the-a-word-2214

[the-a-word-2214]

𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞

𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖐 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖝 𝖆𝖋𝖆𝖇!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 11,658

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘: meeting your long distance boyfriend over a ranked match of mortal kombat wasn't the typical meet cute you'd always dreamed of, but it seemed to work out perfectly.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: descriptions of mortal kombat gore, phone sex, long distance relationships, SMUT, no protection (please use protection.), the angst that comes with having a partner over three hours away. probably spelling errors. no descriptions of the reader other than she has her nipples pierced.

𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊: as soon as i saw that erik plays mortal kombat on my first watch, i immediately fan girled as somebody who's been a hardcore mortal kombat fan since i was like ten, this is the result of a hyperfixation and somehow smashing out 11k words in two nights, enjoy!!

“FINISH HIM.”

“Oh, fuck you man.”

The angered words of your opponent rung through your headset, finally deciding to turn on the voice chat feature as the deep-voiced announcer finally called out your win. 

On the screen in front of you, you quickly mashed in the quick-timed combination to spur on Mileena’s fatality against the Scorpion that this stranger was playing as.

Watching with a satisfied grin, the 3D-modelled character stabbed the other in the head with her two sai, spinning his head a few times before ripping it off in a satisfying conclusion to the randomly matched online battle. 

Whoever it was on the other end of the match, they seemed unsatisfied to take the loss elegantly, letting out a small string of muttered curses. 

“Uh uh, no way, that was bullshit.”

You hadn’t yet turned on your own mic, and a majority of the time you wouldn’t bother to accept the requests of rematches, but your curiosity was peaked as this person seemed so intent on trying to beat you again. 

ErikTheInkman.

Boring username, you thought, but based on the stats displayed under his username, he played frequently, just as you did. 

It couldn’t hurt to play a few more rounds and get a few more wins under your belt to potentially rank up, and he did seem pretty intent on trying to beat you.

Finally clicking the X on your controller to accept the rematch, you reselected Mileena in the character menu, just as you always did.

Of course, you dabbled in other characters, but she had always been your favorite, the one you sunk the most hours into learning to perfection, her move sets and combos ingrained deeply in your head. 

The newest Mortal Kombat was barely over a year old. Still, in that time you’d managed to rank up a hefty amount, sinking hours into your gameplay to unlock the cosmetics and even delving into buying some of the DLC they’d released.

You watched your opponent reselect Scorpion, seemingly also preferring to stick to a certain character as was the norm for most of the other people you played online with. 

Selecting a randomly generated match was something you did slightly less often, usually choosing to play with friends, but with the trouble of most of your friends living in different time zones and none of them being awake for the time being, you bit the dust and went into a randomly selected match. 

The characters spoke their little introductory quips to one another, something you always enjoyed watching before a match to get into the headspace you wanted, before it began. 

As the announcer called out the beginning of the match with a deep-seated “Fight!” erik the inkman, or whatever I’m his username was, sprung into action immediately.

His technique was a bit sloppy at times, but nowhere near terrible, you still had to concentrate to hold your own against him, but as the match progressed you could see him getting pissed off from the way he played. 

Winning the first round with relative ease, you heard him key his mic back on as the second round started. 

“Are you fucking serious!”

It was nowhere near the first time you’d experienced the wrath of a man’s emotions when you played online matches, keeping your profile name fairly androgynous leading to a slight decline, but it was also the reason you usually chose to keep your mic off. 

Continuing on to the second round, you noted him continuing to talk while the two of you played, something that you could not stand, finding it to be extremely distracting while you tried to concentrate.

“Why are none of my combo’s working, My fucking controller is broken i swear to god.”

You didn’t care for anything he was saying, hardly even taking it in as you carefully and hastily let your muscle memory guide you as you played. 

Hitting an attack at a particularly well timed moment, you almost jumped in your seat in excitement as it triggered one of the particularly gore filled X-ray sequences, watching the 3D rendered Scorpion to be pummeled by your Mileena.

“Oh, Fuck off!”

With only a limited amount of health left in both of your characters, you could almost hear him mashing the buttons through his mic, finally feeling yourself reach your wits end as you felt your concentration slipping, tapping the button in your head seat to unmute your mic. 

“Shut the fuck up!”

Your voice seemed to quite him initially, leaving you with just enough time to hit a fatal blow onto his Scorpion, not even bothering to trigger a fatality when the announcers booming voice spoke out, letting his character simply fall to the ground as the timer finished. 

Letting out a deep sigh, you adjusted your cross legged position on your gaming chair, realising that your sigh had been audible from the mic you’d forgotten to put back on mute. 

“Just, jesus dude. Calm down, it’s not that serious.”

You left it at that, not waiting for a response as you exited the match and finding yourself back on the main menu of the game, deciding this was a good time to take a break as any, feeling almost as if you’re blood pressure had risen just from that interaction. 

Holding up your phone, you leaned back in your chair and tried to check to see if any of your friends had messaged on discord, finding no new notifications present on the menu screen. 

Only able to let out another sigh, you chose instead to scroll through instagram, looking over whatever came up in your screen, family and friends posts flying across the page as you flicked through them mindlessly. 

The sound of a notification through your headset turned your attention away from your phone, seeing a notification popping up on the corner of the screen.

‘ErikTheInkMan has sent you a friend request.’

Furrowing your brows, you stared at the notification momentarily, confusion playing across your features and you leaned forward and clicked onto his profile.

A stereotypical profile picture of some crudely drawn skull was showing next to his username, along with his rank and stats.

Before you could look at anything else on his profile, a message popped up following the friend request. 

“GG.”

As you took a moment to scoff at the attitude of the guy who’d just sworn and basically had a tantrum, another message followed. 

“Sorry.” 

Look, even if it was only one word, there was at least some part of you that appreciated the apology, almost taking pity for the guy who probably just got a little bit too heavily invested in his gaming like a lot of people did.

Maybe that’s why you accepted his friend request. 

The acception of his friend request was the last thing you’d done before one of your friends finally messaged you to let you know they were getting on the game, starting the process of queuing up with them, forgetting all about the angry stranger for the rest of the night.

Relative nothingness seemed to follow for the rest of that night, no more messages from him or any other attempt of a rematch. 

Not until the next day at least, when you’d gotten home from work and decided to blow off some steam by jumping in again, knowing how unlikely it was that any of your friends would actually be online, but you still wanted something to do.

So when roughly fifteen minutes after you logged on, you got a message from ErikTheInkMan, asking if you wanted to play a couple more rounds, you accepted.

You don’t explicitly say yes, didn’t even respond to the message itself, simply sent him an invite that he responded to just as promptly, throwing the pair of you in a lobby to select your characters. 

Neither of you spoke at first, but as you scrolled across to select Mileena once more, you gambled a risk by unmuting yourself and speaking.

“Just don’t yell like a man child this time.”

When you said that, you immediately heard laughter ring through your headset, embarrassed laughter of somebody who’d made a fool out of themselves and knew it whole heartedly. 

“I really am sorry about that.” his voice began, having a softness to it you hadn’t had the chance to hear yet. 

“Most of the time people either don’t respond or they’re yelling back at me, kinda got a bit desensitised i guess?”

Letting out a small “Mhm.” you continued going forward with the match, the pair of you locking in your characters and continuing forward. 

You couldn’t have known you both would have continued on for hours playing, eventually delving into a conversation of light playful jabs, making each other laugh as your matches grew more casual, rolling with the even mix of wins and losses on both sides. 

“I’m gonna get you this time, watch out.” 

He spoke with an audible smile, actively in the middle of knocking off a large amount of your health bar through a series of combo’s 

“Oh sure, you can try, but you’re hopeless.”

You’re response only let out a low laugh on his part.

“Oh you’re in for it now.”

The time spent in countless matches seemed to offset your initial meeting all together, now finding yourself getting nothing but sheer enjoyment out of the banter the pair of you shared. 

So much so that by the time you’d actually spared a glance at your clock for the first time tonight, you’d let out a small “Oh shit.” with a laugh.

“What is it?” he enquired, that same audible smile present in his tone.

“I should have gone to bed like, two hours ago.”

As you both laughed at your realisation, you listened as he seemed to check his own time.

“Shit, same here. I have to open tomorrow, we fucked up.”

Your mind wandered for a moment thinking what he might do, a question that might have to be left for next time you spoke, if there even was a next time at the very least.

“Alright, well, i’m gonna head off then.” you kept your tone kind, not immediately offering to play again with him, just keeping it open enough without shutting it down completely.

“Wait, do you have discord?” 

His immediate enquiry made you feel the slightest bit shy, a smile coming to your face as you laughed softly.

“Yeah, i’ll message you my tag.” 

Going into the messages feature of the game, you double checked it on your other monitor, already having had it open from the beginning of the night, and typed out your tag for him to look you up. 

“There you go, okay, i really have to get to bed now though.” you laughed through your words, finishing up your conversation with a mutual good night and exited the game, turning off your pc and getting ready for bed. 

Neglecting to check your phone until the next morning, you’d seen the notification from discord, the banner reading that a friend request had been sent your way, the time reading to only a few minutes after you’d fallen asleep the night before. 

Still named as ‘eriktheinkman’ on discord, his profile picture was still of a macabre nature, some sort of sketched picture of a snake across a dagger, potentially drawn by him? you weren’t entirely sure.

Taking the plunge and sending the first message wasn’t something you’d usually do, but it was all you could think about as you could ready for work, taking only a few seconds to type out a quick “good morning :)” before promptly putting the phone face down on your kitchen counter. 

By the time you’d gotten a response, you were already at work, maybe he was a few hours behind you? you hadn’t asked specifically where he was from but he clearly had an american accent, what if he was canadian? maybe you hadn’t picked it the accent correctly.

You’d sat down at your lunch break roughly an hour after initially seeing the notification, finally opening it up to see what he’d sent in response.

“morning. how’d you sleep?” 

It was a standard response obviously, mundane yet still left you with butterfly’s in your stomach, something so simple.

“not bad, still managed to wake up to my alarms lol.”

You hadn’t expected such a prompt response, seeing his profile become active within less than thirty seconds before you could see him start typing.

“wish i was in the same boat. was late to work, client was already waiting.”

Smiling to your screen, you tried to guess what he might do for a living, imagining a plethora of different things in your head as you watched him start typing again before you could even respond.

“we should play again tonight if you’re not busy.”

his lack of any smiley faces seemed fitting to the person you’d already gotten to know, being an avid user of emoji’s and hearts amount other things yourself, it was odd to see, but already didn’t seem out of character for him. 

“i don’t think i am, i finish work at 6:30, it’s like 3 now for me.”

Now with the understanding he’d woken up late specifically, you wondered if your guess about him being a few hours behind you was still correct, your mind brimming with the possibilities of where he was from. 

“oh okay, that works, it’s around 2 for me now, i should be finishing up at 6 as long as my boss doesn’t pull any shit.”

There was your answer, only roughly an hour behind you.

The thought made you giddy for some reason, maybe just excitement at the idea of meeting a potential friend that actually lived in the same continent as you, much less potentially only being a few states away.

“sounds perfect :)” 

Just as quickly as it started, your lunch break was over, sentencing you back to your job which awaited you with open arms, unable to keep your thoughts away from erik the ink man, as you’d come to start calling him in your head. 

The night when you came home and jumped back onto Mortal Kombat within only minutes of walking through the door, a night of even more laughter and playful insults that you knew now were done innocently, seemed to have kickstarted a long distance friendship between you and erik, coming to know each other by name. 

As the months drew onward, it got to the point you were talking to erik almost every day, messaging him on your lunch break to complain about annoying customers, he’d do the same when he had the free time during his shifts, joking about the people that would come in asking him for infinity symbols, or sleeves consisting of lions, roses and clocks. 

His dry humour was the best part of your day, the way he’d poke fun at you and send sarcastic comments your way that only made you laugh and playfully insult him back. 

Even when you were just cooking dinner, you’d end up calling him over discord and filling him in about your day while he either closed up the shop for the night or while he laid down on his couch absentmindedly playing something else. 

It was a sense of peace to the end of your days, being able to chat with somebody you grew to consider a close friend, as well as having a gaming buddy that actually lived reasonably on par with your time zone.

When he’d first mentioned off handedly that he finished off a tattoo that’d been a few sessions in the making that day, instead of sending it to you over discord like he usually did, he told you to just look him up on instagram, stating that it was easier.

