good you once were.

“you still got it, cowgirl?” sophia tempts you.

“damn right, i still got it.” you say, drinking the rest of your beer and walking over to sign yourself up for the competition. sophia watches you. noticing you take a piece of gum out and chewing it.

the same ritual you always had whenever you rode. she stares at your hair under the hat. your eyes surveying the bull that’s trying to buck another rider off. she stares at how you look so damn good under the light.

and then you’re up, loading into the bay with the bull standing by. a couple of people are prepping the bull, sliding on the rope tightly. and you hop onto the bull. gloved hand gripping onto the rope wrapping around the bull. you adjust your hat a bit, and look out for sophia.

she spots you from across the fence, holding herself on one of the bars. waving to you, and you tip your hat to her. signaling this ride is for her.

“you know the rules, cowgirl, stay on for at least 8 seconds,” one of the guys fixing the rope asks you. “you got it?”

you give him a nod and tap the gate. nodding forward and lifting up, the gates open automatically. your bull immediately sending you forward, he bucks and twists his hind legs. trying his best to shake you off. he’s got you spinning like a spin top, using the momentum to throw you off.

you grit yourself. you keep your bottom half of your bottom as close to the bull as possibly. your leg slapping against the side of the bull. the bulls spinning around trying to get you dizzy. you nearly fall off at one point, gripping onto the rope with all your might.

and then you hear the roars, eight seconds are up, and you feel the bull trying to kick you off, his horns getting a bit too close to your head, so you roll off the bull, just narrowly missing it. you roll onto the ground, the dirt covering you entirely.

as you run away from the bull. screams of the crowd cheer you on.

you run right up to sophia, sliding your hat right onto her head, hugging her over the fence. and everyone’s cheering your name. loud chants echoing the arena. more than just qualifying, you’ve put on a performance. everyone is cheering for you but you have your eyes set on sophia.

maybe it’s the beers, maybe it’s the feelings that are swarming in her chest, but she grabs you.

then she’s kissing you and everyone roars.

whistles and hollering in the air as sophia continues kissing you.

the screams drone out and you kiss her back. and for the first time you’ve seen her eyes shine so bright for you.

“you saw me out there, fia?” you shout at her, the loud chants droning out your voice.

“of course i did, you did amazing baby.” she smiles and pulls you into another kiss. and you leap over the fence.

pulling sophia into a hug. still breathing hard from the run. she leans close to you, tucking your hat tighter on her head.

“how do you feel, cowgirl?” sophia asks you. you both walking towards the bar again, needing a refill.

“indescribable.” you say, kissing her temple.

and you reach the bar. several cowboys already offering to buy you drinks. you try waving them off, but then the bartender slides over the drinks to you.

“on the house, courtesy of your bull riding return!” he shouts. “and for sophia’s big return too!”

the cowboys cheered for you too, and you gave them a clink of beer. sophia grabbing a beer and cheering to some of the guys too. the bar continues to be lively into the night, some retired bull riders telling you about their heydays. sophia was welcomed back happily by a couple of cowboys.

your hand doesn’t leave sophia’s the whole night. a gentle rubbing across your knuckles even when she’s talking to someone else. you don’t want the night to end, and neither does she.

you and sophia ride back home, she’s still wearing your hat and holding onto you as buckeye continues clopping on the road.

“and then charlie nearly bites him in the ass!” you shout, the laugh nearly making you double over as you recount the event. sophia’s listening intently, giving you nods of her attention, with her head pressed into your back. relishing in the feeling of your body’s movement.

“we’re home.” you say gently. dismounting buckeye and pulling him into the stable. she watches you, and she has been the whole night, sometimes you caught her too.

“you okay?” you say, letting go of the rope, staring up at her. she looks at you for a moment, memorizing how you look in the moonlight, gorgeous and warm.

“great. help me off?” she says. and you grab onto her, pulling her off the horse and setting her down.

she slides her hand into yours again, and you feel your skin heating up again at the feeling.

she pulls you towards the house, urging you into a run and opening the door eagerly. you’re confused but you don’t question it when she’s sliding off her boots and running up the stairs. you follow quickly after her, opening the door and seeing her in the corner.

she’s fallen into your bed, beckoning you forward, and you obey. reaching close to her when she places the cowboy hat back onto your head. tilting it low enough to her liking. her hands reach for your shirt, sliding up and down the front. it stills at the top button.

“can i?” she asks. and you nod.

she’s unbuttoning your shirt quickly. and she lets her eyes drift up, catching you staring at her with the same want.

she loves how you look on top of her, hat still covering your head, the hottest goddamn cowgirl she’s ever seen.

“hat stays on.” sophia says firmly, removing your shirt. your eyebrow perks up at the admission.

“you have a thing for my hat?”

“i have a thing for you wearing that hat.” she rushes to take off her own shirt, revealing all too gorgeous skin. you reach out, feeling the heat from her skin against yours.

“noted.” you smirk at the way she’s embarrassed.

you slide her shirt off her back, bunching it up and throwing it across the room. you slowly move up the bed, enclosing the space that feels oh so far. she’s moving up too, liking this view of you looking to claim.

“is this new?” you spot a tattoo under her breast, a small butterfly. the wings spread on her ribs. tracing it with your thumb, maybe you need to be re-acquainted with her.

“yeah, like it?” she says, liking the sensation of you tracing over the tattoo. you nod, a bit too entranced by the linework.

and then she grabs your hand, lifting it up gently. you snap your eyes onto hers. she smiles as she moves it upwards. dropping it right on top of her bra. and she stares at you, begging you to make a move.

she pulls you down for a kiss, you want to pull away, but she keeps you close. hand wrapped around your neck, she pulls you close enough to get her mouth next to your ear.

“you still remember how to fuck me?” sophia challenges you, lightly tugging at your lobe. “or do i need to teach you again?”

she pulls away.

she’s smirking at you, wanting you to snap.

“i still know how to fuck the senses out of you, fia.” you confidently claim, and you’re back. the same confident girl that makes her head spin.

“prove it.” she whispers.

you grab her face, kissing her with the hunger that’s been building up this whole time. you still wanted her as much as you used to. distance and time hasn’t changed how much you yearned to make her yours.

she’s pushing up into you, wanting you just as much, having a little taste wouldn’t satiate this desire. so you grab onto her torso, pulling her up. enough to unhook her bra and slide it off. another discarded piece of clothing landing across the room.

“God, you are perfect.” you say, dipping down to kiss her jaw. moving your hands again, pushing lightly into her hip. you continue to kiss down her sternum, reaching a hand to rub against her boob. lightly grabbing and pulling it towards you.

she gasps.

“you’re so sensitive, fia.” you joke. continuing your journey south. gliding your hands to unhook her pants, sliding them off her legs.

and it’s like christmas came early.

“can’t help it.” she whines a bit. anticipating your touch. “it’s you.”

you stutter a bit. the emotions in her voice are overwhelming. maybe she wanted you in the same way.

so you go silent, wanting to express how much you yearned for her. wanting to re-learn everything that makes her tick.

you slide your hands under the waistband. her panties still sticking a bit as you took them off.

she smells divine, a mixture of sweat and desire. and you’re ready for worship.

you roll into her with your pants, hips tilting upwards. letting your hardness rub against her, and she drops her mouth. pretty sounds falling from her lips.

she reaches down, grabbing a hold of you. feeling around and reaching for the belt. pulling at the buckle until it pops.

she pushes you back, frustrated she can’t get closer to you. and you land back, propping your arms just enough to let her reach for you.

she climbs on top, pulling her hair all to one side. pulling your belt off the loops. you watch her throw it off the bed, and she’s grabbing onto your pants. unbuttoning them in urgency.

