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cevansbrat0007 · 1 year ago

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A Man Starved

Summary: Ari lives for the taste of you on his tongue...

Warnings: Mature Themes, Ari Being A Menace, Smut, Manhandling, Oral Sex (fem rec), Light Rimming, References to Anal Sex (mentioned), CMNF, Ass Slapping, Pussy Slapping, Light Edging, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: This fic is part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Takes place directly after the events in Off the Market. Not beta'd. Not beta'd. All mistakes my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

You were working on borrowed time. Shaking your head, you reach for another plate as you take your time cleaning up after dinner. All that was left after you finished the dishes was wiping down the range.

The floors looked good, which meant that you could probably get away without sweeping. You’d already convinced Ari to invest in the magic that was a Swiffer WetJet. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to do a quick touch-up.

Your eyes stray to the clock, noting the increasingly late hour. Ari could afford to be patient for a little while longer. If anything he was probably exhausted after the busy day you’d had, what with the shopping spree and the hour long drive back home to Bell’s Creek.

He was probably half asleep by now. Meanwhile, you were secretly dreaming about the next time you’d be able to enjoy another one of those hand-dipped milkshakes like the one you’d had at lunch. Preferably without that damned Stella.

Your lip curls into a snarl at the memory of your waitress. Having to stomach that heifer’s attempt to flirt with your man had left you feeling madder than a wet settin’ hen.

You yank the Swiffer out of the closet, jumping backwards as the broom clatters to the floor. Shit. Perhaps you were still a touch riled up. You’re just about to lean down to pick it up when you feel two large hands settle on your hips.

“Yeah?” You huff out.

“I’ve been patient long enough.” Ari rasps. “Time for bed, sweet Bird.” Soft, warm lips skim along the curve of your throat, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Let’s go.”

“Ten more minutes and I’m all yours.” You assure him as your pulse kicks up, the familiar feeling of butterflies dancing in your belly.

“No.” That one word has your spine stiffening in rebellion.

“Patience.” You remind him, shimmying out of his grasp while still clutching the Swiffer. “Some might even say it’s a virtue. I think I heard that in a movie or something. Can’t quite remember where, but I’d like to think it’s still a good rule of thumb.”

You continue to prattle on as you set down the mop to search for a new bottle of cleaning solution found under a nearby cabinet.

“Already told you, baby.” Ari growls, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “I’m all outta patience.” He reaches for you then, needing to touch you. Wanting to feel the softness of your submission as your body melts for him.

“Ari…” You blow out an unsteady breath as your pussy spasms, your empty walls clenching around nothing.

“You made me wait all day for a taste of you.” Your man purrs at the same time as he grabs the edges of his faded black t-shirt before tugging it over his head, revealing his brawny hair-covered chest. “You wouldn’t let me have you earlier. I admit I didn’t like it very much at the time. A man needs his fix, you know? Especially after watching you show off all those sweet curves during our trip today.”

Frankly, even he’s surprised that he’s been able to last as long as he has. You have no idea just how close he was to snapping and simply taking what he felt was owed to him.

Especially after he’d spent the entire afternoon fantasizing about splaying you out on his kitchen table and getting lost between your luscious thighs. He’d already gone too long without the taste of you on his tongue.

And if Ari was being honest, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able last another minute without you – let alone ten of them. Something had to give.

And that something was you.

“Surely you can wait until I finish mopping, can’t you?” You whisper, scarcely recognizing the sound of your own voice as butterflies give way to raw need under the weight of your man’s heated gaze.

You’d never had anyone look at you the way he did. And even after these last couple of months together, you still weren’t quite used to it.

“Afraid not.” Your Bounty Hunter is quick to shake his head “no”. And he doesn’t look the least bit ashamed of it either. “Time to feed me, Duchess.” His wolfish grin sends ripples of desire coursing through you, straight to your dripping core. “I’ve spent all day thinking about all the ways I plan to wreck that greedy little pussy.”

His intoxicating blue eyes dip to your waist as he growls low in his throat. You were wearing too many clothes for his liking, which meant your pink cotton panties and matching satin nightdress were about to be a thing of the past.

“Y–you have?” You stammer as he begins to approach, his sinewy muscles bunching and moving as he bridges the distance between you. The next thing you know, he’s standing in front of you, his sinful lips hovering mere inches above yours.

“I wasn’t joking earlier when I asked you to stay the night. I sleep best after I’ve spent the evening getting all tangled up in the sheets with my woman.” Ari leans in to nuzzle your nose with his, eliciting a quiet whimper from you. “Never had anyone as sweet as my stubborn little Bird.”

Your grip on the Swiffer goes slack as you allow it to fall to the floor, your hands going to rest on Ari’s thick biceps to keep yourself upright. Because at this point, the man’s ability to make your legs turn to jelly might as well be his goddamn superpower.

“And I’ve never had anyone like you.” You murmur before rising on your toes to give him a swift, but meaningful kiss. “Never had my very own Beast of a man who makes me weak in the knees on what feels like a daily basis.” You’re rewarded for your honesty with another nuzzle, this one accompanied by a sharp hint of teeth, signaling that Ari was close to his breaking point. “And if you give me just two more minutes, I promise to show you just how much I appreciate – oooh!”

Your words end in a scream when your Hunter bends down to throw you over his shoulder. Your world tilts on its axis yet again as he turns on his heel and strides off in the direction of the bedroom. “Put me down, damn you!” You screech as you pound fists pounding on his back.

Not hard enough to do any real damage, but just enough to be annoying.

“I warned you, sweetness. I did.” Ari delivers a resounding slap to your upturned ass, loving your little whine of protest. “Told you I needed my fix. It’s just not right to let a man starve the way I have.”

Of course he would paint himself as the victim in all of this. Nothing unusual there.

Thirty seconds later you find yourself flying through the air as he unceremoniously tosses you on the bed. You didn’t know this, but there’s a small part of him that takes special pleasure in watching you bounce on the padded surface.

After all, you’d brought this on yourself. And as such, he was certain there wasn’t a jury in the world who would convict him for all the dirty things he was about to do to your delectably curvy body.