You weren’t even entirely sure what you were expecting your friend to look like, never having conjured up some image of him in your head previously, so going from a blank slate to the tatted up, dark haired and blue eyed guy in the photo, happily tattooing away, well it was a bit of an unexpected jump. 

“I guess it’s only fair you actually see what i look like now.” you’d mused to him, following the instagram that he’d sent to you, waiting for him to notice the notification.

It’d only taken about a minute and a half till you received a follow back. 

“You’re such a fucking nerd.” erik mused, only stirring a laugh from deep within you, no doubt seeing the pictures of your gaming set up and the pictures from within the comic book store you worked at, goofy faces made with your coworkers. 

“Shut up.” was all you’d been able to respond with, now having such a different type of feeling now that you actually knew what the person behind the voice looked like.

Of course you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. 

Every little sarcastic jab you threw at each other that felt like it carried even the slightest bit of flirting was now making you want to blush and hide your face like an idiot, always thankful that erik couldn’t actually see you. 

“I’m coming for you now.” 

Going from Mortal Kombat to a series of different games was now something you did quite often with erik, finding that you actually shared quite a few in common, finding that Dead by Daylight was a semi common one that you’d both suggest on the days where you gamed together.

“If you hook me i’ll moan.” you jokingly threatened, your mouth curling into a grin as you controlled your character, weaving over pallets and rounding corners as the killer erik was playing as found itself hot on your trail.

“Now i absolutely wanna hook you.” he responded, his killer gaining on your survivor at an alarming rate that had you letting out a little squeal.

“Oh get off my ass!” you laughed, there were still two other survivors he could be gunning for, but it made too much sense that he was targeting you specifically.

“Hmm, no. I was that ass specifically.”

His response only had you rolling your eyes, letting out a groan of annoyance when he downed you, his character picking yours up and walking towards one of the hooks that was close by. 

“No come onnn, let me cut a deal with you please.” you put on a mockingly begging tone, trying to button mash to get out of his killers hold. 

“You can’t whore your way out of this one.” he laughed through his words, hooking your character with no hesitation, the scream cutting through your headset as you put your controller down with a huff, only able to watch helplessly as the entitiy’s claws murdered your character.

“That was rigged, i refuse to accept that.”

“Now who’s having a tantrum?”

He was laughing just as much as you were as you watched the rest of the game play out, letting out a satisfied cheer when the last survivor escaped through the hatch, unable to be caught and murdered by erik’s killer.

“Yes! fuck you! that’s what you get!”

What had started as playful, slightly flirty insults initially, seemed to delve a bit deeper as time went on, going from unserious to being rooted in something unspoken between the pair of you. 

Now at the level of sending stupid little selfies to each other throughout the day, it’d been you who’d seemed to pull the first official check mate of whatever it was going on between you two.

You’d been getting out of the shower when your phone first vibrated, holding the towel wrapped around your body with one hand as you opened up discord to see him making a stupid face, obviously laying in bed judging by the messy hair and pillow behind his head. 

Obviously you could have waited until you got dressed to send something back, gotten into your pajamas and sent a similar selfie back from the comfort of your own bed. 

But you didn’t. 

Not even 100% certain of what you were doing, the sudden burst of confidence (potentially mixed with how goddamn pretty he looked in the initial selfie he sent you) seeming to prompt you to take a photo of yourself using the mirror, smiling softly as your wet hair and towel around your body was shown just enough to convey you’d only just stepped out of the shower 

At first, it’d taken him a little bit to respond, your anxiety was already telling you that you’d pushed it a bit too far, that this was the part where he ignored the picture or let you down easily, after five minutes of freaking out, you felt your phone vibrate again, opening the message hastily. 

“not even gonna lie, kind of wish you sent me that while you were still in the shower but i’ll take it.” 

He was still being playful, but it seemed like you were both in the same page, a mutual agreement now that there was definitely more to the flirting and the comments than just gaming buddies being silly.

Initially you stared at his message, biting your lip and now feeling completely unsure what to do from here, the sudden burst of confidence now entirely overshadowed by anxiety.

Before you could think to type anything or send another image, you watched an image begin to load up from erik, almost dropping your phone when you looked at it.

He’d obviously decided to take another selfie, his faded t shirt and boxers clearly in frame now, only seeing his mouth in the photo pulled into a slight smirk.

The clear image of his boxers also very clearly showed him half hard, the tartan pattern seeming to show every little detail through the thin material.

This was it, permission sent clear as day on his end, whatever it was that was about to happen between the two of you, he was giving you the green flag.

Overthinking the image more than you probably needed to, taking a moment to toy with the angles, you eventually settled on an image of yourself with the towel now falling a little bit more, your face slightly more in view than it was previously, sticking you tongue out in a mischievous way.

As opposed to previously, erik’s response after you sent the image came in much quicker this time, already seeming to make his frustration known.

“you’re making it really hard to be miles away right now.”

That was soon followed by a picture that was fairly similar than before, only difference being that why had initially been a half hard tent in his boxers was now standing far more, his hand resting on his stomach.

You could have done nothing but send photos back and fourth to each other all night, make it a painfully slow process, but there was definitely a build up that needed to be addressed, the comments you’d been throwing at each other for weeks now were starting to boil over, there wasn’t any room left to wait.

When you called him, he answered within a single ring, already hearing how deeply he was breathing. 

“You’re trouble.” were the first words out of his mouth, breathless and hurried. 

“Let me see you.” 

Calling him seemed to have opened the floodgates, any and all but if coyness and subtlety now thrown out the window and discarded by the both of you.

When you pulled your phone away and turned on your camera, the image of him soon followed, you’re smiling face being all the was in frame, biting your lip.

“Hi.” you whispered, unsure why, considering you lived alone, but he didn’t seem to mind, only smiling back at you as he slowly sat up in bed.

“If you don’t show me what’s under that towel, i’m gonna fucking burst.” 

His words felt like fire over your skin, it felt the slightest bit odd, about to show yourself to someone you’d never even met in the flesh, yet all with the comfort of how well you’d come to know him. 

Biting your lip to try and hide your smile, you held up your phone to show more of your body, now holding the towel across your chest, otherwise letting it hang loosely, hiding the parts of yourself that you knew he wanted to see. 

Even through the phone, you could hear his breathing get deeper and rougher, see the way his brows furrowed a bit as his eyes raked over your body with a laser focus. 

“Shit.” he whispered, seeming to sport a bit more confidence than you currently were, pulling his phone away from his face to show how he was currently palming himself through his boxers, no hesitation present on his features at all as his mouth fell open.

“I-I’ve never done this before.” you spoke, breaking the silence but showing no intentions of stopping your teasing, just finding yourself slightly unsure of what exactly you should be doing right now, overthinking what exactly it might be that he wanted you to do.

“Yeah? Me neither.” his words were a delicious mix of a huskiness and a grunt that had you already pressing your legs together “it’s okay, it’s okay.. just.. i’ll tell you what to do.. if you don’t wanna go any further, just say the word. okay?” 

God he was so sweet, so considerate, it only made you want to do this even more, wanted to see him touching himself to the sight of you, knowing how badly he wanted you. 

Nodding, you tilted your head and smiled, the innocent look on your face already having an evident effect on erik as he watched you through his phone, squeezing his cock through the fabric of his boxers as he moved his hand to slip under the waist band and start to play with himself lazily. 

“Need to see those tits, please baby.” 

The way he asked, begged to see you had you already starting to feel weak, like your stomach was doing cartwheels, barely even leaving you enough brain power to concentrate on letting the towel drop away from your breasts, using your now free’d hand to squeeze them for him, running your fingers so softly along the underside, running across your flesh in a way that seemed to spur an audible groan from him, especially when he saw the barbells that sat through your nipples, watching as his eyes locked into them immediately. 

“Jesus, when were you gonna tell me about those..” 

For a moment you were too sheepish to even speak, running your thumb over the peaks and letting out soft pants through your open mouth. 

“Not really an easy thing to just mention out of nowhere.” you laughed softly, watching as he shook his head softly, seemingly sharing your sentiment of being lost for words. 

“Fuck, you have no clue how much i’ve thought about you like this.”

Biting back a shy smile, you shut your eyes and let your mouth fall open as you run your hand along the soft flesh of your tits. Knowing that you were producing that much of a reaction from Erik purely from him seeing these parts of you, it would have been a lie if you’d said the feeling wasn’t a little bit addictive.

“Pinch em’ a little, please baby, just like that.”

His words caused your eyes to open back up, seeing that his face was now contorting into a mural of different expressions, the struggle to keep his eyes open visible on his face as he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. 

As much as you were shy, the idea of doing these things in front of a camera making you feel weak, the adrenaline was out weighing it completely, the image on your phone screen of Erik pulling down his boxers with one hand, all to reveal..

“Oh my god, is that-“

The silver ball’s of the curved barbell sitting snugly inside the reddened tip of his cock caught the light of the camera and glinted softly in the dark room he was in.

Your words brought a croaked laugh out of his chest, turning the camera back to his face and smiling as you could see his shoulder moving while he pumped himself slowly and lazily. 

“Guess I can't give you any shit for not mentioning hidden piercings now..”

All you could do was nod your head and let out a small “uh huh”, already feeling hypnotised by the sight of him running his thumb over his tip that was met by the silver ball of the barbell. 

“Fuckin’ hurt like a bitch, worth it though.”

His chesty laugh sounded like liquid velvet to your ears, it made it seem like this wasn’t real at all, like you were just having a wet dream about someone you’d come to consider one of your best friends and that you were gonna wake up any second and you’d be back to nothing except flirty remarks and unspoken attraction. 

Except this was definitely real, when he turned the camera back to his face, his mouth hanging open and his chest rising and falling deeply, you knew your own brain was incapable of conjuring up an image like that. 

“Let me see those pretty tits again, don’t be selfish.”

You knew he wasn’t being genuine with his remark about you being selfish, it only made you smile more, bringing your phone back to an angle where both your face and torso could be seen, continuing to play with them for him, trying to hardest to put on a show, a private one that was purely for yours and his eyes. 

“Erik..” you practically mewled his name out, your voice shaky and unstable, only seeming to get more of a reaction out him, his shoulder moving in a way that signalled he was starting to pump himself faster. 

“Fucking- god, say my name again.” 

When you repeated his name, letting it come out similar to a prayer to a god, breathing it out so that it sounded like some sort of arcane word that had unknown power over him. 

You watched his eyes squeeze shut and his head fall back on his pillow, his mouth hanging open as he continued to let out a series of throaty groans that rose and fell in pitch at a rapid pace. 

“Holy shit, holy shit.”

Knowing that something as simple as saying his name could have this much a reaction from him, the power you held, it just made your mind swim with the possibilities of what it would be like if he was here with you right now, or you with him. 

You pictured laying down on his bed, making a mess of his grey coloured sheets as he took you from behind, how it would feel to have his strong hands gripping your hips as he pounded into your womb at an unforgiving place.

When your hand had made it’s way down to your clit, you couldn’t even remember, too wound up in chasing your own release to even try and keep track of how long you’d both been sitting here watching each other play with yourselves. 

All you were aware of was how close you were, letting the thoughts of what you’d let him do to you drive the rest of the fantasy in your mind, the idea of him putting that pierced dick inside you and filling you up to the brim with his cum seeming to do the job perfectly, feeling the tightness in your stomach begin to wind itself together.

“Erik, Erik, i think i’m gonna cum.”

“Yes baby, please, fuck i wish i was there, i wanna cum inside you so much, oh my- fuck!”

His own noises were cut off my silence as you watched him seem to still for a moment, only to start moving again at a much slower place, his head rising up while he suddenly began to make noises again, coming out as high pitched cries he seemed to cum all over his belly from what you could see as the camera started to fall out of frame, rolling up to show half of his face and the wall behind him. 

It hadn’t been long for you to follow, the sounds he made proving to be the perfect final little bit of a push you needed in order to be plunged into the cooling pool of an orgasm that had your toes curling and your thighs shaking. 

Falling back from your position sitting on the edge of the bed, you felt your back hit the blankets and stared up at the ceiling as you started to come down from your high, suddenly becoming aware of the fact your heart beat was pounding in your own head, shutting your eyes and just letting the sound of your own panting be accompanied by the sounds of Erik’s own coming from your phone.

You must have sat there for at least another thirty seconds or so, cause eventually you heard Erik’s words coming out with soft laughter. 

“You still alive?” he asked, only just now realising your phone had been abandoned next to you, no doubt now facing your ceiling. 