“desperate?” you gaze into her.

she gives you a look that says a thousand words. the darkness in her gaze, and the kind of sterness that makes you excited.

then your pants are unbuckled. you let out a breath, relaxing as the pressure from the pants has been lifted. you’re standing at full attention, begging to be touched.

begging to be touched by her.

she puts her hands inside, not bothering to slide your pants completely off.

you let your head fall, she gets closer.

“i missed this…missed you.” she tugs a bit, and you twitch.

you nod, pulling her in for a kiss. “i missed you too fia.”

you close your hand into a fist, gripping onto her hair and letting open mouth kisses fill the air. she looks so beautiful like this, putty in your hands and plump lips that make you nearly cave in.

you reach down, a single finger that draws a line. finishing right where she wants you. you give her a tap, and she lets out a hiss.

she wants to swat your hand away, instead she gives you a look.

“stop playing.” she scolds.

“yes, ma’am.” you chuckle a bit, liking the demanding side of her. she continues to lightly play with you over your boxer briefs.

letting her nails slide up and push into your briefs. you can feel yourself getting lost in the sensation, the way she starts tugging again, rubbing the tip and spreading out your juices.

“you’re leaking baby.” she says, continuing to pump you, hands gripping enough to give you that head-spinning pleasure.

you reach down again, looking for her wetness, smiling to yourself at the feeling.

“same to you, baby.” you smirk. letting your fingers gather that wetness and spread it up.

playing with her clit until it’s begging.

you hear the hard pants and watch how she goes rigid, unable to look you in the eye. eyes closed shut with a hand on your forearm.

she looks so gorgeous, and you want more. want to mess her up so she’ll never want to leave.

you pull her hand out your briefs and she almost looks hurt. wanting to reach out again, and you stop her. you simply shake your head, kissing her enough to distract her. pushing her back, pleasing her is your only motive right now.

“baby, let me make you feel good.” she blushes at the words. she remembers how good you were with your mouth.

sometimes she’d touch herself at night just remembering the touch of you.

“please, hurry.” and you do, setting her head on a pillow. dropping yourself onto the floor.

kissing her and parting her legs. sliding your hands over her thighs. you get close enough, but not enough to touch her. and when she doesn’t expect it, you kiss her clit.

she moans at the contact, and then you latch onto it. softly sucking it, just the way she likes. when her legs twist and turn, hands reaching to grab the sheets.

you got her right where you want her. gorgeous and laid out.

you slide a hand up, running your palms through her torso, far enough to grab onto a nipple, and flick it. she grips onto your arm. the slight pain making you grin.

it’s cute how worked up she gets with you.

every little touch like a flame that dances upon her skin.

you continue to suck around her bud. giving it a slow lick and she’s gripping your arm more. you lick it with fervor, liking the way she’s begging for you, name rolling off her tongue that strokes your ego.

you stand at full attention, light twitches at her beautiful moans. you get lost in your own world, licking slowly and with a flat tongue. enjoying how her legs shake when you suck.

her body is hot to the touch, a slight sheen of sweat coating her body. casted with moonlight making her skin glow. she’s gorgeous and the only one you want in your bed.

“baby, please, i need you inside.” she begs. trying to pull you up, so you let her. let her drag your body closer, until you’re touching her with your clothed cock.

you slide your pants down, pulling them off and flinging them away, the restrictive material off your body.

and sophia watches you, likes the sight of you bare. body toned with years of farmwork and bull riding building you up.

you slide up to her, using the wetness that’s been leaking from her cunt and coating it all over your cock. enough to get you inside. she’s more desperate than you, reaching for you, and pulling it towards her.

“come on baby, it’s all yours.” you say to her. letting her dictate when she wanted you. and then she pushes you inside, instantly her head drops back onto the bed. the feeling of you inside again after so long has her starting to tear up.

“you okay baby?” you ask, a little startled from the tears.

you stop to wipe them off, ready to pull out at a second’s notice.

“so good, please move.” she begs of you, and you’re more than willing to comply. pushing in slowly and watching her face contorted in pleasure.

pretty pink lips that are begging to be kissed, so you dip down and kiss her. soft kisses that have her gripping onto your hair, pulling the hat off your head and tossing it aside.

you slowly tilt your hips to sink into her. the vibrations from her throat buzzing against your mouth. moans that are begging to be heard echoing inside. she grips harder into your hair, loving the way you stretch her.

“please move baby, i need more of you.” she detaches from your mouth, waiting for you to rock into her. and you do, in that slow pace that lets you feel every ridge of her insides. warm enveloping heat that’s making your heart hammer.

your pretty wife below you, such a vulnerable and intimate sight. you kiss her nipples, lightly massaging one with your hand and playing with the bud.

she puts a hand on your stomach, feeling your tensed abs against her nails. you continue to push in and out of her. moans in time with your movements. you want her to always feel this good, to want you forever.

you lick her nipples, then blow on them, cold air hitting her and she hisses.

“you are so gorgeous baby.” you dip down to whisper to her, and she feels herself getting wetter. the movement of you inside her has her mewling. her nails lightly scratching your abs, you continue to roll into her.

using your hips to angle upwards, pressing your tip in that soft spot. tingling immediately hitting her body from all over.

“found it.” you smirk at her. and with what strength she has she rolls her eyes. wanting to tell you off, but you hit that spot again, and she’s back to being a mess.

“fuck…” she moans out.

“yes baby, feeling good?” you smirk. she nods with whines coming out, unable to answer you. you continue tapping it, enjoying the way she seems in heaven.

you grip harder into her hips and move to tilt your hips back down, long strokes that knocks at her womb.

you want to fuck her so she forgets everything but you. want her to remember only you, it's selfish and possessive. but you need her to want to be yours.

“kiss me please.” she begs and you dive down, kissing her intensely. still giving her long strokes that have her fingers shaking.

“you’re doing so good for me, fia.” you speak in between kisses.

“my gorgeous girl.” you speak to her soul. begging her to hear your calls.

“your gorgeous girl.” she says, tears springing into her eyes again, overwhelmed by the claim. “yours. yours. yours.”

you fuck into her, hips gradually snapping. hitting against her insides and she reaches out, hands open for you to intertwine. you take it and give her hand a kiss.

she cries at the sight, all the feelings spiraling out of her.

she lets you continue to fuck her, intensity sharpening as you keep pulling in and out. her nails dig into your hands, she looks like a mess, the most gorgeous mess.

you want to keep her here forever. she knows it. knows how you’re concentrating so hard on pleasing her. she wants to as well, wants to make a mess of you.

and then she pushes you.

“baby, want to ride you.” she whimpers out, and you nod. slowly sliding out of her, ending with a light gasp from her.

“come ride your cowgirl then.” you settle yourself on the bed, laying down and watching her shake as she tries getting up, legs a little wobbly.

“don't. say. anything.”

your mouth is already half open, ready to make a joke.

but she shuts you up. instead you watch her gorgeous body climb on top of you. hands that cross around your neck.

“you look so pretty, fia.” you say, placing a kiss on her arms. rubbing them up and down as she gets situated.

“not as much as you.” she says through heavy breaths, trying to kiss you on shaky knees.

you use your legs to keep her in place, meeting her halfway. kissing her fervently and passionately.

she has you hooked, cock begging for attention.

then she slides onto you. sinking enough to let your cock rest inside her. and it feels like heaven, how you missed this.