Ari’s head cocks to the side as he watches you sit up, your hardened nipples peeking through the thin material of your nightdress. A low hum of appreciation escapes when you reach up to readjust the silky garment, exposing even more of your cleavage.

Oh yeah. Tonight was about to get downright filthy.

“I suppose I brought that on myself. I should’ve known better than to…” You trail off, smoothing your hands along your sides before pulling yourself up on your knees. “Shame on me for treating you so insensitively.”

“I take it that was your version of an apology?”

You nod sheepishly, a light blush warming your cheeks. And now it’s your turn to watch as a slow, devilish smirk spreads across your Hunter’s chiseled features.

Fuck. If your panties weren’t soaked before, they definitely were now.

“Well, sweetheart, as nice as that was…” Ari’s large hand moves to cup his impressive erection, giving himself a squeeze through his boxers. “I’m afraid I can’t accept.” He chuckles softly, not missing the way your eyes glaze over with lust as he continues to touch himself.

“Why not?” You rasp, your pink tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip. “I promise to be more mindful.” You reach for him then, intending to drag his big body down onto the bed with you. “I hate the thought of you being made to suffer all day long the way you have.” You give him your best pout, bating your eyelashes at him as you do.

It earns you nothing.

“You wanna make it up to me, Bird?” His nostrils flare as he breathes deep, almost as if he can scent your arousal. “Then I think it’s time I finally got my taste, don’t you?” His smirk returns when you nod once more.

Your eager hands fly to the hem of your gown, lifting it over your head and tossing it to the side before your man can so much as blink. You briefly hesitate before repeating the same action with your panties, all but ensuring they would survive this erotic encounter.

“Fucking beautiful.” Ari rasps, his voice coming out hoarse. “Every single fucking inch of you.” He motions for you to turn and face away from him. “But right now, I’m dying to see you on your hands and knees for me.”

“But I–”

“Hush.” Your Beast commands, effectively cutting you off. “If you want me to believe your apology is sincere then you’ll shut that sweet mouth and do as you’re fucking told.” While there’s no bite to his words, they still make you shiver nonetheless.

Ari smacks your left flank as you scramble to do as you’re told. Goosebumps rise across your heated flesh as you give him your back, your bare bottom on full display.

“Good girl.” Comes his silky purr. “Push that ass up for me. Now spread your thighs a little more – yeah, that’s it. There’s that pretty fucking pussy you’ve been keeping from me.” You find yourself preening at his praise, your slick coating your inner thighs.

“I…please touch me, Beast.” You whine, your body trembling with need. “Please.” You allow your head to droop when Ari finally joins you, the bed dipping beneath his delicious weight.

But your relief, however, is short-lived.

“Tonight I’m gonna give you as much of me as you can take.” He growls, his slightly calloused palms possessively rubbing and kneading the generous globes of your ass. “And I’m not gonna stop until I’ve had my fill…”

A tiny whimper escapes when Ari parts your cheeks, exposing your drenched pussy and puckered hole to his gaze. You jump when he uses one long, thick finger to part your slippery folds so that he can toy with your sensitive little clit.

“Can’t say when that’s gonna be, baby.” He swirls the pad of his finger over the nub, making your hips arch as white hot pinpricks of pleasure dance along your spine. “Because as you know, I've worked up quite the appetite.”

“S’okay!” You cry as you attempt to bear down, wishing he would add another finger. Or at the very least allow you to ride his thigh or something. Last time you tried that you came so hard you’d–

Your thought stream is interrupted by the sudden feeling of something hot and wet taking the place of your man’s fingers. Although you try to pull away, Ari’s grip on your hips remains steady, making it clear that you weren’t going anywhere without his explicit permission.

Leaving you with no doubt that you'd also be sporting a fresh set of bruises before the night was over.

And you can’t help the sweet moan that gets stuck in your throat when he briefly pulls away long enough spit on your tight, virgin hole before brushing his finger along the rim. “Can’t wait to take you here too.” He snarls, tracing along the seam with his wicked tongue. “Gonna make you mine in every way that counts.”

“Ooh! Christ, Ari, I fuck–!”

You’d never had a man do that to you before. Anything involving your ass had always been off limits. Until now.

A fresh wave of arousal has you trying to rub your thighs together, hoping to obtain some kind of relief in spite of your torture. Your hand slaps down hard on the bed when Ari buries his face between your thighs once more.

He takes his time devouring you, savoring your essence with each frenzied stroke of his tongue. This man planned to enjoy every sob, every moan, every cry of pleasure he rang from your body before this night was over.

In hopes that you would think twice before denying him again. For depriving him of all your sweetness.

“So sweet.” Ari’s eager tongue continues to lap at your passion-swollen cunt, his eyes rolling backwards in carnal bliss. “Always so fucking sweet.” The compliment comes on the heels of a desperate growl. It’s peppered by several sharp smacks, each one harder than the next.

Tears spring to your eyes as he continues to drink you down, the filthy wet sounds of his sensual feast echoing throughout his bedroom. Your hands fist the covers as you try to crawl away, only to be dragged back into position seemingly without him so much as even breaking a sweat.

“Please!Please!Oh, fuck, right there!Please!” You chant over and over like a fevered prayer. “God, yes!”

Your voice sounds hoarse, even to your own ears. But you don’t let that stop you. Because now that Ari had seen fit to whet your appetite, you were ready for more.

A hell of a lot more.

You feel the coil tighten in your belly as your orgasm approaches. Sensing that you’re close, Ari tightens his grip on your hips, granting himself better access to your weeping pussy. God, you were so close you could taste it.

But right as you’re about to topple over the edge, Ari suddenly pulls away. The fucking rat bastard!

“But why?” You whine, turning to look at him over your shoulder, pleased to see your slick coating his bearded chin. His unrepentant grin making you want to scream.

“Aww.” Ari coos rather mockingly, his eyes alight with mischief. “What happened to patience being a virtue and all that?”

“Oh, you can fuck right off!” You snarl, attempting to twist out of his grasp so that you can rough him up.