“No.” you responded, only resulting in another laugh ringing out from him as you finally sat up, grabbing your phone and rolling onto your stomach, holding it back up so you could Erik again, who was now standing once more and seemingly cleaning his own release off his stomach with a tissue. 

“Must’ve died and gone to heaven.” 

You let your face fall forward onto the blanket as you laughed at his words, looking back up to see him looking at the camera once more and smiling softly, looking at you as if you were a piece of art. 

At first there was nothing but silence as you watched him sit back down on his bed, running a hand over his face briefly, as if you were waiting for each other to speak first and address what just happened. 

“What did we just do?” you asked, letting a sigh leave your lips and your brows furrowing as a confused smile crossed your features.

“Well, i hope i’m correct in assuming this..” he began “But i think we just did something that was a long time coming.” 

Looking at you expectantly, you waited for a moment before nodding, embarrassment suddenly flooding through you as you realised how long you’d both let this play out because you were both just too stupid to communicate. 

“Yeah, that checks out.” you laughed, standing up and letting the phone rest on your night stand as you pulled out your drawer and grabbed a pair of pajamas to get closed into it, pulling a pair of shorts on and stepping back into frame as you pulled a shirt over yourself. 

“Careful, my dicks still really sensitive, don’t start her back up again.” he joked, making a pretend pained face as you smiled, his sense of humor seeming to have come back after the post orgasm clarity. 

“Her?” you questioned with a smile, only for him to nod. 

“Of course.” he responded as if it was obvious. 

-

A long distance relationship wasn’t something you’d ever thought about in great detail, at least not before Erik; yet it was something that just seemed to work perfectly for the two of you, for the most part. 

There wasn’t a whole lot of change in routine, other than your gaming sessions and late night phone calls finishing up with “I love you”s and occasionally more instances of the two of you getting off over video call.

It was quickly evident just how insatiable the both of you were, sending Erik photos with your shirt pulled up while he was at work knowing how much it was going to drive him crazy, just the same for him to send you videos late at night of him lazily jerking off when you didn’t have time to call him. 

There’s only so much that can be done when you lived at least three or four states away, when the video calls weren’t enough anymore, you graduated up to remote control toys, a vibrator he could control using his phone, which he had used more than once to get the upper hand during a match. 

“Oh, eat a dick!” you’d yelled with a laugh, practically bouncing in your gaming chair as your team got the upper hand, ready to secure yet another win against the team he’d been playing against. 

Yeah well, it’s all fun and games until he decides to turn it all the way up out of nowhere, a soft shriek leaving your lips as you feel yourself flying forward, the hands holding your controller beginning to shake as a bruising amount of vibration descends upon your clit. 

“That’s not fairrrr!” you’d whine, turning to look at the screen where you had your webcams set up, only seeing Erik grinning like a smug idiot as he puts his phone down and picks his controller back up. 

That’s also great, amazing actually, but it gets to a point. 

When that point is almost eight months into officially being a couple, finally being introduced to his siblings when they poke their heads into frame, waving to them and letting Erik introduce you officially as his girlfriend who just happens to live over a thousand miles away. 

His sister followed you on instagram, already starting a steady routine of sending you funny reels and replying to your posts with hearts and smiley faces. 

His brother seemed to love you, always being heard asking if he could say hi in the background when you were talking to Erik, each and every time making an effort to ask you how you were going, the biggest sweetheart you’d ever met in your life. 

You hadn’t been there when Erik had told his parents about you, but you had gotten a text from him to let you know that his mother and father really wanted to meet you, or at least, talk to you over a video call. 

No matter how much he reassured you that you had no reason to be nervous, that he’d already shown his parents pictures of you and gushed non stop to the point that they already were voicing how excited they were to finally talk to you, you were still pacing back and forth while you waited for Erik to call you. 

Absolutely nothing in this world could have prepared you for how amazing his parents were, how kind they had been, the way they’d smiled so brightly when you started the call like they were more excited to see you than even Erik was. 

When Erik’s father had patted him on the shoulder, gushing about how happy he was that his son had found such a nice girl and how proud he was. 

You knew Erik liked to put on a tough guy front, but the way he smiled while his father praised him, the sight warmed your heart in such a way that you’d never felt before. 

His mother was the sweetest woman you’d ever had the pleasure of speaking to, asking you so intently about yourself, it hadn’t taken long for you to just fall absolutely in love with the rest of Erik’s family just as much as you were head over heels in love with him. 

Maybe that was why the distance had finally started to get to you, the desperation to feel something as simple as holding his hand but knowing that you couldn’t, it had started to boil over for you, coming to a head at the end of one of your many phone calls. 

“Alright, i gotta go to bed baby, it’s already so late.” he laughed, hearing the soft shuffling of him rolling over in bed. 

The time on your clock read close to 1:30 AM, not an unusually late time for you guys to finish your calls, but you knew he had to open the shop tomorrow, you knew he needed to actually be up at a reasonable hour. 

You really did just wanna say good night, tell him you’d see him in the morning, but the words couldn’t bring themselves to come out, all you could do was sniffle softly as you felt tears welling up in your eyes.

“Baby?” he asked, concern already starting to lace his voice when you didn’t respond, even more so when he could hear that you were audibly in the brink of tears. 

“I hate this..” you whispered with a shaken voice, rubbing your eye with your sleeve as you felt tears already starting to stream down your cheeks. 

“What’s wrong? talk to me, are you okay?”

While it took you a moment to find the words, only able to release a small number of pathetic sobs as you could hear the way your boyfriend was starting to panic over the phone, you finally spoke, gathering yourself so that you could relieve him from the anxiety of wondering why you’d seemingly started crying out of nowhere.

“I just wanna hold you, I wanna hold your hand. We’re gonna hang up this call and i’m just going to lay down in this bed alone knowing your over a thousand miles away and there’s nothing i can do about it.”

Your words were wobbly, a vomit of feelings you’d spent the last few weeks bottling up, only to now all come out at once like an opening of floodgates that you couldn’t find the strength to get a handle on. 

At first you were worried about how he was going to respond, already imagining all of the things he might say in response to your sudden rant, when he was already tired and needed to go to bed. 

Letting out a sigh, he spoke.

“I know.” he began, his tone taking on a much more vulnerable tone than you’d expected, his voice coming in an octave higher than it was before. 

“I hate it too, god, you have no idea how much i just wanna hold you, it’s been getting to me too baby.” 

His words only seemed to bring on more tears, your face falling into your hands, all you wanted was to lay your head on his chest and cry it out, but you couldn’t even do that.

“We’re gonna get there soon okay? I’ve already been talking to my dad about trying to get time off work, it just needs to be planned, that’s all.”

Letting out one more pathetic little sniffle, you nodded your head, even if it was just a phone call, wiping your tears one more time as you tried to find something to say.

“I love you, you know that right?”

His words made a weak laugh bubble up from your stomach, always loving the way it sounded when he said it, always making you feel better straight away.

“I love you too.” you breathed.

“I’ll call you as soon as I can tomorrow, but you need to sleep baby, I can tell you’re tired.” 

You could hear the smile on his words as he offered you comfort, only able to wish him a goodnight and a good day at work tomorrow before you finally hung up the call for the night rolled over to try and get some sleep. 

-

When you’d gotten the phone call from Bobby, you’d initially thought that maybe something had happened, why exactly would he be calling you directly and not just either messaging you or getting Erik to call you; nonetheless, you answered.

“Hey Bobby, everything okay?”

You’re next best suspicion was that this call most definitely had something to do with the fact that Erik’s birthday was coming up in a few weeks, maybe he needed a hand with picking something, or he wanted to see what you were thinking of getting him, not that you could really send a lot unless you had it shipped. 

Just as quickly as you’d spoke, you heard Julia’s voice come through, realising quickly you were on speaker phone with the pair of siblings. 

“How soon can you get time off work?” 

With that conversation, a devious plan by Erik’s two siblings was set in motion, his mother partially being involved, they explained. 

All that you had to do was give them a time where you would be free and not working, and Brenda would book you a plane ticket. 

“We’re gonna give him the best birthday present of his whole goddamn life.”

-

The flight had been almost three hours, the final step in a two and half week long plan to hide any and all hints that you were going to be flying out from your boyfriend. 

It was already arranged that Julia was going to pick you up from the airport under the guise of running out to get a few things for the little party that the family had planned, all you had to do was make sure that your flight didn’t crash horribly and everything would be fine. 

You’d lied through your teeth when Erik had called you that morning, explaining that you were going out to go see some family and that there wasn’t any service where they lived, which he promptly bought completely and without question. 

He had no reason to doubt you of course, it was a reasonable enough excuse to have your phone off, considering it had already happened before when you went to visit family in the past. 

With Erik more than thoroughly distracted with the celebration for his birthday underway, as well as your flight finally landing, it was only going to be less than an hour before you were finally standing face to face with your boyfriend for the first time ever. 

The thought alone was already making your hands shake as you walked through the terminal dragging your suitcase behind you. 

When Julia had spotted you, you’d both been unable to hide back the squeals you let out as you embraced each other, already over the moon with finally being able to greet Erik’s sister, who’d come to embrace you wholeheartedly as a friend. 

“Oh I can’t wait to see the look on his fucking face!” she’d mused, taking your hand immediately and guiding you through the rest of the terminal and out into the massive parking lot where she’d helped load your suitcase into the trunk. 

The drive was by no means helping your nerves, knowing that with every meter you crossed you were getting closer and closer, even just knowing that Erik was only a thirty or so minute drive and not a whole set of states away? it was making you feel giddy and nauseous all at the same time somehow. 

Your knee was bouncing incessantly as the tall buildings began to slowly morph into suburbia, houses with bright green lawns flying past your window. 

You had no idea which house was the Campbells, so it was just a waiting game of when the car was going to slow down, your heart beating at a pace that made you feel like it was going to burst out of your chest and you’d die from a heart attack before you even got the chance to finally meet your boyfriend in the flesh. 

“I don’t know if i can do this.” you blurted out, fear evident on your face as you turned to Julia who only burst out laughing at the look on your face. 

“You’re gonna be totally fine!l she encouraged, taking a hand off the steering wheel to rub your shoulder. 

“Erik on the other hand? he might piss his pants.” 

Just as she said that, you felt the car slowing down, a house coming into view which she turned the car towards, pulling into the gravel driveway, which promptly made you feel like you were going to start hyperventilating.

Never before had you felt so much anxiety, yet at the same time wanted to break the window down and sprint to the front door and kick it open. 

So many stupid thoughts began to flood your brain, what if you didn’t look the same as you did on camera and he didn’t like you? What if he suddenly decided he didn’t want to be your boyfriend anymore? 

You hadn’t even realised you’d just been sitting there staring at the house in silence with a panicked look on your face until Julia spoke. 

“I just texted Bobby, we’re ready to go.” she grinned at you, unbuttoning her seatbelt and shimmying her shoulders at you excitedly. 

“Are you ready?” she asked, only finding yourself able to nod silently as you exited her car, pulling your suitcase out of the back seat and approaching the door at Julia’s side with shaky hands. 

Exchanging one more look, Julia grinned as she knocked on the door softly, being greeted by Bobby’s grinning face as he pulled you in for a quick hug. 

“Oh my god, you’re real!” he spoke with hushed excitement. 

You could already hear music coming from the backyard as the siblings began to sneak you through the door like you were a secret package that needed to be delivered without detection. 

“Okay, they’re in the backyard, let’s move.” Bobby spoke to you, letting Julia walk ahead and out to the backyard carrying the supplies she’d apparently been sent out to get. 

With a hand on your back, Bobby guided you to the backyard, light greeting you as you looked around frantically, spotting every member of the Campbell family one by one before finally landing on the back of a band shirt and a head of dark hair fiddling away with the grill. 

“Erik!” Julia called out, looking at you briefly with a grin “I got your present while i was out!” 

“Uh huh.” he responded, barely paying attention to his sisters words as he continued tinkering with the machine, not turning around just yet.

You felt like you were gonna be sick any second, jesus, turn around Erik, turn around. 

As if he’d heard your telepathic command, he turned to look at his sister, a bored look in his face as he expected to receive some sort of stock standard last minute present. 

The very second his eyes met you own, you’re terrified smile beaming at him from only a few meters away, his reaction wasn’t really that far off from what you expected.

“Oh my fucking god!” his voice was loud, his hands coming to tangle in his hair as he looked across at you like you weren’t real for a few seconds before he looked over at his sister. 