“fuck, fia, you feel so good.” you moan out, head dropping onto the pillow.

“you feel even better.” she smiles at you. sinking down until you’re fully sheathed. she keeps her hands on your abs. settling for a rocking motion as she moves herself on top of you.

“mm, i could ride you for days.” she whispers.

“you’d ride me until i’m dry.” you scoff. hissing when she drags her nails down your body.

“you can’t go dry.” she scolds you.

she wants to milk you for all your worth and more.

“this is mine.” she clenches, enough pressure to make your cock jump.

“yeah?” you let out playfully, “did you decide that?”

“of course i did. this is mine.” she clenches again and you twitch. and she gives you no time to recover.

going right back to riding you. pulling herself up just enough to rock back down. you relish in the sight, the moonlight shining in and illuminating her body. you watch her in a haze, the pleasure spreading inside of you, but the sight of her is more than everything.

you are still so in love with her.

she continues to ride you, hand on your thigh as she leans back. rolling herself on top of you.

you feel like you could cum any second now. and you grip onto her thighs, to which she grabs a hold of you.

staring at you with desire and pleasure in her eyes.

she closes her eyes, letting the feeling of riding you consume her. she can feel the familiar feeling at the pit of her stomach.

“fuck, i’m going to cum.” she keeps repeating it to herself in the moment.

you grab a hold of her. rushing to push her back. wanting to fuck into her until she cums. in a second her back hits the bed again, and she looks at you a little dazed.

“need to fuck you.” you say just loud enough for her to hear. and push into her. going for a more relentless speed.

she keeps moaning in your ear, chanting your name lowly. it drives her crazy to have you so close.

“i’m cumming baby, inside or out?” you pant in her ear.

all you want is to cum inside, begging to pour yourself into her.

“please, inside. only inside please.” she begs for you. hooking her legs around you, holding you close. “want your kids, please.”

there’s tears in the corners of her eyes and she’s raking her nail down your back.

“yeah?” you whisper to her, feeling your stomach coiling into itself. “you’d be the best mom.”

the rush nearly hitting you when she clenches.

“fuck!” she cries desperately, pulling you into a kiss that expresses her deepest desires.

she wants this, wants to be the mother of your kids. the idea of anyone else as a replacement sends her in a tailspin.

all she wants is you.

wants to keep a part of you with her forever.

she needs you. and she needs you to want her. wants you to fill her up. she’s gasping and holding your head. staring into you, in each part that she’s loved and admired.

“baby, fill me up.” she whines, continuing to clench every so often. you gasp each time, open mouthed and head falling back.

“fuck, i’ll fill you up baby, be patient.” you hiss when she pushes back, using her hips to meet you halfway.

she feels the way you twitch inside of her, the signifier that you’re close.

you reach your climax, the white hot sensation hitting you in the body, letting out ropes of cum inside of her. grunting and moaning as you keep pushing into her, wanting to be as close as possible.

she can feel her walls getting painted with you, and it triggers her own climax.

the intimacy, the desire, the urgency makes her continue to sob as she cums.

you continue to slowly pump in her, the orgasm coming to a slow descent. trying your best not to collapse on top of her with your arms shaking. you try to push yourself up, just to get yourself in a better position so as to not crush her.

when she suddenly pulls you down, chest to chest and you can hear her sobs.

“no! stay inside.” she cries out. and maybe time has changed you but you don’t remember ever hearing her so desperate.

“fia? what’s wrong?” you’re concerned.

“no, just want you. stay inside please?” you stare at her, the desperation in her voice is echoing in your heart.

so you stay, gently wiping tears off her cheeks and comforting her as she cries. giving her kisses on her shoulder and lips.

you continue to shower her in gentle affection. letting her enjoy the feeling of you and trying your best not to move around. she feels herself relax eventually, enough to make her sleepy.

she closes her eyes, trying to drift asleep. before she does though, she whispers to you.

“stay?”

“of course, fia.”

–

the morning has dawned and you let yourself sleep in. with sophia next to you and the memories of last night, you feel on top of the world.

it feels like the old you is back. there’s still the ever-looming divorce over your head but maybe last night changed things.

maybe you can allow yourself to believe she wants to stay. maybe she doesn’t want this divorce.

maybe you can allow yourself happiness again.

it’s a slow morning. you’re trying your best to clean up last night’s mess. dirty clothes tossed into a hamper, trying your best not to wake sophia up as you clean her.

giving her kisses that nearly wake her up. hand reaching out to find you.

it’s domestic, and an old familiarity you missed.

you give her another kiss just before you leave.

it’s a good morning to enjoy yourself on the porch. rubbing behind charlie’s ears and sitting in your rocking chair.

letting the thoughts of sophia consume you as always. maybe you’ll buy her flowers today, wrap it in a bouquet for her. or cook her breakfast so she can have it in bed. the thought keeps you happy.

then charlie barks, standing at attention. that’s when you spot someone in the distance.

“can i help you, sir?” you continue to chew on your stick, lightly rocking back and forth.

he’s too well dressed, a three piece grey suit that’s already gathering dirt and dust under his feet.

he’s fidget-y, device in hand as he frantically searches for a signal.

“i’m looking for sophia. sophia laforteza?” he’s continuing to twirl in circles, hands up in the air as he walks in different directions, trying to look for a signal.

he looks like a damn fool.

“sir, i don’t know of a sophia.” you continue to chew at your stick. hand firmly held on your buckle.

“well either you’re lying or this gps is.” he says, continuing to fiddle with his device and he starts walking towards the house. “and i spent a couple thousand on it.”

“i don’t know a sophia. you must have the wrong place.” you shout back.

charlie’s tail stills when he doesn’t move. instead he approaches you. a charming smile on his face.

he gets close enough for you to escalate.

you lift your gun out, pointing it at his forehead.

“i don’t take too kindly to strangers trespassing.” you let out. “please leave.”

“sophia! i know you’re in there.” the stranger shouts.

“you have some goddamn nerve.” you shout, stepping up face to face.

charlie rushes forward, loud barking shaking him up. you keep him still, not letting him lunge forward to bite.

he smirks seeing the door open and sophia running down the steps.

she’s by your side in an instant. and then she sees him, and her blood runs cold.

he wasn’t supposed to find her, or you.

he wasn’t supposed to have leverage.

“sophia! where the hell have you been? i’ve been calling your cell, your manager, lara, everyone!”

his voice cracks at the end and he looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel. his forehead vein sticking out and blood rushing to his cheeks.

“i couldn’t contact anyone! but i had this tracker and it led me here. in new mexico.”

he explains rapidly and at this point you’ve pushed sophia behind you. putting some distance between this strange man and your wife.

“what are you doing here in new mexico?” he finally stops.

“i-...go home thomas. we’ll talk later.” sophia says.

“no, i’m not leaving without you, laforteza.” he says with an awful smirk. one that starts making you nervous.

you didn’t know anything about thomas.

“who are you?” you ask, and sophia wishes she could rewind time. rewind to a time where she never left, kept you close and didn’t break your heart, because she feels like she’ll break it all over again.

“i’m thomas moore, nice to meet you.” he offers his hand, you don’t shake it. “i take it, sophia hasn’t introduced me?” he says, taking his hand back.