He simply shakes his head as laughter bubbles up and out of his chest. And then he flips you onto your back, parting your thighs so that he can get himself another nice, long look at your still glistening cunt.

“Maybe later. But first, I'm gonna need another taste.” He purrs, his hand delivering a wet slap to your throbbing core. “Now be a good girl and hold these pretty thighs open for me.”

END

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theharddeck · 2 years ago

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your love is the love i need || chapter 2/4

pairing: javy machado x femme reader (no y/n), callsign Cross

summary: Cross and Javy continue their charade, try not to think about the kiss, and share secrets of heartbreaks past

warnings: 18+, minors please DNI – even though there is no smut in this chapter, there will be some in the next

length: 7.3k

A/N: once again, thank you to my anons who send inspiration, and the people who let me brainstorm with them @daggerspare-standingby (also ty for beta-ing!) @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @peakyrogers💙

previous chapter

Sunday

It’d been a productive morning, which you were choosing to believe was because you were a productive person.

Absolutely not because if you sat still for more than two seconds you started panicking.

You cleaned your kitchen—not merely putting away dishes and swiffering the floor, no, you windexed the windows of your kitchen. Outside and inside.

You ran a load of laundry for the dagger squad—after a day of dogfight football and the news that the laundromat on base had flooded, they’d dropped sandy towels, tshirts, and swimsuits off with you, promising to pay you back with coffee.

You made dough for cinnamon rolls—it took 8 hours to rise in the fridge, and you could have a good answer for “what did you do this morning?” or “and what will you do for the rest of the day?”. And in the absolute worst case scenario, you could use it as an emergency escape plan if required, but you doubted it would come to that.

You turned your closet inside out, trying to decide what kind of image you wanted to present and ultimately deciding on a sundress with a light cardigan. You were wondering if it was too on the nose when you heard a car pull up outside.

Javy’s mom probably expected him to walk to the door to fetch you and, as fun and confusing as last night had been, that wasn’t how you wanted to start today. You locked your front door quickly behind you, and were sliding into the backseat of the car before Javy was able to get out of the driver’s seat.

“Good morning!” you sang, wondering if you sounded as fake-happy as you felt.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Machado said warmly, smiling over her shoulder at you. “What did you up to this morning?”

“Ah, not much,” you lied through your teeth, pulling on your seatbelt. “I did get started on a batch of cinnamon rolls, so that’s exciting.”

“Oh, do you bake much?” she asked.

“Not at all,” you sighed, wanting to lie, but also knowing you’d be doing enough of that today, so the truth slipped out easily. “I was just nervous, so I needed something to do.”

“Sweetie,” Mrs. Machado fully turned in her seat to smile kindly at you, “you don’t need to be nervous! I’m just pleased to have time with you and get to know the other special lady in Javy’s life.”

You smiled back at her like you were reassured, when the opposite was true. You looked nervously at Javy, to find his eyes on you in the rearview mirror. You didn’t recognize the expression on his face, which did nothing to calm the butterflies in your stomach from her words, so you looked away quickly, hoping you hadn’t blown this already.

“That’s,” Javy cleared his throat, checking over his shoulder before he turned the car around, “that’s a great dress.”

“Oh, thanks,” you mumbled, flattered that he’d noticed. You supposed you didn’t wear dresses that often around the squad, so it was probably something like a shock.

“Duckie,” Mrs. Machado chided softly, “you can do better than that.”

“Momma, I don’t need—” Javy grumbled, but broke off when his mother just lifted an eyebrow. His eyes met yours in the rearview mirror again, before they darted down to the reflection of your dress, and up again.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

And it was three words, three very simple ones, but they settled deep in your skin, the kind of compliment that made the sun shine warmer. Javy looked like he meant them, too, he looked earnest and honest, which was a combination you’d never stood a chance against.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, hoping you didn’t seem flustered. After all, surely Javy would give his actual girlfriend compliments like that all the time—but you got the feeling that if he told you the same three words every day for the next fifty years, you’d still glow from them.

You looked away first again, out the backseat window to watch the car pull over the Coronado bridge. There were runners in the pedestrian lane, bright neon splotches against the bay and the sky, the same shade of gray as the morning mist hovering over the sea. North Island blurred into La Jolla, and Javy dropped you and his mom off in front of Harry’s Coffee Shop, while he looked for a spot to park the car.

Mrs. Machado linked her arm through yours, as you walked up to the restaurant and asked for a table for three. They seated you at a brown leather booth in the back and you busied yourself with the menu before recognizing Javy’s voice as he spoke to the seating hostess. You expected him to slide in next to his mom, but he sat on your side of the booth, facing her. His arm went across the back of the booth, not quite touching you, but you could feel the warmth of him through the cotton of his henley all the same.

Mrs. Machado was studying her menu, but the corners of her mouth turned up suspiciously when you pushed your menu towards Javy.

“So,” she asked brightly, once a waiter had come to drop off waters and take your order, “I want to hear your version of how first you met my son.”

Of all the questions she could have asked, you were relieved she’d chosen one that would require little to no embellishment on your part. You glanced at Javy, who was fiddling with the wrapper of his straw, somewhat embarrassedly, before looking back at Mrs. Machado.

“Well, it was right after I was assigned to this detachment,” you began. “Some guy was being creepy to this girl at a bar, I called him out on it, he wasn’t backing down. Then Javy stepped in, flexed a bit, and the guy was humbled pretty quickly.”

Mrs. Machado’s jaw dropped, looking at Javy. “I thought you met while you were playing darts!”

“We did,” he said stubbornly, and it didn’t surprise you at all that he’d downplayed his role on that night. “She came over and beat Jake—you should’ve seen his face, Momma, it was hilarious.”

“That’s when we met,” you acquiesced. “But my first impression was before that, when this guy was in full Knight In Shining Armor mode.”

“Yeah, call me Lancelot,” Javy joked, winking at his mom, like it was easier to brag than accept praise. He’d started peeling strips in the paper wrapper, a little pile of confetti forming on the glass tabletop.