“Are you serious?!” 

You knew it wasn’t a bad yell, that he was probably just in shock, hell, you’d had hours to process this and you felt like you were still in shock yourself. 

Tears started flooding your eyes as soon as you heard his voice for the first time not coming out of the phone, when it seemed to dawn on both of you that you were here standing in front of him, physically here. 

Without hesitation, Erik only muttered one more quick “Fuck off.” astonishment still clear on his face as you both bee lined it for one another, crashing into each other so quickly you almost knocked each other over. 

There was no chance of holding back your sobs, loud and embarrassing but you couldn’t find it in you to care, you were finally holding him in your arms and you had absolutely no intention of letting go. 

“Holy shit, Holy shit.” his words were muffled from where his face had found itself tucked into the crook of your neck, still wobbled enough to where you could tell that he was also fighting back tears. 

Swaying in each other's arms to the point that you almost fell over more than once, you didn’t want to risk pulling away, fearing that you’d pull away and he’d no longer be there in front of you. 

Finally being able to pull away and look up at him, you could see how puffy his blue eyes already were, using your sleeves to reach up and wipe them away for him, the pair of you both laughing through your tears. 

“Happy birthday.” was all you could manage to croak out, letting yourself be cut off by the feeling of his hands on your cheeks, pulling you in as he leaned down to finally lay a deep kiss on your lips, something you’d both been itching to feel for months now. 

He tasted like the beer he’d been drinking, and his stubble tickled your lip but you couldn’t find it in you to care in the slightest, only feeling so completely and utterly overjoyed to finally be inhaling his scent and feeling his lips against yours. 

Pulling away, he pulled you against his chest all over again, letting you wrap your arms around his middle as he rested his chin on the top of your head. 

“I fucking hate you guys so much.” he laughed, the family erupting into laughter at his comment. 

-

The entire span of Erik’s birthday celebration had been spent by his side, not allowed to leave his side for even one second. 

When you’d been speaking with Bobby and Julia, he stood behind you with his arms around you and his chin resting on top of your head, and when you sat to finally have a proper meeting with his Dad, he sat by your side and kept his hand on your leg. 

He peppered your face with kisses as you both just stood there holding each other, letting you explain every step of the elaborate plan you and his entire family had hatched behind his back. 

“So you did this all behind my back, and still managed to keep it a secret?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief as you nodded.

Leaning forward to place yet another kiss on your forehead, he just smiled down at you like you were a gift from god.

By the time the celebrations were wrapping up, it was almost midnight, and everybody was more than tired enough to be pretty desperate to hit the hay. 

As you said your goodnights, gave his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek as she told you how happy she was that you were finally here, you could see Erik coming over with your suitcase, an arm coming around your shoulder. 

“Let’s put this up in my room.” he sighed, obviously quite tired himself from the day. 

Heading up the stairs trailing behind Erik, you watched him open up his bedroom door and were finally greeted with the sight of the bedroom you’d only ever seen in the background of your video calls, seeing it in person hardly even felt real, finding yourself giddy all over again. 

Standing there in the middle of the room for a few seconds, it hadn’t been long before you felt arms wrapping around you from behind, Erik letting his forehead rest on the crook of your neck and he took a deep breath of your scent in, letting out a satisfied groan. 

“I still can’t believe you’re here.” he spoke, only making you smile brighter as you turned in his arms, facing him and letting your forehead rest against his own as you both closed your eyes. 

“I can’t believe it either.” 

Resting your hands on his cheeks, your eyes remained closed as you captured his lips in a soft kiss, just letting them rest there as his arms around tightened. 

As innocent as it started, it had only been a few seconds before Erik was already deepening the kiss, neither of you showing any form of hesitation as you began to embrace each other. 

His hands found their way to your waist, starting to squeeze at your flesh as he ran his tongue along your bottom lip, the desperation you held for each other was finally able to reach its fullest form now that you were finally alone.

Opening your mouth up to him, you tasted the beer and cigarettes on his tongue, even the slight aftertaste of sweet birthday cake that had been cut up for everyone, exactly what you imagined he’d tasted like. 

In any other instance, you both would have taken your time, but it would have been stupid to assume that there would have been any kind of patience shared between you right now, Erik’s hands were already finding their way under your shirt, leading you to where his bed sat in the corner of the room.

As soon as the back of your knees hit the bed, you let yourself fall onto it with a soft laugh from Erik, his knee finding its way between your legs almost as if it was an instinct, like you knew each other's bodies perfectly even if this was the first time you’d even touched each other. 

The desperation shared between the two of you was borderline pornographic, gripping each other like you were going to fall away any second, Erik pulling away only for a second to tear off his shirt like it was burning his skin, before moving to his belt buckle with shaky hands. 

You worked at your own clothes, comfortable for the sake of the long flight, coming with the benefit of also being easy to remove. 

As Erik came back down, you were halfway through removing your shirt, something he was more than happy to help you with, throwing it onto the floor of his room with no regard as to where it landed. 

“I need you.” you whispered against his lips that had found their way back onto his own, his grip on you tightening in response to your words, almost so hard it hurt, a groan coming from deep within his throat. 

“I know.” he breathed out, his hands wasting no time before moving to the waistband of your pants, pulling at it until you raised your hips slightly off the mattress, leaving you laying there in nothing but a tank top and panties, a sight that had him simply staring down at you in silence, panting. 

He looked at you like you were made of clouds, like with just one more touch you’d fade away any second, this was more than just lust driven hunger, there was an unspoken need between the two of you, desperation to feel each other in a way you could only imagine until now. 

“There’s so much i want to do to you right now.” he huffed, running his fingers lightly against your chest, his hands coming to lazily grab at your tits, running his thumb against one of your hardened nipples that was now poking against the thin fabric of your tank top, only eliciting an open mouthed moan from you, a whimper that came out in a way you weren’t even conscious of. 

“But all I can think about is burying myself so deep inside you that you see stars.” 

His words, the image they out in your head, it had to keening for him and grinding your pussy against his knee like an animal in heat, but you couldn’t even find it in yourself to be self-conscious about it, you were just as desperate for him as he was for you, if the hard form now running against his jeans was anything to show. 

“Please, baby, please.” 

Your words had him gripping your legs tightly, pulling away from you only briefly, hooking his fingers into your panties to take them with him as he backed away, kneeling on the floor and pulling you harshly to the end of the bed.

Unable to hold back the small squeal as he pulled you and hooked your legs over his shoulders, you both found yourselves laughing like kids at a sleepover, his index finger coming to rest on your lips.

“Shut the fuck up, jesus.” he wheezed, leaning forward to give you one more quick kiss on the lips. 

“You gotta be quiet, can you do that for me?” he asked, leaving you to respond with a nod as you bit your lip, raising yourself on your elbows briefly to watch him sink his face between your legs. 

The second you even felt his stubble tickle your thighs, much less the feeling of his tongue licking a long stripe across your pussy, your head tipped back and your mouth fell open, a silent scream escaping as he dove in to devour you with little hesitation. 

Fuck, you’d waited so long for this, any thoughts you may have had about how this was going to feel were absolutely nothing compared to the real thing, nothing you could have conjured up in your mind was anywhere close to how earth-shattering it felt for him to run his tongue through your folds. 

The sounds were sloppy, ringing in your ears along with a choir of guttural moans coming from Erik’s end, like he’d been stuck in a desert for days and only just now had gotten his hands on water. 

He lapped at you like he didn’t want to waste a single drop of you, gripped your thighs so hard that you knew for a fact there was going to be red marks by the time you were done.

When his hands hooked under your knees, pushing them forward without warning so that they were nearly next to your ears, he pushed his tongue into you with no mercy, the feeling of him fucking you on his tongue having you feel like you were about gush right then and there.

For a moment or two, you could have literally sworn you went blind, a hand flying to your both to try and hide the absolutely pathetic sounds that were coming out of you, your other hand coming down to tangle through his soft dark hair. 

“Come on baby, cum on my face, fucking do it.”

His words of encouragement had been more than enough, paired with the feeling of his fingertips landing on your clit to rub fast and quick circles, his tongue going in and out of you, you felt your entire body still, your thighs instinctively trying to push together only to be held open by his strong hands. 

He kept going until you were pulling at his hair trying to get him to stop, letting out soft mewl’s of overstimulation, the muscles in your stomach were still turning, your pussy still pulsing by the time he came back up to be face to face with you.

His chin was glistening in what little light there was in his room, a grin on his face that matched his blown out eyes, so dark that they almost looked black. 

You couldn’t even form words, your orgasm had wrecked you so much that all you could do was let out little hums, kissing him lazily when he leaned down to take your mouth against his. 

As you made out with him, you already began to feel him running the tip of his cock against your folds, gliding along the flesh that was now absolutely soaked, so wet that you wouldn’t be surprised if you hardly even felt him slide in at first. 

“Can I put it inside you, please baby, please let me put it inside you..” 

He whispered and begged against your lips, the cold feeling of the metal from his prince albert against your sensitive clit already having you spasm softly underneath him. 

The only thing you could do was nod, finally opening your heavy lids to look up at him and just stare into his bright blue eyes that stared back down at you. 

You could tell how much he was holding himself back, letting his cock get swallowed up by your pussy, his mouth falling open as the warmth embraced him, a choked out moan falling from deep in his chest. 

Your hands came to rest on his cheeks once more, your foreheads connecting and eyes shutting tightly as he slowly let himself bottom out; as much as you’d always heard people describe it as feeling like they were literally molded for one another, you’d never actually taken it seriously. 

But now you knew exactly what they were talking about, when he finally sat completely inside you, his pelvis resting snugly against your own, it truly did feel like two puzzle pieces coming together, like you were completely filled by him in every meaning of the word, every crevice being filled in by him to complete satisfaction. 

Even you weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there before he finally started to move his hips, it could have been seconds, it could have been minutes, but time just seemed to move differently when he was inside you, you fluttered around him, every time you did making his hips stutter. 

The pace he initially set was slow, but hard, barely even pulling out halfway before he pushed back in again, each time managing to hit that sweet spot deep inside you like he’d been doing it for years, like he was a master of his art. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, his forehead found itself resting against your collar bone as he thrusted into you repeatedly, rhythmic grunts and whimpers coming from him in time with each time he pushed it back in. 

“Erik, baby, please.. harder…”

There wasn’t anything else you could have said to have had him change up so quickly, a growl finding itself from deep within his chest as he rose up from his spot on your collar, his eyes appearing to be almost glazed over as he wasted no time beginning to increase the pace of his thrusts.

Looking up at him, he held himself up with one hand, using his other to hook under your knee once more, bringing one of your legs up so that he could begin hitting even deeper, at even more brutal speed, your hand immediately coming to grip his arm tightly as you let out a choked gasp. 

When you’d asked him to fuck you harder, you should have known that meant almost having the wind knocked from your stomach, small sounds leaving you in a way that you couldn’t control. 

He was pulling almost almost entirely out of you for each thrust now, his tip just on the border of falling out before he slammed back inside, a wet slapping sound ringing out with every single time he rammed himself back into you at a pace that had you beginning to see stars just as he’d said, now finding yourself unable to control the moans coming out of your mouth.

His hand that had been holding your leg flew to cover your mouth, silencing you only slightly as he stared down at you, shaky breaths coming out of him as he set an absolutely bruising pace, almost like as much as he was trying to keep you quiet, he was also just as determined to have you crying out his name for dear life. 

“Been wanting to be buried in this pussy for so long” he growled, his eyes squeezing shut “just fucked my hand and thought about nothing but this.” 

The words he was spouting paired with the brutal thrusts he was laying into you were almost too much, you felt yourself getting dizzy as your eyes seemed to almost roll into the back of your head. 

“Fuck, fuck, i’m gonna cum..” he warned, his thrusts getting shorter and shorter as he pulled out less with each, but only continuing to get faster and harder as he twitched inside you.

“Gonna fill this fucking pussy up? huh? fill you with my cum?” 

All you could manage was a nod, his hand pulling away from your mouth, both of them now gripping your hips and fucking you at a borderline merciless pace as you just laid there and took it.

With a sudden stop, and a few more slowed shallow thrusts, he shut his tightly, his cock twitching as he started to paint your insides with hot spurts of cum, his hips shaking as he rode out his own orgasm with short slow thrusts, gripping your hips so hard you knew you were likely going to have bruises the next morning. 

For a while, you just both laid there, his forehead coming to rest once more on your collar bone,  the pair of you covered in sweat and so tired out you could barely move. 