“i’m sophia’s fiancé.”

he says with a smile that’s slow, ending a grin that makes you want to rip it off of him.

fiancé?

it hits you in your chest, the shock making your ears ring. ringing and all you can see is sophia arguing with him. shouts like a silent film in your head. you’ve been duped again.

you let your heart get trampled over again. ruined by this woman. she’s crying and trying to shake you out of your haze. you don’t see the tears that trickle out your eyes. hand open faced and gun to the ground.

she tries shaking you again. and you take a step back. a tense step, muscle at full flex. you need to get out, you need to get away.

she’s done it again, she’s let you believe in her love. after everything you tried spelling out to her last night, you want to forget her. you want to forget how you gave the deepest part of you to her.

you leave, feet turning into the house. quick steps turning into a mad dash. you’re opening kitchen drawers, running through the house, trying to look for a pen. anything that can write. you don’t even know if anything else is real.

pen. pen. pen.

and then you find one, it’s an old pen. ink nearly dried up, and you’re scribbling on scrap paper. heart thumping loudly, with adrenaline coursing through you.

sophia runs after you, trying to get you to stop. she watches you try to write with a pen. her mind going haywire. she has no idea what you’re trying to do. she’s trying to anticipate it and then it hits her.

her heart drops.

“no! baby please, look at me.” she begs you, grabbing a hold of your face. trying to break you from your dazed self. angry tears staining the paper.

you grab the papers from the cabinet. an extra copy of the divorce papers that sophia handed you. the lines are tagged with blue tabs. every line you need to sign is there.

and you see the ink flowing again.

sophia’s crying, trying to get you to stop.

you lift your pen in the air, placing it onto the divorce forms. signing the line. flipping through the pages with anger, signing the other lines.

“please, let me explain.” she’s sobbing and begging you to look at her. it’s no use, you should’ve never trusted her again. of course she would leave again.

what were you expecting?

you finally sign it all and sophia’s sunken to the floor, tears wracking her body and she stares at the floor.

“this is what you wanted, right?” you bite out.

she looks up at you, shaking her head vehemently.

“no, no, i don’t want this. no!” she nearly screams. she gets up, trying to hug you.

“get off of me, sophia.” you cry out. arms at your side as she keeps her arms around you. it’s suffocating, you never thought you’d say it, but her touch is suffocating.

“my name is fia! it’s fia! you don’t call me sophia!” she cries out, her heart is breaking.

everything is in ruin again. you’re in ruin too. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

you wanted to ask her to reconsider, thought of getting her flowers and dressing up all nice to ask her on a date.

this solidified everything you thought was wrong.

“you have a fiancé?” you ask, with betrayal laced in your tone, backing up from her. it hurts to look at her.

she doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing. bloodshot eyes that are begging for you to hear her out.

“and you didn’t tell me?” you continue to be impressed, at how little you know sophia.

she shakes her head, trying so hard not to have heave.

“please, let me explain.” she begs and you shake your head. it hurts so bad, it’s sucking your energy to be in this room with her.

“and last night…did you even mean it?” you ask, hand over your heart as you feel the anger boiling. you gave her everything, your heart and soul, and she has a fiancé. one that she conveniently forgot to tell you about.

“of course i meant it! i always mean it.” she shouts back, disgusted by the accusation.

you stare at her, begging for the truth, for this all to be one sick play, where all the curtains rise and a camera crew filming the whole thing. a punk’d kind of sick trick.

“you must be one hell of an actress out there, laforteza.” you say out of spite. “you had me fooled with your act.”

“don’t you dare. i never, i never—it was never an act with you.” she nearly screams.

but the curtains don’t rise, and reality sticks.

“get out sophia. i don’t want to see you ever again.” you say. you stare at the divorce papers that you haphazardly signed.

signatures flying across the page, and tears wrinkling it. it’s a poor sight, and one that you want out of your home.

“get the fuck out.”

she feels her heart crack, truly crack. there’s so much hatred in your voice. pain ladened anger that screams for retreat.

she cries out, hands reaching out for you. you turn away from her. tears streaming down your face.

“if you won’t leave, i will.” you bite out. moving past her, and out the house. and once again you’re running off on buckeye.

charlie following you closely. whimpers coming from him when he doesn’t see sophia follow. he gives one final look before running to catch up to you.

sophia’s sobbing into herself, curled herself into a ball. staring at the home you both once built. maybe this was how it was always supposed to be. maybe she should’ve just stayed away the first time.

maybe she doesn’t deserve this happy ending either.

thomas steps into the house, the cunning smile rubbed off his face, a colder exterior forming.

“sophia, let’s go.” he says, offering his hand. “enough playing house, you have responsibilities.”

sophia looks at him through her tears, anger directed towards him. steel eyes forged with anger and resentment.

“thomas. fuck. off.” sophia stands up, grabbing the papers off the desk. leaving the house with him behind her.

she gives one more look at the house. trying to commit it to memory, trying to commit you to memory. hand on the door handle, opening the car door and stepping inside.

maybe she needs to put this all behind.

she cries to herself as the car pulls out the ranch, hand crumpling the paper in her hand.

just like a phantom, she disappears again.

this time you want her to stay away.

a/n: how did we like the ending!!! :) i apologize if this isn't true to the american cowgirl/ranch owner/bull rider experience, i tried my best! and honestly this was a whole beast to write so i hope you enjoyed it! stay safe and stay healthy everyone!

#neoplatinum #katseye #sophia laforteza #sophia katseye #katseye x reader #katseye sophia #sophia x reader #sophia #katseye sophia x reader #sophia laforteza x reader #g!p reader

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kalosian-woods · 10 days ago

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i sorta wanted to reply to syncro anon about clemont and his inventions because realistically, it is really interesting!

while yes, his inventions blowing up is mostly used as a gag, it's also kinda funny becuase a lot of things (especially technology wise) tend to malfuction or just kinda "self-destruct", and trying to move that into a visual form is a hard thing to do, so it's done via the explosions. (though HOW he (and the others) survives them is a completely different story.)

technology either can malfuction or "self-destruct" for the smallest of reasons like a code was inputted incorrectly, overheating, excessive use, or going above the limit then what they were designed to do, and so on forth. so realistically, all of this is possible, albiet with less explosions.

ofc we also have to take account just how much time clemont had to create these inventions, has he tested them out? has he polished it? all of those things are pretty important when it comes to creating something completely new. and even if he had; it takes a lot of re-working on the device again and again until its finished.

and like you said op; besides all of those factors, it could also just be from clemont himself, putting on failsafe's, him being an S rank worrier, and of course having his past mistakes tower over him and having him fumble, or, again like you said, being put in a pedestal of perfection (after all he is The inventor lighting up the world.) and with all that pressure he just messes up (Gifted Kid Syndrome, anyone?)

so yeah, lots of different factors. But of course, if we put the knowledge of the other media's pokemon has put out besides the anime, clemont so to speak does, make it big. creating an invention that another region uses; The RotomDex, with clemont being its creator

-⚡ (again sorry for jumping in! clemont's explosions is very interesting to me, and i sorta understand his furstrations/disappointment whenevr it does fail as a person who codes every now and again)

Hmm, you raise some very (very) good points. I've tried to code in the past and it never stuck, but I totally get what you're coming from! It does take a lot from the internal and external part of things, from coding the program, making sure it's compatible with the device, making sure the device has all the working parts it needs, and of course testing it out (because theory rarely plots itself perfectly to reality).