“More like Galahad,” you told Mrs. Machado, who looked at you fondly. “No, seriously, it was like something out of a movie. I half expected him to have some John Wayne line like ‘I think you’d better listen to the lady’, something like that.”

“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Javy grumbled, and you shook your head.

“It was to that girl,” you insisted. “It was to me.”

You weren’t sure when you’d moved, but your hand was on his forearm, an unspoken emphasis of the weight and meaning behind your words, but you withdrew it quickly. He wasn’t looking at you, but you saw his jaw clench, looking down at the table; you looked back at Mrs. Machado, who was smiling proudly at her son.

“That’s my boy,” she said fondly.

You couldn’t help but smile at the clear affection between the two. A waiter came by with coffees, cleaning off the table and picking up Javy’s scrap pile. You felt the bench start to shake and you realized he was bouncing his leg—was he nervous? He couldn’t be. His mom seemed like the kindest person, and this story was pretty damn congratulatory.

But his leg kept moving, and it was making you nervous, so you shifted slightly, your leg resting next to his. You regretted it almost immediately—with his arm almost over your shoulders, and his long leg now pressed against yours, Javy was entirely too close to you for you to be able to complete full sentences. But his leg did still, so you figured that was better.

“Anyways, darts came after that,” you said, continuing the story. “Jake was beating him pretty embarrassingly, and I’d wanted to say thanks anyways, so I went over and introduced myself.”

Mrs. Machado poured some sugar and cream into her coffee, sliding the sugar jar down the table to you.

“Well, I’m glad I asked,” she said. “I figured there was more to the story than a bar game.”

“He may not have noticed me before then,” you shrugged, “but that’s when I saw him.”

“I noticed you,” Javy said quietly.

He didn’t seem to realize he’d said it aloud, but the table was quiet as you and Mrs. Machado stared at him. He looked between the both of you, lifting a shoulder lightly.

“Come on, are you kidding, of course I noticed you.”

And it warmed you, the same way his compliment in the car, that he’d say something so kind with absolute conviction. A tiny voice in the back of your head whispered that it wasn’t real, but his brown eyes held brightness and honesty, so you told that voice to stuff it, and turned back to Mrs. Machado.

“Well, there you have it,” you said, reaching to fix your own coffee.

Mrs. Machado smiled over the rim of her mug, looking between the two of you, before the conversation shifted. You talked about your hometown, what Javy was like growing up, how training was going between missions.

Safe conversation topics, topics without surprises.

Maybe that’s why you felt brave enough to lean back a little, relax into the warm leather of the booth, your shoulders brushing against Javy’s arm. Maybe that was why his hand dropped from the back of the booth, his thumb ghosting over the thin material of your cardigan.

The rest of the meal flew by, and you’d tried to break away after breakfast, but Mrs. Machado had insisted that you come with them as they walked around Balboa Park. So you joined them in playing tourist for the afternoon: picking out glass ornaments in the Spanish Village Art Center, coming up with names for the koi fish in the ponds at the Japanese Friendship Garden, struggling to pronounce Latin names in the Botanical Gardens.

Your phone died somewhere between the Casa de Balboa and the Old Globe Theater, and so it was Javy’s phone that you handed to strangers offering to take pictures of the three of you. The wind caught Mrs. Machado’s scarf as you were posing by the lily pond; Javy took off to chase it, and the kind tourists held out his phone to you, photo opp deferred. You thanked them, waving apologies for having interrupted their afternoon, as Javy leaned dangerously far over the pond, trying to snag where the scarf had tangled in some bulrushes.

You swiped through the pictures they’d taken, laughing at the stop-motion effect of the wind blowing her scarf away, but the pictures they got before then were cute. You minimized the camera by force of habit; you didn’t mean to look, but Javy’s background made your heart skip a beat.

It was a picture of the two of you.

Last month.

“This is the dumbest idea any of you have ever had,” Phoenix announced, to a roomful of ears that were absolutely not listening.

“Yes, but it’s team bonding,” Fritz said, dragging a stack of chairs across the Family Center. “You know how Mav feels about that.”

“THE dumbest idea,” Phoenix reiterated, “and, really, guys, that saying something.”

But she grabbed another stack of chairs.

Fanboy’s latest comfort youtube content was various Star Wars cast members on Hot Ones—the show where celebrities were interviewed while eating increasingly spicy chicken wings—and as a gag gift, Payback had gotten him a verified box of the hot sauce lineup. One thing had led to another, and now an industrial amount of wings had been delivered to the Family Center, while half the squad was raring to prove that they had the strongest tastebuds.

Or, at least, the most fireproof ones.

“So, Phoenix,” Rooster called, “is that your way of saying you’re not gonna join in?”

“Absolutely not,” she responded. “This is not a question I need answered.”

Everyone laughed, as you arranged chairs around a foldout table.

“Halo?” Hangman asked, lifting his hands in dismay when she shook her head. “What? Come on.”

“I feel like she’s protecting our dignity,” Bob said, as he carried over a couple gallons of milk and some paper cups.

Everyone looked at Callie, who smiled slightly.

“I was raised on Ma La Xiang Guo, guys,” she shrugged, pointing to a sauce with a literal skull and crossbones on the label. “I could brush my teeth with that stuff and be okay.”

“It’s all good,” Hangman said, with an impish smile as he looked between Phoenix and Halo, so you knew what he was about to say was just to goad them into reacting, “we all knew a man was going to win this anyways.”

And apparently it worked.

Because, without batting an eye, Phoenix announced, “Cross’ll do it.”

Your head whipped around as you heard your name spoken from down the table. “Cross will what now?”

“Welcome to the competition, Crossy,” Jake crowed, slapping a paper plate down in front of you.

You looked down at it. “Guys, I’m not—”

“Feminists everywhere are counting on you,” Phoenix said solemnly.

“Remember when you said this was a dumb idea?” Payback asked, and she waved a hand at him.

So that’s how you ended up sandwiched between Rooster and Harvard, eating wings doused with hot sauces that sounded like terrible porn star names, and hoping the lining of your stomach could take it.

It was fine, and then it suddenly really, really wasn’t.