You knew you should get up, probably try to make some sort of effort to get cleaned up, but with the fact that you were both seemingly now paralysed, also mixed with the fact that being locked in each others arms was incredibly peaceful, all you could do was reach for the blanket that he’d been pushed astray by your initial activities, and pull it over the pair of you, settling into a comfortable enough position where he still sat inside you.

Stroking the back of his head softly, he let out a soft hum that communicated to you that he was definitely comfortable, just as you were, a smile coming to your face as you kissed the top of his head. 

“Gonna have to shower in the morning..” you whispered softly, only getting another small hum in return. 

“Good, i’ll be ready to do this all over again by then.” he chuckled softly, his head finally raising up to smile at you, leaning forward to catch your lips in a soft kiss. 

“Can’t wait.”

[the-a-word-2214]

𝖆𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐

𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖐 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖝 𝖆𝖋𝖆𝖇!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 14.7k

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘: you met your best friend julia in highschool two years before graduation, you kissed her older brother on halloween, logic says that four years later, you would completely forget about something like that, right?

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: mutual pining, a little bit of angst, mentions of a cheating boyfriend, drunk kisses, rated n for nasty, SMUT, cursing, cliche in the form of falling for your best friends older brother. also julia is a lesbian no i don’t take criticism.

𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊: hey gang, so, in an attempt to write something small before releasing another chapter of an ongoing series, somehow i managed to turn this into a 14k word slow burn, please enjoy and as always comment and reblog to show your support! it means the world to me! also massive thanks to @babybluebex for brainstorming all of this with me including being the one who came up with the idea that erik drove a 2005 ford taurus post graduation.

It hadn’t been something you expected when you became friends with Julia, being paired together for a project by your teacher in eleventh grade had seemed to be some sort of divine intervention.

Initially, you’d been apprehensive; Julia was hardly the type of person you would be drawn to, her blonde hair and tan being a more than enough difference to your own more alternative choice of dress and appearance, yet somehow, a friendship bloomed quite promptly.

She’d been so sweet, offering you gum while you sat together and cracking jokes that actually made you laugh, not at all the dense popular girl stereotype you’d unfairly constructed of her inside your own mind. Julia actually evidently loved hanging out with you, and you with her.

Where you’d first spent time with each other out of obligation, sitting together in the library to study together or inviting her around to your house to work on the project, it then turned into going to the mall together and sitting together at lunch so that she could bitch about her brothers and laugh about things with you.

The first you’d heard of her brothers was purely by mention when you were studying together in the public library after school, Julia’s phone had vibrated, and she opened it up only to chuckle and type something back.

“Who’s that?” you’d asked curiously, peering your head over with a smirk, initially thinking that maybe it was a boy, someone she’d been flirting back and forth with.

“Just my brothers.” she’d laughed, turning her phone around to reveal the photo that had seemingly been taken from the inside of a car, two males varying in age making silly faces at the camera as the older brother drove, the photo seemingly taken by the younger.

“Oh, i didn’t know you had any siblings.” you’d responded, nodding your head as you looked back at the photo.

“Yeah well, Erik already graduated, and Bobby’s three years younger than me.” Julia explained, shrugging her shoulders as she closed her laptop and began placing things in her bag, humming to herself.

“They’re actually on the way to get me now. Do you need a lift?” She’d offered, smiling across at you in that way that was always contagious, leaving you unable to stop your own smile from crawling across your features.

Mulling the offer over in your head, you bit your lip and tapped your pencil against the table, trying to decide whether or not you wanted to stay a bit longer. It was pretty late after all, just now starting to get dark outside, even if it was only about six thirty, even more of a marker that summer was starting to finish up.

“If that's okay?” you finally asked, starting to pack up your own things as Julia nodded brightly and excitedly, holding out her hand for you as soon as you stood, which you took in your own, swinging your interlocked hands together as you exited the library.

“You should sleep over!” she offered, seeming like she was excited by the idea as she gripped your hand tighter, only spurring on a laugh from you. “We can watch that stupid movie, fuck what was it called..” she trailed off, placing a hand on her forehead as she tried to remember.

Snapping her fingers, she pointed a finger at you as her eyes brightened up, “After! The one that was like a fucked up Harry Styles fanfiction!”

Rolling your eyes, you groaned audibly and tilted your head back, looking back at her as she nodded in tandem with you shaking your head.

“Jesus christ, no, Julia.” you laughed through your words, still holding her hand as you stood by the entrance of the library and waited for your lift to arrive.

“I’ll sleepover, but we’re not watching that movie.”

Seemingly only excited that you said yes to the sleepover, Julia did what could only be described as a little happy dance, balancing her books in one hand as she held yours with her other.

“Oh my god, im so excited, i’ll get Erik to order us pizza.”

As if it were a speak of the devil type summoning, the sound of what could only be described as a tin man gargling nails began to sound out in the distance, your brows furrowing as you looked around the almost abandoned parking lot for the source of the sound.

Coming peeling around the corner, the silver car that looked to be a model that was over a decade old pulled into the parking lot of the library, its motor sounding like the depths of hell and the tires skidding slightly as the driver turned.

The sound of metal music blaring only got louder as the car got closer. You could see the passenger side window rolling down when it finally pulled up in front of you, Julia walking down the steps with a large grin as she waved.

You were hesitant as you stepped after her, part of you worried that this car could blow up any second based on the sound, much less hesitant to get inside based on the way her brother was driving.

“My friend’s coming over to stay.” she spoke matter-of-factly, opening the back door and leaning in to seemingly brush trash away, old cigarette packets and McDonald's bags.

When she shuffled her way into the backseat, you leaned in to finally catch a glance at these lucrative brothers, the youngest of whom in the front passenger seat couldn’t have been any older than fifteen, waved at you and grinned, looking like the nicest kid you’ve ever seen in your life.

The older brother, the one in the driver's seat with one hand resting on the steering wheel, only spared a glance at you as you got in, buckling your seat belt.

“Did you ask dad?” he spoke pointedly, looking at Julia through the rear-view mirror with his eyebrows raised, only for Julia to roll her own eyes and let out a long sigh.

“Dad doesn’t care.” she responded, her tone laced with an overwhelming sense of sass that for a moment you wondered if she even got along with her brother.

Just as you thought an argument was potentially going to start between the siblings, the eldest brother, Erik, shrugged his shoulders before putting the clutch into drive.

“Works for me.”

Before you even got the chance to open your mouth to thank him for giving you a ride, you were gripping the passenger door for dear life as he spun the steering wheel and turned the radio back up, peeling out of the library parking lot like he was drag racing.

When looking over at Julia, she only laughed at your nervous expression, evidently used to her brothers' more than lenient view on traffic laws and speeding limits.

Managing to make it to the Campbell family home without crashing, even if your legs felt wobbly getting out of the absolute death trap that was Erik’s 2005 ford taurus, you and Julia retired to her bedroom and began to settle in for a movie night, even if she’d gone ahead and put on that stupid after movie anyway.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t finding yourself even slightly pulled in by the awful plot and acting, turning into a hate watch as you sat on the bed with Julia.

“This is horrible.” she wheezed as you sat shoulder to shoulder, shovelling popcorn into your mouths together.

You shrugged your shoulders, tilting your head as a scene with the main male lead played on the screen, a horrid rendition of a Harry Styles knockoff, though the tattoos weren’t bad.

“He’s kinda hot.” you mused, unable to stop yourself from cracking up as you watched Julia’s face contort into a look of judgment and horror all at once.

“Ew! He literally looks like my brother!” she cried, holding her hand out at the screen for extra emphasis.

The sudden realization of the shared resemblance between the two men made you almost spit out your popcorn with laughter, leaning over the side of the bed to cough as you both laughed until your stomachs hurt.

This was always going to be the sign that you and Julia were going to be best friends for the rest of your lives, only with her did you ever laugh so hard that you got lightheaded or feel comfortable telling even your deepest thoughts.

The rest of that same year had been more than enough time for you to wedge your way into the Campbells’ lives, coming around almost every week, her parents loved you, always overjoyed when you came around to the point it was like you lived there half the time.

Dinner sat with the rest of her family, or barbecues out in the backyard when the weather was warm, there was so much effort on her and her family’s part to include you.

It made your heart soar.

So much of your time was spent by Julia’s side, whether it was playing video games with Bobby or the pair of you begging Erik for a lift to the mall, the pair of you putting all of your power to be annoying together to eventually get him to cave every time.

“Ok, Ok, if i take you to the mall, will you both shut the fuck up and leave me alone.” he’d groan from where he sat on his bed, the pair of you nodding excitedly from where you’d stuck your heads into his room.

Howard had seemed to recognise parts of himself in you, even if you didn’t say it, you both knew that the Campbells were the closest thing to family you had. With your mother’s tight work schedule, the only family member you had was barely home half of the time, leaving you to essentially need to function on your own.

The Campbells’ family home became your safe haven, to the point that the guest room started becoming your go-to bedroom when you came to sleep over. Your possessions and clothes were starting to be left in there to the point that it was hardly even a guest room anymore.

Within a year, you’d been accepted as an extra family member.

Even your eighteenth birthday had been spent with the Campbells, who’d gone to the trouble to get you a cake and prepare a little barbecue with some small decorations.

As much as they might have thought it was small, you hugged Julia behind closed doors and cried softly in her arms, so thankful to have her in your life to the point of tears.

Bobby and Erik had even gone to the trouble to get you a present, Bobby handing it to you sheepishly as Erik stood behind him with his hands in his pockets.

You hugged Bobby tightly and resisted the urge to pinch his cheeks, the now sixteen-year-old looking awfully proud of himself.

“Alright, come here..” you’d heard Erik say, laughing together as he pulled you into a one-armed side hug, his desire to put forward a nonchalant nature betraying him as soon as he’d seen your eyes start to fog up all over again.

While they might not have thought it was anything special, the little Claire’s necklace never left your neck from that day onwards, even when the chain started to rust, you just got a new one.

The little skull and crossbones were a pretty obvious nod to your alternative choice of wear, something that you and Julia always thought was funny, the stark difference between your two styles always being a point of conversation.

It only made sense that when Erik needed somebody to practise on when he started getting trained to be a body piercer by the tattoo shop in town, Julia had come to you.

“Fuck no.”

“Please! He just needs to do a nose, then they can upskill him, he only needs one person!”

Julia sat across from you in the food court, her arms outstretched towards you as he gripped your wrists and shook them softly.

“I’m not letting your brother come anywhere near me with a needle!” you argued, pulling your hands away from her, only for Julia to put her hands together in a motion that looked similar to either prayer or begging.

“Come onnnn! He won’t stop bugging me about it! If he can’t get his certificate, he’s gonna be miserable, and I’m the one that’s gonna have to deal with it.”

You sat and stared for a few moments, biting your lip, obviously a free nose piercing wasn’t something you would normally turn down, considering you wanted it for ages, but the idea of letting Erik do it only filled you with anxiety.

It would look pretty sweet, though.

Holding up a pointed index finger, you watched Julia’s expression light up with hope.

“You have to hold my hand.”

Your confirmation made Julia practically jump out of her seat, pulling you into a hug and rocking you back and forth as you tried to push her off.

“Thank you!” she cried out.

That was how you then found yourself lying back in the black leather chair in the tattoo studio Erik was currently apprenticing at, Julia sat by your side and gripping your hand tightly as Erik used a marker to put a little dot on your nose.

“Please don't kill me.” you whispered, only producing a chuckle out of him as he rolled his stool back to reach for the sterilized needle on his side table.

“I make no promises.” he spoke softly, only to receive a smack on the shoulder from Julia.

“Shut up, she’s already nervous.”

When he finally pushed the needle through, you shut your eyes and squeezed Julia’s hand so hard that you thought you might hurt her, trying to maintain a steadiness to your breathing as he put the jewelry through, a plain silver stud.

Maybe it was a good way to celebrate being eighteen, being able to sign off on your own piercing, just so happened that it was convenient timing to be around the same time Erik needed a guinea pig.

Rising from the leather seat slowly, as instructed, you could already see Julia smiling brightly as she leaned in to have a closer look.

“Look’s hot.” she mused, only resulting in you rolling your eyes.

“Shut up.” you chuckled, pushing her shoulder slightly so that you could pick up the mirror Erik was handing you, holding it up to your face and beholding the small silver stud that was now sticking through your nose.