We don't see Clemont actually go through the entire process of building his inventions, but he feels like the type of guy to just rig one out very quickly to me especially as they're on the road (there are some he totally made in a few hours or overnight). He's making them for theoretical scenarios that may come to pass after all, which might also explain how they may not be as refined as, say, the Clembots (where he has a defined reason for their existence and probably put more time and thought into building them) (which may also explain how Clembot mini especially survived! Because it does have a lot of its basis on the OG after all, which he has not only made but fixed up as well). I do agree that the explosions are probably just for dramatic effect though, very sound theory! To be fair, he could have also went to attach some parts wrong just as easily as made a wrong turn in coding, but yeah coding would be harder to depict visually for sure. And also coding is super finicky, from what I recall heh. Considering the environments he's in compared to the much more isolated lab back in Prism Tower, he's bound to make a few mistakes here and there.

Gifted Kid Syndrome is such a Clemont thing though, and his past issues would totally haunt him through the machines themselves. Plus the worry too!! He's the inventor lighting up the world after all! He's gotta be perfect with them! He's always got to be on the move, on the next invention that will change everything, irrevocably, amazingly. Sometimes he's going to burn himself out, or stay up too late or work on too many and get mixed up with the details. And that has just as much consequences as anything, if not worse. And as you've said, frustration is going to be natural for him to feel. And maybe that also fuels some of his mistakes, but it has just as much power as to fuel a bit more introspection as well. The good kind, anyways.

But that's totally not to take away what he's done! Even in the anime proper, in the first few eps he literally makes a Pokemon Translator! Like that is so OP even if it didn't work quite as intended lol. And stuff like helping to make the Power Plant aren't small things either. Even with the fails there are wins with him and in the end, it really is just about a matter of growth and gaining a good eye for details and a steady hand for the rest (and some luck as well).

#thanks a lot for the insight lightning anon. coding anon. clem anon. idk but glad to hear from you! (love the signature btw!)#np we're all doing friendly convo here and i like hearing different perspectives! helps me broaden my horizons #just as long as we're all civil and nice then we're all good! so no need to apologise :)#also totally keeping this in mind btw such good fuel for me :P #i recently got mad at trying to slam in alt fonts for a fic and it wouldn't work. i was so upset (and slightly scared?)#turns out i didn't write down the right font heh #i love how none of us know how does everyone survive the explosions though lol #it's funny because i'm so interested in clems inventing nature + being a gym leader and what that means for him #as his own person living his own life #but now you guys are making me think about the explosions too lol #in which it's basically regarded as a staple of his inventions in the anime #which again is reminding me of the one (1) ep they dedicate to that. sort of. maybe.#something something there is a connection to be made with TRs machines as well #and their strangely innovative nature down to the electric-proofing they usually do #also hmm you know i was never really sold on clem actually making the rotomdex tbh #ik there was the concept art of him holding it and that but did he actually make it? cause it is just concept art i've seen so far #i mean i'm not against it! just wondering if there's more sources out there heh :3c #but yeah not to skimp out on his achievements. my boy is a boss at what he does #and he can do a lot! just as long as he takes it slow and believes in himself <3 #it may have just been a gag but with the power of anon friendship and my overanalysing self we can make it Cooler (tm)#diancie delivers #loving all the thoughts you guys give me so far. nice community for sure :D

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agarthanguide · 22 days ago

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What’s this? Posters for the upcoming Critical Role Live Shows in goddam AUSTRALIA‽

I’m so proud of these I stg. I had a chip on my shoulder about Caleb and Braius, specifically, and they came out p good! I had to ask Dani if Imogen still had lightning scars. But like- where would they go, I guess?

I’m so excited about CR in Australia you guys.

#my art #critical role #official art

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swordgrace · 3 months ago

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❝ 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐥, 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after your husband returns from battle in the riverlands, you share a rather passionate moment together.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robb stark x baratheon!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.8K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), smut with fluff, lots of teasing and sweet banter, robb is a chronic yearner, hint of dirty talk, making out, hair pulling, wet robb (he was in the rain), unprotected p in v sex, obligatory stark breeding kink, missionary position + prone bone, scratching, biting, robb is horrendously down bad.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I wrote this because I was rewatching S2 of Game of Thrones and got hot & bothered. End of story. I have a lot of smaller works like this in-progress! I feel like this is not good as my usual stuff but y’know! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Tides of thunder echoed over tempestuous skies, darkened by a deluge, lightning piercing wisps of veiled cloud, akin to slicing steel. Rain fell in gray sheets, bathing the Riverlands in a bitter chill, encampment blanketed by an assailing squall.

For a sennight, the weather had raged, weeping icy tears onto both Stark and Lannister armies.

Murky were the marshlands of the Riverlands, the Green Fork’s banks now laden with silty earth and sunken grass; still, the deluge persisted without any end in sight.

Despite the sour conditions of the outside world, you were fortunate to remain within the sanctuary of your tent, one shared with your husband, Robb Stark. The King in the North valiantly took to the battlefield, blood hot with the surge of war, desiring to sink his fangs into Lannister footsoldiers.

Worry often stirred within your heart, concerned for his wellbeing — it didn’t begin that way. At first conception of your betrothal, you and Robb began as acquaintances, a Baratheon and a Stark, a byproduct of Robert’s longstanding relationship with the late Lord Eddard.

Sometimes, the sting of discomfort lingered; two youths spouting oaths thrust upon them by their forebears. Now, you often prayed for Robb’s safe return, pleading to the Seven that he would be unscathed, his safety paramount.

Without Robb, you had nothing — no allies, no friends, and no family.

Robb had treated you exceedingly well, his gentleness disarming yet gallant when it came to you, his heart honorable yet steeped in vengeance. He had grown fond of you, if not adoring, and you grew rather attached, in turn.

Thunder snarled at your doorstep, an ugly rippling that shook the skies, made them tremble in terror. A shiver passed through you as whistling gales shrieked outside, your tent well-fortified, but the torrential downpour proved to be a relentless beast, drenching any who stood within its path.

With the hour of the wolf upon you, exhaustion had not yet nipped at your heels, nervousness keeping you awake. It became difficult to seek true respite when Robb was away, and you feared that if you closed your eyes, he would slip from your grasp while you slept.

Busying yourself with menial tasks, you took to reading, swathed in his cloak, one given to you nearly a moon ago; a woodland scent clung to thick pelts. A silken nightgown accentuated your frame, hidden beneath wolf’s fur, your bed something of a refuge.

Candlelight flickered, wavering in the midst of the storm’s fury, an orange glow spreading warmth throughout the pavilion’s interior. A sharp clap of thunder made you lurch forward, gooseflesh icing your spine, grip tightening upon your book.

Concern festered violently within your belly, a volatile sensation, one that brought you not a shred of comfort. It made you sick, worrying about Robb to such an unhealthy degree, but you couldn’t help it — war was cruel, as unforgiving as it was callous, culling sheep to the butcher’s block.

As you turned the page, parchment proved to be a rather uninteresting diversion, more vexing than it was intriguing. If it weren’t for your current state, swaddled comfortably within the furs, you might’ve been pacing, restlessness akin to some plague, haunting your every step.

Rest eluded you, until it didn’t.

Unable to recall when you had drifted off, book splayed open within your lap, your position indicated that you had fallen asleep amidst your worrying. You kept yourself angled toward the tent’s mouth, hoping to see Robb emerge at some point during the night.

The Young Wolf’s victory was hard-fought, an ambush through the thick of dusk, effectively dismantling Jaime Lannister’s host entirely, the Kingslayer now taken captive. Men had been taken in the process, such was the heavy toll of war, a burden he now shouldered as King.