Bob tapped out on the fourth one, bless him, and Omaha was out on the fifth. Rooster hung on for a couple more, Payback too, but by the time you were down to the final two sauces, it was you, Fanboy and Coyote.

“For our penultimate round, ladies and gentleman,” Hangman croaked, his voice hoarse from Da Bomb, the sauce that had knocked him out in round eight, “I present to you—Unique Garlique, by Puckerbutt Pepper Co.”

“That is not the name of the company,” you groaned, your eyes streaming.

You’d started crying around round six, and had accepted it as your fate. No way were you about to touch your eyes, and sweet Bob stood beside you with a tissue, patting at your face helpfully, but it really was no use.

“Tragically, he’s not,” Fanboy sighed, dabbing some sauce onto a wing, before passing the bottle to Coyote.

And honestly? Fuck him. Because you were actively weeping, Fanboy was sweating patches into his uniform, and Coyote looked like he’d maybe gone for a light jog. If anything, he was glistening, like some eau de perfume commercial from the early 2000s, and it really was ridiculous.

He handed the bottle to you, and you grimaced, reading the label. “How does something as innocuous as garlic somehow contain 642,000 Scoville heat units?”

“You can always tap out, if you need,” Hangman teased, and you wanted to flip him off, but that took more energy than you had to spare.

“I want you to know,” you told him, not looking up from the wing that was practically glowing with garlic poison, “that I’m channeling all of my pain into anger at you specifically, and I will win this damn thing on spite alone.”

“The American way,” Coyote said, cheersing his chicken messily into yours with supernatural enthusiasm, and then Fanboy’s.

You three took a bite.

You three chewed, thinking maybe it wasn’t so bad.

And then you three saw hell.

You could not drink enough milk, and Natasha was trying to be helpful by fanning you with a notebook, but somehow it felt like that was stoking the spiciness higher. Your mouth felt like it was actively on fire, and you were pretty sure your throat was closing up on itself.

“Holy shit,” Mickey wheezed.

“What if we just die,” Javy rasped, “what are they gonna tell our families?”

“Oh my god,” you mumbled. “Only one more, right? Then I have clear and convincing evidence that I am more of a man than Hangman could ever dream to be?”

Javy might’ve snorted beside you, but he also might’ve just been choking.

“Oh, babes, you passed that a while ago,” Callie said soothingly, rubbing your back.

“One more,” Bradley confirmed, and he slid the bottle down the table to the three of you.

The Last Dab, it was called.

You looked at the bottle—orange red, with a flame logo, and a lovely worded description that explained how it was the only hot sauce in the world made with the apollo pepper, and the Scoville heat units couldn’t even be calculated.

“Well, I have had a stunning epiphany,” Mickey said, slapping his hands on the front of his pants. “And that is that I straight up do not need this. I’m out.”

“Garcia’s out!” Omaha yelled.

“He yieldssssssssssssss,” Jake called, like he was an announcer at an internationally broadcasted sporting event, not standing in the middle of a team of dripping, miserable pilots.

You looked at Coyote.

At his ridiculously handsome face, with his ridiculously calm demeanor, with his ridiculously nonplussed expression, as he handed the bottle to you. “We doing this?”

You desperately wanted to say no.

Just go stick your head in a freezer or stand under a cold shower for the next three hours or drink your weight in orange juice until your body felt some semblance of normal. But Javy was looking at you like he was having fun, like he and you were the only ones in on this joke, and you weren’t about to walk away from that.

Also, feminism, peer pressure, all that.

“We’re doing this,” you sighed, coating the final wing.

He poured the sauce onto his wing resolutely, then shrugged, following the tradition of the show and dabbing an additional glob on top.

“Lagniappe, and all,” he muttered.

“Laissez les bon temps rouler,” you offered, those two phrases combined being the extent of the New Orleans slang that you knew. Javy flashed a smile at you as you clunked your chicken wings together in a cheers, then took a synchronized bite.

God, it was awful.

Truly horrendous, mind-bogglingly painful, and if you hadn’t already been openly weeping, this would’ve done it. The squad was going crazy. You were pretty sure Natasha was taking pictures, Jake was being an exceptionally good sport and had started clapping and the whole room was yelling, cheering like you’d won dogfight football, and for a moment, you felt it—you were on the team.

Javy caught the scarf.

He returned, brandishing the colorful fabric like a banner, and Mrs Machado patted his cheek as he helped wind it about her shoulders again. You didn’t say anything about the picture, turning off the display on his phone, before you handed it back to him, and tried to forget about it for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Machado had an evening flight and there were a few more things that Javy had wanted to show her before she left, so you thought that now would be the perfect opportunity to give them some time alone, and use your cinnamon roll excuse. You borrowed Javy’s phone to call yourself a ride, and bid your goodbyes to your fake boyfriend’s mom. She held you so close when she hugged you goodbye, making you promise to text Javy once your phone had battery again, letting them know you’d gotten safely home, and you felt guilty the whole ride back to your place.

Maybe that’s what all this was—an extension of your guilt.

Guilt had you so on edge that you’d imagined Javy being calmed by your touch this morning. And he’d probably kissed you last night because it was part of convincing his mom. And his phone background—well, the phone background was hard to explain.

It looked like the picture had been taken right before that final wing, at the impromptu competition last month. A nervous smile was on your face and you’d closed your eyes bravely. Beside you, Javy was laughing at something you’d said, his eyes on you, his expression one you didn’t remember.

But, maybe you’d remembered that wrong too.

You’d only looked at the picture for a couple of moments, and maybe there was something you hadn’t seen—Jake acting a fool or something funny that would make sense for Javy to keep it as a background.

Guilt and emotional exhaustion made a hell of a cocktail, so you let autopilot take over as soon as you got home. Plugged your phone in, rolled out cinnamon rolls, put them in the oven, cleaned the kitchen while they baked, set them on a rack to cool and clipped your hair up before you hopped in the shower. You were almost done with the arduous process of moisturizing your whole body when there was a loud knock on your door.