You loved it, of course you did, and it was difficult to hide that, considering the massive grin coming across your face, turning your view to where Erik sat, satisfied with his work.

“Well, you’re not dead.” he stated with a smirk, tossing the used needle in a jar. “Guess that means I did a good job.”

Shaking your head, you pushed yourself off of the black leather chair and reached forward to take Julia’s hand in your own, grabbing your bag off her shoulder and swinging it over your own.

“Thank you, Erikkkk..” you mused, swinging Julia’s hand in your own as you headed for the exit, swinging the studio door open with a ring of the bell and walking out, laughing with Julia as you did.

-

Halloween was always something you’d loved as a child, fond memories of fake blood and jack o lanterns that still brought warmth to your heart even now.

Obviously the holiday and its activities seemed to take a sharp turn when you turned eighteen, the party you and Julia had been invited to promising to be a “rager.” or at least that’s what Julia had said.

Her bluetooth speaker had thrilled blasting out of it as the pair of you got ready together, finally looking at yourself in the floor length mirror, your mouth hanging open at the costume she’d convinced you buy.

“Julia, I can’t wear this.” you spoke, turning to look at where she was sitting on the floor applying mascara with her hand mirror, her head turning to look at you as she looked you over and shook her head.

“It’s perfect, I was right.”

Her words only brought a huff from you, the short skirt and fishnets seeming an odd match for the red hooded cape and corset, a crude version of a sexed up red riding hood.

As much as you wanted to pull it off of your body and opt for something else, maybe even something that was genuinely scary, you knew there was no arguing with Julia, especially when she had set her mind on something.

Apparently her mission for the night was to get you laid, at least that’s what it seemed based on what she’d picked for you.

You knew there was a girl that was going to be at the party that Julia had her eyes on, the pair of them having been exchanging flirty text messages for a few weeks now, so you were wholeheartedly supportive of that.

“Oh yeah, don’t forget to ask Erik if he’ll buy us some booze.” she mused, applying a coat of lip gloss and adjusting the sleeping beauty costume she’d changed into.

“I don’t understand why we can’t just drink the beer in the fridge downstairs, didn’t your dad say we were allowed to?”

Howard was an executive for a local brewery, and in turn, always had access to a stupid amount of beer, tucked away in a fridge downstairs that he’d given you both express permission to take from for the night, along with the promise of drinking responsibly.

“I’m not drinking beer all night, besides, Erik already agreed to drop us off, not that big of a deal for him to stop and get us a bottle of vodka or something.”

You didn’t realise you’d already had a lift organised, assuming that you’d either walk or get picked up by somebody else in attendance, but you weren’t complaining, the boots you were wearing with this outfit certainly weren’t made for walking.

“Can you go ask him, please? I have to finish doing my hair.” Julia mused, her eyes not turning away from the mirror as she plugged in her curling iron.

Rolling your eyes, you nodded, walking out of her bedroom and taking the eight steps down the hallway to bring yourself to Erik’s closed door, a sign reading “KEEP OUT.” greeting you.

Rapping your fist on the door, you heard shuffling for a few moments, footsteps getting closer before the door finally opened, Erik’s grumpy face awaiting you.

His expression shifted rather quickly when he saw your outfit, his brows furrowing and his lip curling in a look that read nothing but judgement.

“Seriously?” he breathed with a scoff, his response making you cross your arms and feel just a tad bit more self conscious.

“Julia made me wear it.”

Your reasoning seemed to leave him unconvinced as he leaned on the door frame.

“Yeah, well, it looks like it’s missing some fabric.” he spoke, reaching forward to pull softly at one of the sleeves, bringing it up to try and cover more of you. “You’re not gonna wear a jacket or anything?”

His voice held the slightest bit of concern, but you brushed it off with a sigh, tapping your foot impatiently against the hardwood floor.

“Can you buy us a bottle of vodka?” you asked, only for Erik’s brows to furrow just as the sound of Julia’s footsteps started to come in behind you.

“Pleeaasee!” she begged, a bottle of beer in each hand, one of which she promptly handed to you, which you took a tip of and curled your face up in a cringed expression, made sense why she didn’t wanna drink this all night.

“Dad gave you permission to drink from the fridge didn’t he? so why is it my problem?”

Julia let out a groan, hand reaching into her purse as she ruffled around and eventually pulled out a fifty dollar bill which she passed over your shoulder and held out to her brother.

“You can keep the change, just please, I can't drink this shit all night.”

As the pair of you stood in front of Erik, making a show of making puppy dog eyes at him, he seemed unconvinced until he took another look over at you, his expression changing just the slightest when he looked down at you, only to sigh and take the bill from his sisters hand, signalling that he agreed.

-

Pulling up to the house, you and Julia sat in the backseat of Erik’s car, multicoloured lights in the windows and music already blaring out.

Julia’s hand in your own, you opened the door and crawled out of the car, almost tripping over as you exited, only eliciting loud laughter from you and Julia, already a little bit tipsy off the vodka you’d both been taking turns sipping at.

Turning back to face the car, you both waved at Erik as you stumbled onto the sidewalk, leaning in each other.

“Thanks Erik, we love you!” Julia yelled, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Alright, Just be careful! Ok?” he yelled out to the pair of you, taking one final look at you before he pulled away and drove away, leaving you and Julia to your party.

The night consisted of the usual shenanigans, jell-o shots and dancing to shitty music, far too many drunken selfies taken in your costumes as you and Julia celebrated your last Halloween as highschool students.

It was coming around to almost one in the morning when you were letting one of the guys from your science class suck on your neck, pushed against a wall outside and giggling to yourself as his hands gripped your hips.

It wasn’t anything special, just a drunken make out at a party as was the usual, letting out soft exhales and moans as you ran your fingers through his stubble.

Julia and you had been separated when she’d pulled you aside to tell you she was going to say hi to the girl she’d been texting with, also known as, i’m going to go make out in the bathroom with this girl, which you had no problem with.

Just as the boy from your science class hands began to wander, you heard your name being called out, your head turning to look in the direction of Julia drunkenly calling out for you.

Pushing him off of you, you laughed softly at his insulted look, putting a hand flat on his chest as you wished him a good night and walked away, going on the direction that Julia’s voice was coming from.

While it initially took a little bit searching, you eventually found where she was standing by the back door, your arms outstretching and a wide smile on your face when you spotted each other.

Grinning like a pair of idiots, you used each other as support as you walked back through the house, more than intent on heading home for night, knowing exactly who you would be calling to drive you.

As the pair of you sat on the sidewalk, now shivering in the october weather but not seeming to have a care in the world, you wheezed as you watched Julia struggling to get out her phone, paired with a sloppy attempt at tapping Erik’s name in the contacts.

Listening to the phone ring, Julia’s head found its place comfortably on your shoulder, the two of you swaying softly as you waited for her brother to pick up the phone.

You knew Erik wouldn’t have been asleep by now, he’d always been a night owl for as long as you’d known him, even now that he worked full time at the tattoo shop, so it was hardly surprising when he picked up relatively quickly, sounding wide awake.

“What is it?”

His annoyed voice only made you and Julia snicker, the state you were both in making everything seem hilarious, especially when it was coming from her older brother.

“Erikkkk…” Julia spoke in a little sing song voice, making you laugh even harder in a way that made you feel like you couldn’t even breathe properly.

“Come pick us up!” you continued for Julia, leaning towards the phone to make sure the receiver could pick up your voice. “It’s cold and we’re drunk!”

Initially you could hear an audibly annoyed sign coming from the phone, but it seemed Erik knew better than to try and say no, especially considering that he’d been explicitly told by Howard to pick the two of you up if you rang.

“I’ll be there in ten.” he spoke, “I swear to god if either of you vomit in my car, I’ll kill you.”

His warning was ignored, only a resounding cheer from you and Julia as you watched her try to hang up the phone sloppily.

“I can’t hang up, you do it.” she said through her laughter, handing the phone to you.

“Love you, Erik.” you slurred slightly, a giggle leaving your throat as you hung up the phone.

He said he’d be there in ten, but he made it in eight.

Helping Julia into the car first, when he turned to help you, his eyes drifted to your neck immediately, focusing in on the purple marks along your skin, seeming to visibly stiffen and take in a sharp breath when he saw them.

Too drunk to notice or care, you just let him help you into the car and laid your head against Julia’s shoulder, the pair of you smiling like idiots and occasionally giggling to yourselves as Erik drove you home silently, seeming slightly more ticked off than you would have expected.

When you finally arrived home, Julia had managed to get out of the car without too much of a struggle and make her way back inside, leaving Erik to help guide you up the path to the front door, his hand resting on your back.

As you tried your hardest to sneak back inside the house quietly even with your inebriated state, you expected Erik to find the sight of you this drunk to be more amusing, yet when you looked at him as you laughed, his face was stone cold, his eyes straight ahead.

It made the smile fall off of your face as you finally made it to the guest room, turning to look up at him as you stood in the doorway, grabbing his upper arm when he went to try turning and walking away without a word.

When you’d grabbed him, he turned, but he didn’t look at you, keeping his eyes trained in the ground as he stood there.

“What is it?” you asked, stepping closer and using the hand on his upper arm to try and rub his shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have called you, we just didn’t wanna walk home and-“

“It’s not that.” he interrupted, finally looking down at you, his eyes once again going to the marks across your neck, clearly showing what he was annoyed about yet not saying a word.

Furrowing your brows, you were confused, he was clearly annoyed about something yet he wasn’t even willing to explain himself? that wasn’t your problem.

“If you’re not gonna tell me what’s wrong, then how am i supposed to fix it?”

Your hand reached up to grip his chin between your thumb and your index finger, forcing him to look at you, offering up a smile in the hopes of him actually explaining rather than just brooding.

He was twenty three now, his face had taken on just a little bit of stubble and he’d cut his hair a bit shorter from when you met him, now that he was working at the tattoo studio, he’d gotten his ears pierced, the thick rings hanging from his lobes.

When he’d mentioned wanting to get his septum pierced, you disagreed, but you had a feeling he was planning on doing it anyway.

You weren’t entirely sure why you did it, maybe it was the alcohol, or the leftover adrenaline from making out with a stranger, but you got on your tippy toes and put a hand on Erik’s cheek, capturing his lips in a kiss that had him letting out a small sound of shock.

Any second now, he was gonna push you away, let you down easily and let you live out the embarrassment of kissing your best friend's brother.

Until he didn’t, instead, Erik’s hands were immediately on your hips, pushing you into the guest room and pushing the door closed as he did.

His face was warm, his cheeks seeming to be burning up as you both held your eyes shut and let a sloppy make out begin to take place, just as you had been doing before, except as opposed to the boy from your science class, Erik seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

His hands squeezed your hips tightly, his tongue immediately pushing its way into your mouth without hesitation.

You felt like your nerves were on fire as he pushed you against the wall, holding you against it with a strength that only made you want more of him, desperately.

It had seemed that your hand guiding itself down his body before finally running your fingers along the hard tent in his jeans had only resulted in the harsh reality of the situation coming crashing back down on the pair of you.

Where you were, who you were currently kissing, as well as who you were.

Never before had you ever seen Erik pull away so quickly, taking a step back and looking at you, taking in the sight before him of you panting with swollen lips in your skimpy little halloween costume.

Shaking his head, he took another step away from you, a hand coming to wipe his face as he turned for the door.

He didn’t say anything when he left, opening the door and walking out, closing it behind him as you listened to his footsteps getting quieter and quieter as he walked away and back upstairs to his room.

As you stood there, it dawned on you that you had absolutely no clue why you’d done that, maybe you were just still too drunk to realise why kissing your best friends older brother was a really fucking bad idea.

Even more so, you had no idea why the rejection had stung as much as it had, tears beginning to prick at your eyes as you took in a shaky breath and started to rip off the costume that was now feeling more constricting than anything else.

He didn’t talk to you the next morning, wouldn’t even look at you when he walked into the kitchen for breakfast with the rest of the family, just grabbed a juice out of the fridge and went back to his room.

Your brain was swimming with the possibilities of what he must be thinking of you, who gets that drunk and kisses someone’s brother with no fear of the repercussions, did he think you were a slut?

For some reason, the thought that he felt that way about you just made you even more upset.

Life continued on after that halloween, you and Julia’s friendship stayed the same, and eventually both you and Erik just continued on as you always had, electing to both ignore the kiss as if it had never happened.

You never spoke about it, and seemingly had no intention to.