Eager to return to you, Robb moved through the pavilion’s burlap flaps, shouldering past the canvas as he stepped inside, auburn curls plastered to his skull. Soaked to the bone, the warmth of his quarters was a welcome relief, chest heaving with a soft exhale.

Cerulean hues waded through his surroundings, finding your slumbering form huddled within his cloak, brows furrowed even as you slept. Affection swelled within his heart, a sentiment he did not think himself capable of, many moons ago.

With hushed footfalls, Robb silently rustled about, desiring to let you have your rest. As much as he longed to rouse you, he knew the toll this war had taken on you, as much as it did him. Unburdening himself of damp furs, he stepped closer, within arm’s reach of you.

Calloused fingertips lightly traced your crown, as soft as a doe, a threadbare smile painting his rugged countenance as he lowered himself onto the feathered paillasse. In a wordless rapture, he ogled your visage, a thing of true beauty, tresses somewhat mussed from sleep.

Fingers remained tense within his cloak, as if you clung to it even when dormant, cheek pressed against the pillow. He found you enchanting, beguiling — if it weren’t for your Baratheon blood, you might’ve made a bewitching sorceress.

Robb’s warm gaze shifted toward the book, nestled comfortably beside your lap, parchment parted to reveal the page you’d left off on. Each shallow sigh you took exuded sweetness, visage worn with inklings of worry, the rest of it somewhat peaceful.

Beyond the tent, the tempest screamed into the night, washing away the blood of both Stark and Lannister into the Green Fork. Dampened leathers clung to him, soaked through coarse linens beneath, the feeling a touch discomforting.

Auburn curls remained slick with rain, droplets continuing to roll from his temples; carrying with him the scent of petrichor and firewood, tinged with faint copper. As his fingertips graced the soft plane of your cheek, he lightly brushed aside locks of hair, relieving them from your brow.

Stirring from hibernation, a low hum tumbling past your lips, limbs aching with the heaviness of sleep. Robb did not intend to wake you, though it seemed much too late for that, his caress rousing you from what appeared as a deep slumber.

“Robb?” With a groggy croak, your lashes fluttered in rapid succession, brows still creased as you readjusted to your surroundings. To your complete surprise, there he sat, soaked as if he’d been wading through an ocean.

“I didn’t intend to wake you.” Robb’s Northern timbre hung heavy with an apology, thumb gingerly caressing your jaw as you moved to sit. Before another remark could escape him, your arms flung around him, drenched or not, clinging to him in an embrace as hot as fire.

“I don’t care,” Breathless, you refused to yield, nearly crushing him against you, if there were plausible. One palm settled atop the small of your back, the other cradling the base of your skull, calloused digits perusing through your satiny tresses. “I prayed for your safe return.”

He missed you terribly, more than he truly thought possible — Robb yearned for your presence, away on the banks of the Fork, dreaming of returning to you with each clash of steel.

Rugged lips peppered your temples, foreheads brushing against the other as he held you tightly. With each inhale, you breathed him in, fearing he might dissipate from your grasp.

“It was a hard-fought victory,” Ice-laden breath plumed across your brow as Robb exhaled, brow stalwart. “A blow hard enough to knock the wind from Tywin Lannister.” A pang of venom snaked through his words as he mentioned the Lannisters.

It was Joffrey’s head he wanted — golden crown mounted upon a spike, Lannister dead littering the South, wolves howling. The death of Eddard Stark was still an open wound, its sting evergreen, heart continuing to bleed in the wake of such atrocities committed against his family.

Empathy wept from your being, understanding of Robb’s plight, of his desire to purge the Lannisters and avenge Lord Stark’s passing. “I am thankful that you returned safely — unscathed, I should hope.” A sigh creased with worry left you, palms splayed across his chest.

A bemused chuckle escaped him as you surveyed for any injuries, only to find an endless sea of wet clothing and taut muscle — he must’ve been caught within the storm for hours. Caged beside him, you felt such relief, knowing that he was safe. “I am unharmed, I promise.”

“Gods, Robb — you are completely drenched,” An ebullient laugh spilled from your mouth, a heavenly sound that caused his breath to hitch. He smirked in the wake of your innocuous observation, azure hues dancing precociously. “You must be freezing.”

“Better now, thanks to you.” A twinkle of mischief sparkled within his gaze, the adrenaline of battle beginning to dissipate, leaving only a blossoming sense of triumph. Mouths gently sought another, tangling together for a soft kiss, one that roused a flame within his heart.

Wreathed in a thinly-veiled desire, Robb’s kiss echoed wantonly through your marrow, culling desire to the surface. Hands steadied themselves against your hips, reveling at your body, the way you molded yourself to him without a shred of hesitation.

Droplets of dew trickled onto your nose, the remains of the deluge still rolling from his tresses. He felt your smile, tangible against his mouth, thumb drawing circles to the swell of your waist. Still, his lips did not falter, growing with fervency.

It was you who withdrew first, fingertips ghosting over his countenance, over the light dusting of freckles beneath his eyes. From the first glimpse of your husband, you found him captivating, more handsome than any before him.

“You smell of wet wolf,” Tinged with amusement, the gentle lull of your cadence set his nerves ablaze, a huff leaving him as he playfully nipped at your bottom lip. “Robb! You must change!” Weak protests did little to deter your husband, who planted a kiss to your throat.

“As my lady commands.” Teasingly, his teeth scraped over your flesh before he departed, amusement clinging to his expression. It was comforting to return to you this way — despair nonexistent, with a sense of reprieve.

Moving from your bed, Robb went about unfastening his breastplate, prying leather aside, hoping to let it dry sometime on the morrow. It was the dead of dusk, the wolf’s hour, and yet he remained unburdened by exhaustion, instead replaced by exhilaration.

In rapturous silence, you sheepishly ogled your husband from where you sat, wandering eyes finding favor in his toned musculature. Robb was lean and hungry, a man turned wolf, tossing his tunic over the back of a wooden chair.

A generous smattering of freckles blanketed his back, pale flesh like marble, carved from stone. Dusky-auburn hair peppered his chest, like kisses of fire, broad shoulders turned a sculpture through smoldering candlelight.

Even from where he stood, your smitten hues pierced through him, as sharp as any blade, though it lacked such malice. Pearlescent teeth flashed in your direction, a knowing grin as he searched for a dry doublet, bare above the waist.

“You lack subtlety, my Lady.” Robb scoffed, catching you in the act, wolfish teeth around your throat. Words turned to ash upon your tongue, any retort smothered within your mouth, then and there. Instead, your features warmed as if it were a midsummer’s day.

Floating from the bedstead, you stepped forward, retrieving a cloth as you placed it atop his head, attempting to dry his soaked curls. “Perhaps it wasn’t my intention to be subtle, but for you to know that I find you painfully handsome.” With a sweeter remark, he found it difficult to tease you.

Allowing you to lavish him in plentiful sentiments, his frame shook with laughter, attempting to remain lighthearted in the wake of such a monumental victory. “Painfully handsome,” He parroted, a coarse tunic hanging between his fingers. “Is that so?”

As you dragged the swath of cloth over his crown, Robb stilled, chest reverberating with a subtle grunt. He found solace in your embrace, one that remained endlessly gentle, collecting rainwater from his tresses. Thumbs traced circles near his temples, swiping droplets aside.