You made a face at your foggy reflection in the over-the-sink mirror; someone must’ve gotten the wrong address for one of your neighbors. As you readjusted the towel under your arms to continue rubbing lotion into your legs, the knocking continued.

“Wrong apartment,” you called, hoping they’d realize their mistake soon.

“Cross, come on, open up.”

You froze, recognizing that voice.

Shit.

Glancing around the still misty bathroom, you realized your clean clothes were in your bedroom, opposite of the way to the door, but you weren’t about to answer the door in a towel. Thankfully, the closet that held your washer and dryer was right next to the bathroom, and you rooted around in the dryer for the first tshirt you could find, sending a moment of gratitude to the universe that your front door had none of those filtered glass panes on it. You shoved your arms into the shirt as you struggled into some pajama shorts on your way to the door.

“What are you doing here?” you asked before the door was opened, and even then, only wide enough for your head to poke through.

Javy was leaning against the door frame, arms braced on either side of it, and you noticed his shoulders relaxed a bit when he saw you.

“You’re okay?” he asked, his eyes running over you, seemingly scanning for some nonexistent injury.

“What?” you blinked. “Yeah, I’m fine, what…”

All at once, you remembered the promise you’d made to his mother, and your phone charging in the other room, and how long it’d been since you’d gotten into the car at Balboa. You looked up at Javy, clocking the relief and stress warring in his expression.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your nose wrinkling. “I just got carried away with stuff and—”

“Is that my shirt?” Javy interrupted you, and you looked down.

It was his shirt.

You’d grabbed it out of the tumbled load in the dryer, which you now remembered was one of the last dogfight football loads.

“It was the first one I grabbed,” you said, quickly.

Javy didn’t say anything, but his hands did drop from the door so he could cross them across his chest. And he was smirking, damn it, something that should be annoying or at least not attractive, but it was, and it made you want to stomp your foot.

“It doesn’t—“ you tried again. “Don’t be weird about it, okay, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure, Cross,” he said, that lazy smile growing, and you pursed your lips, refusing to give into the impulse to smile back.

“Okay,” you said, knowing it was petty, but pointing to the phone he held in his hand, “is that my picture?”

Javy’s jaw actually dropped.

“Don’t be weird about it,” he mumbled, a moment later, stuffing his phone in his back pocket, parroting your words back to you. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

It was your turn to hum, amused.

But you did feel bad that he’d been worried enough to drive to your place, so you stepped back, opening the door to your apartment. You walked through it without waiting for Javy to follow you, heading into the kitchen to cover the cinnamon rolls, the smell of them still lingering in the air. You heard the door shut behind you, and smaller shuffling sounds as Javy toed off his shoes.

“You actually made cinnamon rolls?” he called after you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to be offended by the surprise in his voice.

“To everyone’s shock and amazement, yes,” you replied, flipping on the tap. “Want some water?”

“Sure,” Javy said, his voice closer this time, and by the time he made it to the kitchen, you had filled a glass and held it out to him. You wrapped the cinnamon rolls carefully, while Javy stayed in the doorway.

When you glanced over your shoulder at him, he was looking around your small kitchen curiously. He looked at ease, like he almost always did, with the calm aura of assurance that was deeply grounding. It was something to see him like that, in your space.

He finished the water and walked the glass over to the sink, turning to lean his hips against it. You pushed the cinnamon rolls to a corner of the counter, crossing your arms in front of you self consciously as you became aware of the casualness of your dress.

“Well,” you said, awkwardly, “thanks for checking on me. I am alive, so this has been a win for due diligence.”

Javy nodded slowly, his eyes still flitting around the kitchen, as the silence stretched.

“What if it did?” he asked, and you tried to track what that could mean, but couldn’t place it.

“Sorry, what?” you asked, confused.

Javy shrugged, his posture casual, but you noticed his hands gripping the countertop behind him.

“Mean something,” he said, before continuing as you shook your head, still confused. “My shirt. Our picture. What if…what if it meant something?”

The room felt like it’d been de-pressurized, like suddenly there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air and you couldn’t breathe.

“What?” you managed again, your voice sounding like more of a squeak than your actual voice.

Javy didn’t move from the sink, merely lifting an eyebrow while he waited for you to process what he knew you understood he was asking. It made his forehead wrinkle, which was annoying, because he couldn’t be adorable while he was tilting your world off its axis.

Your mouth felt dry and when you wet your lips, you felt Javy’s eyes dart down to watch your tongue as it slipped between your lips.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you said, your voice sounding shaky, even to your own ears, “it was really sweet having breakfast with your mom. And today was fun. And like, it was a good kiss, but it’s been like twelve hours of faking it, we can’t—”

You stopped talking when Javy pushed away from the sink, his long legs crossing the room quickly. The laid back air of earlier was gone, replaced by an intensity that seemed to crackle the air, and you backed up as he walked closer to you. Your back hit the opposite wall and you yelped quietly, but Javy didn’t stop until he was right in front of you.

He didn’t touch you, and you could’ve moved, but you both knew you wouldn’t.

Not when he leaned his forearms against the wall behind your head, his large body caging you, and all you could see, all you could focus on, was him.

“First of all,” he said, and his voice sounded different up close, like it rumbled out of him, “it wasn’t just good, and you know it.”

You knew what he meant, and his eyes darkened when you nodded, after a beat.

“Second,” Javy continued, in that same voice, and you shivered, “we’re pilots, not actors. Twelve hours…if that was all it was, neither of us would feel like this.”

You shook your head, knowing that if you let yourself imagine, just for a moment, it was going to hurt all the more.

“You said you had no plans to ask me out,” you whispered, aiming for a cavalier tone but coming up short. “That this was just the easiest lie.”

“I’d take it back if I could,” he said quickly, and you read the honesty in his eyes. “But, look, I was panicking. I’d been telling Momma about you for months and then she showed up and I had to say something before she told you how much I…before you got freaked out. I didn’t know you felt the same thing I did.”

You both desperately needed, and were terrified of, what he’d been going to say.

“This is wild,” you mumbled, your mind reeling. “You can see that, right?”