Julia started at college, you didn’t, but even as Julia’s free time dwindled, you were still around at the Campbell’s house fairly often, even if it wasn’t for sleepovers anymore.

As often as her schedule would let you, you and Julia still spent time together as often as possible, oftentimes meeting her on campus to have lunch together, or even just to sit with her while she studied in the library, even if it meant sitting on your phone in silence.

Initially, the closest you and Erik ever got to addressing what happened was an awkward smile when the two of you crossed paths in the house, but eventually, things returned to the way they were, a comfortable friendship was reestablished between the two of you, which allowed for matches of Mortal Kombat to become a common past time while you waited for Julia to finish classes for the day, or even messaging him to ask for a lift when he finished work when you were going to visit Julia at the house.

You even let him pierce you a few more times, unable to hide your expression when you’d walked into the shop, only to see he’d gone ahead and gotten his septum pierced.

“I thought I was gonna hate it.” you mused as he got his supplies ready, marking up the other end of your nose to prepare you for getting your other nostril done.

“Does that mean you like it?” he asked with a laugh, the two of you now more than used to this routine to just talk casually while he lined up the needle.

“No I- jesus, ow. No, I don’t.”

You tried not to scrunch your nose as he pushed the jewellery in, holding the mirror up to look at the two perfectly lined up matching studs now sitting on your nose.

“Too bad, it’s not going anywhere.” he shrugged his shoulders, rolling away in his chair and taking off the black latex gloves he’d been wearing.

“I thought you thrived off my approval.” you spoke sarcastically, tilting your head as you stood, swinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Oh I do, I just don’t care.”

His response incited a laugh from you, rolling your eyes as you reached for your purse, opening it and beginning to rifle through the bills sitting inside.

“Don’t worry about it.” Erik spoke, waving his hand at you as he began to clean off the chair and prepare for the next client.

“Erik, I can’t not pay you, won’t you get in the shit with your boss?”

Struggling his shoulders, he continued laying out his tattoo supplies, wrapping the gun as he spoke.

“Call it an early birthday present.”

Part of you was touched that he remembered your birthday was coming up soon, but considering that Julia had probably already been talking about it, you suddenly weren’t surprised.

Letting out a stubborn sigh, you just shook your head and put your purse back in your bag, turning to walk out.

“Thaaaanks Erik.”

Ever since he’d given you your first piercing, it just became the norm to always give him the same thank you in the same sing-song tone.

You weren’t teenagers anymore, hell, Erik was turning twenty six in may, but even now, so many years later, neither of you wanted to address the unspoken ‘thing’ you two had, whatever you could call it.

Sometimes you could have sworn Julia knew, she always was more observant than she let on, and there was only so many times the glances shared between you and Erik were going to go left unnoticed.

You couldn’t pretend you hadn’t noticed the look he’d given you when he pierced your tongue for your twenty-first birthday, or how hard he’d gripped his coffee mug when he watched you cry to Julia over your boyfriend cheating on you.

It was pathetic really, to be crying in your best friends arms over a relationship that hadn’t even lasted a full year, but when you’d found the pictures on his phone of other girls, and the messages he’d been exchanging, it still wrecked you to what felt like the point of no return.

Julia seemed to save the i told you so’s and just let you cry it out in her arms in her bedroom, as much as she’d always hated your boyfriend, especially the way he treated you, she understood that right now you were in pain.

You weren’t concerned about Erik standing in the doorway, if anything, it was nice to have two people to vent to, especially when it was him who came and picked you up with Julia when you’d called her in tears.

“I found the photo’s on his fucking phone.” you sniffled, wiping your red and puffy eyes with you sleeves as Julia rubbed your back. “He’s been fucking other girls since we got together.”

Your voice broke as you finished your sentence, seeing Julia shaking her head out of the corner of your eye, Erik muttering something to himself that you couldn’t quite hear, but enough to understand he was pissed on your behalf.

“What a lowlife.” you heard Erik scoff, his comment bringing a soft laugh out of you surprisingly, nodding your head in agreement as you sniffled.

“I wish I was gay so that we could just be girlfriends.” you laughed through your tears, inciting a laugh out of Julia.

She held you in your arms and let you cry it out for the rest of that night, and even though Erik went back to his room, you could tell what had happened had upset him.

You’d gone to his room and knocked on the door later that night when you finally started to calm down, leaning in the door frame and offering a soft smile, as exhausted as you were.

“Thank you for coming to get me today.” you started when he looked up from his book, picking at your sleeve as you stood in his doorway.

“Of course,” he started, sitting up and putting his book to the side “Didn’t really want you spending another second at that assholes place.” he shrugged his shoulders, resting his elbows on his knees.

Nodding your head, you sniffled slightly and rubbed at your eye, willing any other tears away when Erik stood up from his bed.

“Hey, hey.” he said softly, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, “Please don’t cry, especially not over someone like him. I hate seeing you cry.”

You let Erik pull you into his arms, not quite crying, but still shaking and shutting your eyes tightly.

“I just don’t know what I did wrong.” you whispered, Erik resting his chin on the top of your head as he rocked you softly.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” he reassured you, simple yet effective, enough to have you nodding your head as he held you.

That was just over a year and a half ago, but it was still fresh in your mind.

As much as it was likely that the Campbell’s had something planned for your birthday, you decided you could find some comfort in your own company a few days before your birthday, maybe that was why you’d ended up in the bar in town, a cocktail nursed between your fingers as you watched a live band performing.

The bar was known for a more alternative crowd, fitting the bill for you anyway, and with the addition of live music for the night, it was a nice way to spend your free time.

It was reasonably packed for the show, taking you at least five minutes just to travel from one end to the other after getting your drink, needing to weave through people before you’d ended up in your comfortable little corner by one of the pillars.

When you’d been approached by the stranger, a smirk on his face and a confidence that you initially found off putting, his not very subtle flirting and willingness to playfully persevere despite your cold response, eventually he went from annoying to endearing.

You talked about all the basic topics, music, movies, anything really; he was very clearly just biding his time until you agreed to let him stick his tongue down your throat, which lucky for him, you eventually caved and let him.

What was a little pre birthday make out with a stranger after all.

He had you with your back against the pillar as he kissed you softly, a smile present on both of your lips as his hands found their way to your hips and yours became tangled in his hair.

It was really only by chance that your eyes had begun to scan the bar when he started to kiss along your jawline, your head turning to allow him access and your eyes opening lazily.

Fuck. Oh fuck.

There he was, leaning against the bar, a beer having been long forgotten in his hand, presently staring absolute daggers at the pair of you.

Erik’s glare wasn’t necessarily focused on you as it was on the guy that was presently all over you.

You were so sick of this, so tired of pretending that you never stopped thinking about the kiss you’d shared so many years ago on halloween, sick of the way he looked at you and just let the two of you pretend that there was nothing there purely just because he was your best friend's brother.

The eye contact you made with him was pointed, your mouth falling open in a gasp as a particularly sweet spot in between your neck and your jaw was caught between the strangers lips, yet you kept your eyes on Erik, who looked straight back at you.

Even from the distance, you could see him gripping his beer bottle just a little tighter, like he knew exactly what you were doing.

There wasn’t any room to pretend, you even let a few little soft moans leave you as you shut your eyes again, turning back to face the stranger again and kiss him in a way that was entirely just for show, hoping to incite some sort of jealous rage within Erik, so that might stop pretending and actually just take the plunge.

So many years spent pretending like you hadn’t developed something for him that extended beyond the reaches of just being friends, the tears you’d cried after he left the room on halloween, the way that you’d closed your eyes and wished it was him when your first real boyfriend took your virginity.

And yet, just as you’d feared, he did nothing.

Pushing the stranger off of you, you felt a pang in your heart, refusing to even speak a word in response to his questioning as to why you’d stopped, even when he’d called you a “fuckin’ tease.” as you walked away, pushing your way through the crowd and headed for the door.

The night air was cold, tears pricked at your eyes but you ignored them, only pulled your jacket closer to your body and began taking steps away from the bar and onto the sidewalk.

You didn’t even want to believe that you were hearing the sound of the bar door opening, your name being called and accompanied by fast footsteps; it wasn’t until a hand grabbed your shoulder and you were forced to turn and look at the perpetrator that you were face to face with those same icy blue eyes looking down at you.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, his tone accusatory as if he didn’t know exactly what was happening back there in the bar, the way you were begging for him in every single way other than verbally.

“I’m tired of doing this, Erik.” you spoke, running a hand over your face as the two of you stood there in the cold.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You know exactly what i’m talking about.” you started, “are we just going to dance around this forever? pretend like it doesn’t exist? pretend that whenever i hear about you having some new little girlfriend for the week that i don’t die a little bit inside?”

By the way his face began to shift, you knew that he was well aware of what you meant, seemingly unable to find the words to say as he opened his mouth to speak, only for nothing to come out.

“We can’t.” was all he said when he finally spoke, his eyes remaining trained on you, hands staying stuck at his sides.

Your face contorted, a deep sigh leaving your lips as you shook your head, trying so hard to fight the way that your bottom lip was starting to wobble.

“We could.” you countered, bringing your hands to your pockets. “But you’re just a coward.”

You knew you didn’t mean that, but the pain in your chest was bringing fourth emotion that you’d had no way of getting out until now, so many things you’d wanted to say but never got the chance to.

Part of you wanted him to chase you, run after you calling your name like in the movies, but he didn’t, he just let you walk away, like he always did.

You’d regretted what you said as soon as you turned and walked away, feeling yourself already starting to sob quietly to yourself, wiping the tears from your eyes with your sleeve.

After that night, you hadn’t been round to the Campbell house for days, Julia had messaged you when she was free, offering to come and get you so that you could hang out, but you just lied through your teeth and told her you were busy.

It hurt to treat your best friend this way, but you were just too torn up to care, the risk of seeing Erik and having any chance of an interaction with him was just too much, more than you were willing to take.

Just as before, you were certain Julia had some idea as to what was going on, when you’d spoken to her on the phone and you’d said you weren’t feeling too good, she sounded too knowing for her own good when she said goodbye, like she had something she needed to go do, she sounded determined.

You just went to work and came home, the next three days being a slow moving blur of feeling nothing and then the next minute feeling everything.

It was exhausting pretending for so many years that you hadn’t felt the way that you did about Erik, pushing it down and acting normal.

Of course you had thought about how it would affect your friendship with Julia, it was one of only things you thought about every time Erik crawled his way into your thoughts, the potential for such a betrayal made you feel ill, but then the other part of you, the part that had known Julia for almost six years at this point, wondered if she would have accepted it, embraced it even.

Just as you were thinking of her, your phone began to buzz next to you on your bed, ripping you out of your thoughts and seeing the image of a photo you and Julia had taken together at a party as her contact floated above it.

With a sigh, you swiped to answer the call and put the phone to your ear, Julia’s voice immediately coming through.

“Happy Birthday!” she cheered, your brows scrunching together as you realised that you’d just forgotten your own birthday entirely.

“Holy shit.” you laughed softly, rubbing your eye as you sat up. “I didn’t even realise, I forgot my own birthday.”

Her laughter rang through, unable to stop a smile coming across your features no matter how hard you tried.

“When are you coming around? we got a cake for you and everything, well, mom did at least.” she explained, causing you to look over to your clock and see it was already one in the afternoon. Jesus.

“Uh, i’ll be around in like twenty, just let me have a shower.” you responded, standing up and reaching for the towel hanging on your door.

“Do you want me to ask Erik to come get you?”

The mention of his name had you stiffening up, the grip on your phone getting tighter as you walked into the bathroom.

“No.” you said flatly, only to correct yourself “I mean, i think i’ll just walk, i need the fresh air.”

Seemingly satisfied with your answer, Julie said goodbye and hung up the call, letting you turn the faucet and get the shower going.

-

The Campbell’s family home was always welcoming, even just walking in, it always felt warm, that was something you couldn’t deny.

It spoke volumes that they’d organised a birthday celebration for you, the only people that ever did, having not spoken to your mother since you graduated, it seemed they were the only family you had left.

When you’d walked around to the backyard, Julia was the first person to spot you, running to you with open arms and birthday wishes, pulling you in for a tight hug.

“You need to talk to Erik, he’s miserable.” she whispered to you as she hugged you, ignoring your confused face when she pulled away and took your hand, guiding you to where the rest of the family were.

Choosing not to address what she had said, you let yourself accept hugs and birthday wishes from Bobby, saying your hello’s to Howard and receiving a kiss on the cheek from Brenda.