“I may revoke my compliment if you continue to vex me,” Despite the playful lilt of your warning, Robb withheld a grin, curls now disheveled, partially dampened even still. Draping the cloth over the back of his neck, your wrist became ensnared within his grasp. “Robb.”

“Vex you? I dare not evoke your scorn,” A hint of a smirk betrayed his stony countenance, pearlescent teeth glinting, catching upon a sliver of dwindling light. Calloused digits stroked your flesh, gaze softening as you hid beneath your lashes. “You’re incredibly beautiful.”

A smile as gentle as springtime warmed your features, visage glittering with a thinly-veiled jubilation, heart fluttering beneath your breast. It was the very same smile he’d become enamored with in the beginning of your betrothal.

Robb brought you closer, able to catch your saccharine scent, an amalgamation of honeyed florals. “Is that so?” The tenderness of your cadence was unmistakable.

A low huff rippled through his throat, lips parting in incredulity, admiring both your charming wit and beguiling appearance. Songs would be sung of your beauty, regaled by those you glimpsed you; he found himself to be exceedingly fortunate.

Bewitched, Robb’s lips bridged the distance, already worn thin after he’d coaxed you closer. Mouths became immersed in a mutual heat, a dance of hearts — you succumbed so very quickly to it all, hands clamoring to hold fast against his nape.

A muscled arm slithered around your hips, caging you in against him, physique still damp from soaked garments. Even then, he warmed in your presence, exuding heat of a different breed, one born of desire that lingered within your heart and his.

His mind neglected to linger upon the hardships of war, with little desire to tarry within battle — instead, losing himself within your lips seemed a better fate than many. Awe glistened within your hues, a gaze that held an immeasurable affection, fingers interlaced between his shoulders.

Whatever frustrations he had coiled themselves into his muscle, anguish turned into action, crushing it all beneath the weight of your adoration. It was difficult to maintain any shred of propriety, throat rippling with a grunt as his teeth snagged across your bottom lip.

Steady hands knead eagerly into the swell of your hips, blood singing wantonly as the two of you unceremoniously clamor for your shared bed. Furs kiss flesh, nightgown still concealing your body from him, though it doesn’t seem to last for very long.

“Robb,” A gasp of startlement slips from you, thoroughly enthralled by his sudden blaze of furious desire, mouth as ravenous as a wolf. Kisses trail from your jaw to throat, jugular blanketed in passionate pecks and teasing nips. “Whatever is the matter?”

He knows you tease him, but he’s relentless, burrowing between your thighs as you welcome him with a thinly-concealed glee. “You,” Robb huffs, fire etched into your collar as he lavishes you in endless kisses, hands wrestling with silk and velvet. “A pretty distraction, you are.”

Lacking any malice, you feel his physique quiver with laughter, countenance alight with lascivious amusement. It eases your nerves, giggles tapering off into delighted sighs as he unburdens you of your nightgown, swatting the gaudy fabrics aside.

Gossamer curls around your frame, material dangerously transparent, candlelight casting you waning embers. His breath hitches, a subtle sound that fades as soon as it occurs, cerulean gaze beset by a fervent ardor.

The soft peaks of your breasts pebble beneath your shift, though it is of little consequence to your husband, who eases it down to place his mouth against your chest. A moan draws from your lips, gooseflesh icing your spine.

A strong, firm hand palms at your thigh, roughened digits grazing beneath the hem of your shift, guiding the fabric toward your hips. As Robb lovingly caresses the length of your leg, your hands tangle against his nape, raking through damp, auburn curls.

The scratch of his beard prompts you to gnaw at the flesh of your cheek, a sensation that leaves naught but ash in its wake, arousal beginning to stir within your belly. A wolfish hunger claws at Robb, lips descending upon your breast, lavishing satiny flesh in countless kisses.

Legs shift against him, thighs haplessly squeezing at his leather-clad hips, nails sinking into his skin. A blissful whimper erupts through your diaphragm, taking with it each wisp of air, lungs stinging with exhilaration.

“Robb!” A moan, strangled within your throat; desire screams within your marrow, as violent as the crash of a tidal wave, heat flooding your insides. He has only been with you, and yet he seems well-versed, practiced in navigating your body.

Lips release your breast from his maw, mouth raking fiery kisses through your sternum, teeth piercing soft skin as he trails towards your mouth once more. Hands fly to the leather ties of his breeches, swift and needy, aiming to cement this heated tryst.

Arousal warms your nethers, belly rolling into taut coils of excitement, bodies flush, the space between all but nonexistent. It is all done in some frenzy, nerves crackling with fire as you keep your legs parted, shift disheveled, fabric wrenched in all directions.

The hotblooded fervor of youth prevails, wanton need exchanged between your flesh, all heat and desire. Through the brief clamor of Robb wrangling against leather trousers enough to free his cock, you coax him in for a kiss, his smile palpable through joined lips.

Outside, the deluge continues its torrential assault, winds whipping against sturdy canvas, the onslaught of the tempest providing ample ambiance. A strangled moan pierces your lungs as his cock presses against your petals, swollen head dragging through a time or two.

A breathy ‘fuck’ spilled from his lips, caught between wanton sighs and groans of rapture. The warmth between breath and body kept you feeling feverish, and you hitched one leg around his hips, evoking a growl from your wolfish paramour.

Translucent fabric pools around the swell of your hips, cunt growing slick with your nectar as Robb briefly dips his hand between you, a chuckle resonating through him. As deft fingers rake embers over your nethers, you writhe, unable to mask the choked whine that splits your diaphragm.

“Already?” Robb taunts, more loving and mischievous than cruel, pressing a hot, sharp kiss to the sensitive flesh beneath your jaw. “Didn’t have to touch you for it.” The naked reality of his amorous truth makes you flush, with no retort to make the embarrassment any less.

There is no place to hide from his smoldering stare, merely averting your gaze instead, but he’s swift to intercept, mouth reaffirming its hold upon you. Each kiss is a shockwave, rattling through your bones, bringing with it a fire that demands to be squashed.

“You are cruel.” Your words hold no bite to them, spoken through a partial moan that makes him yearn, ravenous lust festering within him like a plague. Teeth capture your bottom lip briefly, your eyes doelike and permeated by crystalline ardor.

Robb chuffs, the noise possessing a playful lilt as his thumb briefly circles the pearl of your cunt, toying with the clutch of nerves. “Am I?” His Northern timbre fills your stomach with molten heat, coalescing between your thighs as you suppress a hapless whimper.

Through half-lidded lashes, your gaze falls upon Robb with incredulity, lips parting as bliss unfurls from your visage. Any jocular feeling seems to dissipate, giving way to a sudden neediness, his cock incessantly urging against your nethers with wanton desire.

Azure hues burn with lust intermingled with adoration, no longer veiled as it sits heavy upon his rugged countenance. Lips hungrily capture your own, his position readjusting as a firm hand parts your legs, kneading over the plush flesh of your thigh.

Hips lightly rut forward, the friction crackling between flush bodies, evoking a sharp moan from your mouth. A grunt stirs from his chest, akin to the feral snarl of a wolf, ensuring that you’re comfortable before he begins to tilt forward.

A sob of delight wracks through your frame, a shiver slithering along your spine as Robb groans, burying his mouth into the hollow of your shoulder.

As he moves forward, his cock beginning to sheathe itself within your cunt, your nails dig crescents into the nape of his neck, back arching forward.

Carnality consumes you like some blistering fever, sinking its talons into you, as sharp as knives that stab at your belly. Robb’s passion is one you revel in, knowing his appetite is often an insatiable thing, one that you gleefully partake in.