Javy smiled, the inevitable, gorgeous smile of his, and he lifted his chin a little bit. “Kiss me again.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

And you knew it wouldn’t solve anything, wouldn’t explain any of it, would probably complicate things further, but if the tradeoff was clarity or Javy’s mouth over yours, you knew what you were choosing. Your fingers curled into the front of his henley, pulling him down to you, and then you could feel that smile against your lips as he kissed you.

It was different when you weren’t two steps above him, when one of Javy’s hands fell from the wall to hold the side of your face as he kissed you. His lips were so soft, and of course he was teasing you with it, his mouth brushing over yours with light chastity until you pulled harder at his shirt and he pressed closer to you, his lips parting. At the first sweep of his tongue, your knees literally weakened and you swayed into him, your bodies coming flush together. Kissing him was dizzying, dreamy, and when you came up for air, you thought this might be your favorite sight—beautiful Javy, from this close.

You reached up to wipe at his mouth, where some of your chapstick had smudged, and he turned to press a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Told you,” you whispered, “Galahad.”

He laughed softly, another sound that was different up close, warm and deep and you wanted to hear it again. Unfortunately, Javy cleared his throat, kissing your forehead before standing up straight.

“I should get back to base,” he said, regretful but responsible. And he was right, of course, because you had drills in the morning, and whatever was between the two of you could wait another day.

“Stay,” you blurted.

You almost took it back, embarrassed of how needy it had sounded, but when you looked up at Javy, he looked almost as hopeful as you felt.

“Snuggles?” he asked, and you pressed your lips together at how freaking adorable it was, that this enormous man lit up like a kid on Christmas at the thought of something so innocent.

“If you want,” you hedged, and Javy gave you a look like it wasn’t even a choice for him, before he thought it through.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said gently, “but, hell, I want to.”

You shook your head determinedly. “We won’t do anything. I don’t want to rush it, and today’s been a lot to add that, too... but it’d be nice to be together, without the pretending.”

You couldn’t believe you were practically begging the man to stay and just cuddle, but also it was Javy Machado. You’d do a hell of a lot more than beg, if push came to shove.

You could see him deliberating, and you decided you might as well throw in a final desperate bid.

“And you can give me a ride to base in the morning,” you added, “so I don’t have to catch the bus.”

Javy chuckled, before nodding seriously.

“Well, when you put it like that, it’s only practical,” he said. “The rational choice.”

“I’m a very rational person,” you said. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks to be a WSO.”

Javy blinked. “Do they—”

“They definitely don’t,” you laughed. “It’s off of rank, same as the rest of the Navy.”

He rolled his eyes, but followed you obediently deeper into the apartment.

You showed him where extra toothbrushes and toiletries were in the bathroom, and offered his shirt back, which he adamantly refused. He ended up grabbing a nondescript Navy shirt from the pile, which you were pretty sure was Jake’s, but didn’t want to comment on, since it seemed deliberate that he hadn’t asked.

Being in the same squadron, and being based in San Diego, there was a level of physical awareness that you two had passed months ago, so it was oddly anticlimactic to be sharing space as you brushed your teeth and got ready for bed.

Which is why the nerves, as soon as you and Javy settled into your bed, surprised you.

It was dumb, because you knew you had nothing to be nervous over. You’d both already agreed nothing else was happening tonight, you should be tired enough to just be chill about this. But as soon as your back hit the mattress, it felt like someone had injected straight caffeine into your veins and you couldn’t lie still.

Javy’s arm was under your head and you’d turned slightly into him, but suddenly your feet needed to be out of the comforter. Or maybe you needed to lie on your other side. Or the top sheet felt weird on your skin, or you weren’t sure if—

“Cross,” Javy sounded like he was trying not to laugh, “I’m gonna leave if you don’t lie still.”

You winced at the ceiling, disengaging so you could put just a few inches between the two of you. You felt yourself relaxing, like some weird performance anxiety, after he’d been so excited to hold you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “it’s just—”

“A dream come true, I know,” he sighed, like it was a heavy burden to bear, and you swung halfheartedly in his direction. Your hand swatted at the comforter over his chest, and you could feel the bed shaking as Javy chuckled.

“Unfamiliar,” you revised, “is what I was going to say.”

Javy hummed, and you both knew his answer was closer to the truth, but he was kind enough to drop it.

You shifted slightly, settling more deeply into the bedding, trying to tell your body it was comfortable so it could just be still. But even with the distance, every inch of you seemed hyper aware of the fact that Javy freaking Machado was literally in your bed. You knew you’d made the right call earlier, that you didn’t want to rush this, and everything else rational…but you were only human, damnit, and you were too curious to drift off to sleep.

You chanced a peek at Javy, at what little you could see of him in the dark of the room.

He was on his back, facing the ceiling, his hands folded over the top of the comforter like it was a sitcom from the 60s. His eyes were closed, and his chest was rising and falling rhythmically with his deep breaths, perfectly at ease. Except…if what he’d said last night was true, he should’ve been as ill at ease as you were, sharing a bed with someone.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked quietly.

“Ah, sure,” Javy said, still sounding amused. “Not like we’re sleeping till you’re tired out.”

“Okay, well—” you huffed, but Javy lifted a hand from the comforter placatingly.

“I kid,” he said. “Honestly, we should all be impressed that I’m staying PG and not slipping into a ‘well, I can think of an easy way to tire you out’ line of thought.”

Your mouth snapped shut; you hadn’t even considered that.

Javy shifted and the comforter crinkled as he cleared his throat. “Okay, neither of us can think too hard about that; ask your question.”

You hesitated for a moment, kind of enjoying the comfortable silence of the room. You turned your body to follow your head, settling on your side with your arm between the pillow and your head, before you asked, “Why hasn’t there been anyone since the Academy?”

Javy didn’t freeze, didn’t pull in a deep breath or tense up, but you felt his surprise, all the same. “Sure you don’t want a happier bedtime story?” he asked, his voice carrying a kind of hesitation that was new to you.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want,” you hedged, meaning it. “I can think of another one.”

You watched his jaw tense, and then he shook his head, just once. “Is it crazy that I want to tell you?”