Everything is heated, desirous — flesh to flesh, hearts clawing for one another, limbs entangled. A well-fought victory made his blood run with adrenaline’s cry, coupled with his own ardor for you, something that he no longer is shy in sharing.

Canines nip at the satiny flesh of your shoulder, hot breath pluming over your skin, causing you to shudder as he adopts a sluggish rhythm, allowing you a moment to relax. Digits grip at the auburn curls of his nape, countenance flourishing with inklings of bliss.

“Robb,” A breathy sigh tumbles from your lips, clinging to him as if you were drowning, body aching for him in every way imaginable. His ministrations are deliberate, rhythm drawn-out, intended to torment you. “Please.”

Foreheads brush against one another, his chest stinging with an incendiary want, brows creased in concentration. It is a slow incline, hips rutting against yours, friction simmering, akin to a flame roaring to life.

A low, animalistic groan tears through his maw, sending a cascade of shivers throughout your body, born of a tantalizing excitement. With each sluggish rut of his hips, you feel everything, his cock rocking into you with a rhythm that only seems to climb higher, higher still.

In the wake of war, it is you he dreams of, thoughts constantly torn asunder, between the mantle of an unwanted leadership and being your husband. It is not an easy task, this balance — yet, he finds himself wishing to forsake his kingly duties, if it meant a second spent within your presence.

Sighs tangle together in a heated snare, flesh joining, a fervent heat slithering between bodies. One hand departs from his tresses, reaching for his forearm, muscle taut beneath your fingertips as digits intertwine, now pressed into the furs.

Robb’s grunts are strained with pleasure, intensity building as he seizes your leg, hitching it further around his hips, angle deepening. A blissful cry emerges from your lips, visage contorted into one of ecstasy as the newfound position makes your heart shriek with desire.

“I thought of you, while away,” The husky cadence of his lull stokes a volatile fire within you, belly coiled into knots of excitement. Words plume against your collar, whispered like some fiery brand, emblazoned upon your heart. “Wanting to feel your body.” A growl sent shivers through your spine.

Awestruck surprise rippled through your brow, gaze briefly locking with his own, subservient to the starving rapture that lingered within his eyes. A darkened, auburn beard scratched ragged against your countenance, lips marred by another kiss, enough to rip the air from your lungs.

Candlelight wavered, casting pools of an ember glow across his flesh, now dappled with perspiration and remnants of rainwater. Mouths clashed in a passionate duel, poured with a thinly-veiled desperation, thigh quivering within his grasp.

Rooted within you, Robb’s hips withdrew, enough to rut forward with a sense of urgency, filling you to the brim with his cock. Lewd, crass noises reverberated in the haze of heat that enveloped you, his thrusts gathering in rhythm, becoming more invigorated, ardent. Hands squeezed another, anchored firmly beside your head.

“Gods, I need you,” It was nearly forced from you, choking upon a delighted sob that wretched from your lips, which clamored for his own. A low whimper left you as he snapped forward, letting passion and want pour into each ministration, cock sheathing itself inside of your aching cunt. “Robb!”

Heat persisted even still, gazes meeting with such ardor, causing you to shiver beneath his stare. Arousal permeated between your thighs, slick and ambrosial, the scent of coupling invading your senses.

A shudder wracked him, as sharp as steel as your nethers clenched around him, taking him perfectly, as if you were molded entirely for him. Nails pressed crimson indents into his back, nearly scratching at his pale flesh as he continued to urge forward, cock kissing your womb.

“Turn over.” Filled with a strenuous impetuosity, an urgency that is nearly a whine, you obey with a sudden swiftness, clamoring to move onto your stomach. He does not take you callously, blanketing your body with his own, chest flush to your back.

Fiery lips brand themselves to your shoulder, forehead brushing over your dampened flesh, a moan tearing through your throat as he enters you once more. It is laden with haste, actions done in a flurry of passion, your legs spread apart as he thrusts with a wanton vigor.

Still, your hands are interlocked at one side, the other fisting at the sheets, Each rut of his hips are drawn-out, deliberate; it is a lascivious torture that torments the both of you, cunt tightening pathetically around his length.

It was this intense pace that you so adored, craved — it kept you grounded, made you understand the depths of his growing devotion. A breathy string of expletives flutters from your lips, joined by his cacophony of low grunts, steaming sighs pluming over your shoulder.

Within your belly, a fire stirs, billowing into a blissful oblivion — arousal coalesces between your thighs, a slick ambrosia that only seems to grow. Robb groans, pressing a string of kisses to the space between your shoulders, teeth grazing over unblemished flesh.

Grunts continued to spill beside your ear as he reached his peak, but you were already there. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, crying out to the heavens. A sharp moan punctured your lungs, lips agape as your hips erratically rocked into the furs.

Calloused digits flexed against your own, and you met your release with a haze of white, a blinding heat that nearly dazed you. It was sticky and desirous, a union of bodies that had craved another, come to find their respite in such salaciousness.

“Robb!” A sweet moan left you as you reached your pinnacle, and he joined you, hips thrusting forward once more, gentler and steady. A coil of heat began to unfurl within the both of you, bodies constantly shifting against the other, an amalgamation of friction.

With an incessant throbbing, he released his seed within you, painting your insides with a wave of warmth. He kissed your shoulder even still, visage momentarily buried against the crook of your neck, beard scratching ragged along the hollow of your throat.

Lungs burned as the both of you gasped for air, caught within the aftermath, an afterglow so satisfying that it brought some semblance of light to your shared tent. Robb allowed himself to stay sheathed within you for a moment more, lips curling into a smile.

Clinging to composure, he sluggishly tumbled to his back, propped up against the pillows, allowing you to be absolved of his weight. As you reached for your shift, he canted his head to one side, unable to suppress his bemused grin.

“Getting dressed already?” Teasingly, he reached for you, arms caging in around you as he tugged you backward, though the garment was already halfway settled upon your frame. “Hiding won’t change anything.”

Laughter spilled from your lips, tapering into squeaks of amusement as he planted messy kisses all over your neck. “Stop it!” Despite your numerous protests, they seemed to fall upon deaf ears as he eased you against his chest.

With a warm chuckle, Robb decided to let it rest, tugging you into the expanse of his body, feeling your cheek press along his collar. “You are so beautiful,” He murmured, hand moving to idly massage your hip, inhaling a gust of your scent. “Very beautiful.”

“Hm,” A gentle hum fluttered from you, head canting upwards, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Do you think that this deluge will pass?” It was an idle inquiry — this raging tempest had struck a sliver of fear into you, the rain howling outside, a clap of thunder piercing black skies.

“Soon, I think,” Robb’s eyes began to crinkle. “Why? Does it frighten you, my wife?” His teasing was endearing, a persistent banter that had always felt so effortless between you, something lighthearted to remove the edge of frustration. If he did not jest often, he became overwhelmed with anguish.

“No,” You mumbled, wincing at the flash of lightning that pooled through the burlap canvas, earning you a warm laugh from your Northern paramour. “A little, perhaps. That is why I have you to shield me from the storm.” Lips curled into an ebullient smile, and Robb was enthralled.

Beguiled, the Young Wolf planted a kiss to your brow, a comforting gesture. “I’ll keep you safe — I can promise you that.” It was a solemn oath made in the throes of youth, a determination that Robb wore as a cloak.

When the first splinter of dawn had struck down the black tides of the storm, bringing with it glitters of daylight, he kept you safe, even still.

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