You weren’t sure, but you did know that it felt an awful lot like trust, and you wanted that more than you wanted to know the story. Javy was fiddling with the end of the comforter, and the motion reminded you of the straw wrapper at Harry’s so you reached for him.

His movement didn’t break, he just accepted your hand and enveloped it in his. He wove the fingers of one hand between yours, and with the other he traced along the tendons on the back of your hand.

“There’ve been folks since Academy,” he said, slowly, like the conversation had to pick up steam. “Just no one I’ve introduced back to Momma. You know how it is, how you can always find someone for the night. I found it was…easier. To keep it that way. No expectations, no strings, just fun. No one gets hurt that way.”

His slow motion of his fingers over the back of your hand was soothing, tracing patterns an retracing them with another finger.

“You got hurt before?” you asked softly, watching Javy’s nostrils flare slightly as he processed the question.

“I hurt someone,” he said, quietly.

You doubted the distinction was mutually exclusive, but you stayed quiet as you waited for him to continue.

“We met when I was at Annapolis and she was at St Johns. She was from up North, so she was like no one I’d met in Louisiana. On a law track, in a sorority, all that. And we were…serious.”

He paused, and you could tell he was trying to decide how much to tell you.

“Pick out a ring, serious?” you prompted.

The pause lingered, before Javy traced down the fourth finger on your hand, saying quietly. “Put a down payment on one, serious.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you.

You tried to envision a younger version of Javy, bright-eyed and fresh at the academy, planning his life out, with conviction. That part hadn’t changed, Javy’s calm assurance, and you could envision some paralegal from Connecticut being absolutely swept away by him.

“I got my first post, in Norfolk,” Javy continued. “She got into Law School at William and Mary, and we had a little place in the middle. Painted the kitchen yellow, had a hell of a fight with the landlord over it. We had window boxes with flowers; we couldn’t keep anything alive in there, winters were too cold, but we tried every spring.”

It sounded idyllic, how he described it, and you could hear a painful undercurrent of longing in his voice as he told you about it. Like even now, it hurt how perfect it’d been.

“What happened?” you asked, gently.

You watched Javy’s profile shift as his nose scrunched up, in answer to that question.

“I had an accident, one day, flying—I made it, my wingman too, but the plane was rubble.They called her to meet me at the hospital and I remember when they let her in to see me; she was so quiet. She’d been real worried, I guess, and seemed pretty upset…I thought she might’ve missed an important lecture, or something, I don’t know, but it was weird.”

You frowned, squeezing his hand. “Surely a lecture wasn’t more important than being there for you.”

“Nah, she wouldn’t have thought that,” he said, then laughed wryly. “No, that wasn’t what she was upset about. When they discharged me a couple days later, and I got back to the apartment it was half empty. I remember walking in, and she was sitting on the hearth, one last cardboard box by her feet.”

You squeezed his hand again, hating that you knew where the story was going. Didn’t everyone who shared your employer?

“Yeah,” Javy sighed. “Uh, and she was right, you know, it wasn’t fair. If I’d died that day, she would’ve been stranded in Virginia, and every time I went up in the air, she was going to have to wonder if this was the time I left her for good.”

A dozen responses flash through your head, but you bit your tongue, before answering carefully.

“Flying isn’t something you do against someone,” you said evenly. “No one plans on burning in.”

“I know,” Javy said, and you hated how his voice had taken on this detached quality, like this speech was one he’d given himself hundreds of times. “But it’s selfish to ask someone to love you with all that on the line, and ask her to carry that fear. I get it, it was too much, so…yeah. I get it.”

He hadn’t stopped tracing over your hand, and your heart broke for younger Javy. How he must’ve felt standing in that empty apartment, as the woman he’d planned the rest of his life with left because she was scared. How blindsided and guilty, and clearly holding that guilt years later, as he relayed that story to you.

“Run that last bit by me again?” you asked.

Javy looked at you. “It’s selfish to ask someone to love you with all—”

“Yep, that part,” you interrupted. “One more time?”

You knew Javy knew what you were getting to, because he didn’t repeat himself again.

“You know what I mean,” he mumbled.

“You know what I mean,” you retorted. “Not everyone can take what we do, and that’s fine. But that’s something you hash out on a third date, when you talk about career plans and make sure your lives line up. Not when you’ve dated through college, have a home together, and when you get a call from the hospital. That’s when you need support, not for someone to ask themselves a question they should’ve asked years ago. Like. I’m sorry, but that’s a shitty thing to do.”

The room was quiet for a moment, and you wondered if you’d overstepped. Obviously you didn’t know the entire ins and outs of the relationship, but let’s face it, you were always going to take Javy’s defense against some WASPy lawyer.

Or, as far as you knew, a wannabe lawyer.

With her staying power, maybe she didn’t even pass the bar.

You let out a long breath, trying to release your animosity with it.

“Thank you,” Javy said quietly.

And you were sure there was a lot you could’ve phrased better, maybe held your tongue on, but you didn’t. Instead, you told your restless body to get over itself and slid back across the bed, into Javy’s side. He kept his hold on your hand over the blankets, but you tucked yourself against his torso, more determined to be comforting than comfortable.

“You’re not selfish for asking someone to love you, Jay,” you said, your voice muffled by his tshirt. “And I think you deserve someone whom you don’t have to ask.”

He didn’t say anything, but a moment later, you felt him shift, before he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You felt the both of you settle, either lightened from the sharing of his past or from the relief of holding each other, and sleep came easily, this time around.

next chapter

tagging: people who haven't told me to stop and people who interacted with ch1: @mxgyver @princessphilly @hangmanbrainrot @roosterforme @blowmymbackout @datemephoenix @fuckyeahhangman @lt-bradshaw @double-j @callsignvalley @sebsxphia @javihoney @rosiahills22 @andrewrussgarfield @teacupsandtopgun @katiedid-3 @beyondthesefourwalls @gretagerwigsmuse @auroraboreallisfine @bioodforbiood @m1ssmunson @rassvetsky @desert-fern @et-homephone @letskeepthislo-ki

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