You and Erik didn’t even look at each other.

He was sat on one of the outside chairs, nursing a beer which he took occasional sips at, staring at it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

It was obvious to everybody around you that you were seemingly giving one another the silent treatment, yet they didn’t say anything, just allowed the festivities to continue as Howard worked at the grill and Julia handed you a white claw.

However you managed it, you’d been able to spend almost your entire birthday celebration without saying a word to Erik, even when Bobby and Julia had handed you a present that was labelled to have come from all three Campbell siblings, he still stood at a distance, talking to his dad or sulking a few meters away.

You knew completely that it was immature, to put this much effort into not even talking to him purely due to rejection, but the other part of you, that eighteen year old girl that cried herself to sleep after the boy she liked kissed her and ran out of the room? she was still there, and she was hurt.

By the time it all started to wrap up, Julia had already convinced you to stay the night, even if you were hesitant, she seemed adamant, giving you a look that seemed to imply that she knew exactly why you’d been acting so miserable, especially considering what she’d said to you when you’d arrived.

Wishing your goodnights to Howard and Brenda, you helped Bobby clean up while Julia packed up the leftovers, and yet during this entire time, Erik still sat outside, now nursing a cigarette between his fingers as she sat on the porch swing.

At first, you were going to turn around and go to bed, let him wallow out there and regret what was literally his decision in the first place, but when you turned, you came face to face with Julia, who had a brow quirked as she looked at you.

“Get out there,” she spoke with a hushed tone, pointing to the back door “and talk to him.”

You wanted to argue against it, really you did, but just as it had always been and will continue to be, there was no arguing with Julia.

Stepping out into the backyard that was now only lit up by garden lights, you could see Erik in the distance, the small orange glow on his cigarette lighting up his face as he inhaled.

Without saying a word, you came and sat down next to him, keeping your eyes forward as he did the same, the pair of you being too stubborn to speak at first.

As the silence grew, you huffed and crossed your arms, looking out at the garden that Brenda was so proud of.

“Julia told me to come out here and talk to you.” you finally broke, unable to stand just sitting there in the overwhelming tension any longer.

“She told *me* to talk to *you*.”

Erik’s response made you exhale out of your nose in a sort of soft laugh, at least only as much as you could laugh in that moment; it just made perfect sense that eventually Julia caught on to what was happening between you, it was bound to happen.

“I had a feeling she figured it out.” you mentioned, only for Erik to nod his head.

“She knew when i came home after the bar, said i looked like a kicked puppy.” he mused, a soft smile now falling across his features as he turned his head to look at you for the first time since you’d sat down next to him.

“I’m sorry.”

Your apology had him shaking his head and sighing.

“I’m the one that should be sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“Which part, kissing me and then pretending it never happened? or friendzoning me for almost four years straight?”

It was crazy just how quickly the tension between you melted away when you finally started talking. Letting it boil in silence had probably been the least wise course of action, but you were anything if not stubborn.

“Both I guess?”

Letting out a small laugh, you let him continue.

“I’m not sorry about pulling away on halloween though, you were drunk, i wasn’t about to be the monster that screwed his little sisters shitfaced best friend.”

Seeming to let the last bit of tension fade away, he turned to face you completely, resting his elbow on the back on the porch swing.

“Even if she really wanted you to.” you said softly with a laugh, acknowledging that was the easy part, of course it had been a smart thing to do, considering Julia probably would have killed him if that were to have happened.

“Especially if she really wanted me to, of course you’d have to be drunk to wanna kiss this face.” he joked, pointing to his face with his index finger.

Shaking your head, you ran your hand along his arm that was resting in the backrest, furrowing your brows.

“I don’t know about that, i’m pretty sober.” you replied lazily, tilting your head as you smiled at each other “I still wouldn’t say no to a kiss if you’re offering.”

That seemed to add another layer of realism to it all, the reminder of who you both were, and the connection between you.

Julia had seemed to make it clear that you had her blessing, why else would she order you outside to talk to her brother, when she seemed to already know exactly what was happening when Erik had come home from the bar that night.

It was the sudden realisation that right here, right now, there was absolutely nothing stopping you anymore, that you’d effectively been given the green light.

So when that smile on Erik’s face only grew, it seemed like a knee jerk reaction as you both leaned in, hands coming to rest on each others cheeks as for the first time in almost four years, you laid a kiss against Erik’s lips, at least one that was going to be reciprocated without question.

Would it have cliche to say that it truly did feel like fireworks going off in your chest? like his fingertips were made of lightning as they rested against your neck, the thickly feeling of his facial hair not bothering you in the slightest.

God, he smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne, but in the best way possible, just the same as he’d smelled when you first kissed him when you were eighteen, like nothing had changed at all since then.

But that was definitely a lie. Four years was a long time, a lot can happen in that time, lots of life to be experienced, and you were a very different person when compared to the version of yourself who was only just on the brink of graduating.

At first it felt like being stuck in this weird sort of limbo, you just kissed him softly like he was going to be spooked and run away like last time, some small part of your brain fearing it was going to happen all over again; yet when his hands fell to your waist and pulled you in closer, it felt like confirmation that he wasn’t planning on letting you go anywhere.

Finally breaking for air, you kept your foreheads connected, soft pants against each others lips while the pair of you just sat there and took one another in.

“Julia’s gonna kill us.” Erik breathed out with a soft laugh, the mention of it suddenly making you pull away and turn your head in the direction of the house.

As you both turned your attention back to the kitchen window, the sight of two heads quickly ducking out of view made it pretty clear that both of Erik’s siblings had been watching from a distance, seemingly to make sure everything went down smoothly.

Shaking your head, you turned back to Erik with a smile, your arms coming to wrap about his neck.

“Something tells me she had this all planned out from the beginning.” you spoke, just about to lean in to capture another kiss from Erik’s lips before his attention was caught by something around your neck, his hand coming up to wrap his fingers around the claire’s skull and cross bone necklace him and Bobby had gotten you almost five years ago now, which had now fallen out of its place hidden under your shirt.

He ran his thumb over the worn down metal, most of the details almost unrecognisable after so many years of wear, his smile growing as he chuckled.

“I can’t believe you still wear this thing.” he sighed, his eyes looking back up at you; his smirk definitely seemed to reveal that there was at least some small bit of satisfaction on his part, knowing you walked around with a necklace he got you around your neck.

“My ex hated it.” you laughed, leaning forward to east your forehead on his shoulder to try and shield the blush now steadily starting to form on your cheeks. “He told me it was weird to wear a necklace that my friend's brother got me, I think he was jealous of you?”

You heard Erik scoff, pulling away to see him rolling his eyes. “I literally met him once and he acted like he was ready to fight me any second, stupid.” he muttered the last part, only to lean forward and steal another kiss from you.

“Maybe he had a reason to feel threatened after all.” you spoke against his lips, allowing yourself to just sit back and enjoy the feeling of having your lips and face peppered with long overdue kisses.

“Mhm, maybe.” he laughed, bringing your face forward to lay a kiss on your forehead, letting you shut your eyes and melt into the feeling of him wrapping his arms around you and holding you there in a hug.

“He’d feel even worse if he knew what i’m gonna do to do as soon as we get back upstairs and in my room though.”

His sudden boldness had your head flying back, looking across at him as your face shifted from a look of shock, into an expression that resembled the exact image of a horned up teenager, biting your lip and leaning forward to put a hand on his jean clad thigh.

Quirking an eyebrow at you, he let his hands squeeze your waist just a little bit tighter, his voice taking on a deeper and slightly more serious tone.

“You really shouldn’t have tried so hard to make me jealous back in the bar the other day.” he started, pulling you up with him as he stood, his grip on you tight like a vice. “Cause now i’m gonna do exactly what i wanted to do when i had to sit there and watch that fucker throw himself all over you.”

Without any other word exchanged, the pair of you were walking back into the house, hands gripped together.

The lights in the kitchen had been turned off by the time you made your way back inside, the rest of the Campbell’s seemingly excusing themselves into their respective rooms to go to sleep, providing a quick and easy uninterrupted party back up to Erik’s room.

It would have been a lie to say it didn’t feel like an adrenaline rush to practically be sneaking into his bedroom quietly, something you’d definitely thought about on more than one occasion, the thrill that would have come with sneaking around with your best friend's brother.

As much as she must have known exactly what she was doing, there was still some mischievous undertone to it all as Erik shut his bedroom door quietly and turned to face you.

With only his lamp illuminating the bedroom, it was dim but still light enough to make out his face clearly, even more so when he took the few small steps across the carpeted floor to now stand in front of you, looking down at you like you were something to be devoured.

“Do you have any idea how hard I jerked my cock when you left for that halloween party? When I watched you get out of my car in that outfit?”

His voice was rugged and deep, already resulting in your body starting to have a physical reaction, shivering as he stood over you, not too unlike the big bad wolf to your little red riding hood.

Biting your lip, you let your hand reach forward to trace your index finger over his belt buckle, watching him take in a sharp breath.

“Is this a good time to tell you it still fits?” you asked, tilting your head and doing your very best to look up at him with the innocent puppy dog eyes that you already knew drove him wild.

The sound he let out could truly not be described as anything other than a growl, a deep rumble from deep within his chest that had a shiver running along your spine.

Without another word, Erik leaned down to capture you in another kiss, except this was unlike the soft pecks you’d exchanged in the garden, this kiss was hungry, not too unlike the one you’d exchanged on halloween, you could tell from the way he began to grab at you that he was just as desperate as you were.

This was years of buildup now seeming to come spilling over, like the lid had well and truly been blown off and now it was all coming out in a wave, sexual frustration and jealousy for someone that you hadn’t even dated.

His hands molded to your body like they knew it instantly, knowing exactly where to hold you and where the little spots were that made you let out those little sounds that were like music to his ears.

Guiding you to the bed had been easy work, and when the backs of your knees touched it, he shoved you down before you could sit, landing on your back with a soft “Oomph!”

Standing above you now, you could only watch as Erik looked down at you, watch as he reached down to lazily pull at his belt until it became undone, unbuttoning his jeans and letting them sit open and undone around his hips before he kneeled on the bed.

The moment his hands were back on you again, running up your sides and coming to your chest, he didn’t seem shy or hesitant in the slightest, squeezing at one of your tits with no shame, running his thumb back and forth over your peaked nipple through the fabric of your shirt.

Letting out a small whimper, your hands came to shield yourself out of instinct, only to be met with a sudden and harsh resistance in the form of Erik’s free hand gripping your wrist and wrenching it away from yourself.

“Don’t try it.” he warned.

This was a version of Erik you hadn’t seen first hand, you’d always known him as sweet and caring towards you, but there were definitely times where you could see something behind his eyes when he looked at you.

You’d seen it in the bar when he glared, the darkness that overtook his entire being. It would have been a lie if you said it wasn’t a thrill.

As if it was bringing something out of you as well, you couldn’t stop the way you looked up at him, the puppy dog eyes seeming like a completely natural reflex as you couldn’t fight the whimper that came out of you when he gripped your wrist so hard it almost hurt.

There seemed to be something unspoken between the pair of you over those years of pretending you didn’t want each other, something extended beyond feelings and presented itself as more of just this feeling that neither of you could doubt, this understanding that when the pair of you came together, there was going to be flames.

The hand that wasn’t gripping your wrist continued to touch you, pinching your nipple between his index finger and thumb, twisting slightly just to look down at the way you whimpered, letting yourself surrender to the headspace completely.

As you tried to turn your body away, be just wrenched you back to face him even harder, his free hand coming to grab your face and force you to look up at him, squeezing your cheeks so hard your lips pressed together like a fish.

“You’re really gonna be like that?” he breathed with a soft laugh, like he didn’t take you seriously as tall, almost like your attempts to pull away from him were entirely in vain.

It’d had never been like this with old boyfriends, missionary where you’d laid there like a goldfish and let them finish up, or even when they’d pathetically beg you suck their dicks; No, there was something playing within you that wanted Erik fired up, like getting him annoyed was all part of the fun.

Trying to pull your wrist away from his grip, even if it was futile, you let out a small grumble, looking up at him in a way that more than put across the attitude you were purposely giving him, like you knew exactly what you were doing.

“Be like that if you want Princess, works for me.” he spoke lowly leaning in to look down at you in a way that just read as “you asked for this.”

Without another warning, Erik’s hand was disappearing up your skirt, his fingers starting to rub up and down your panties with little to no mercy or warning, your mouth opening to let out a sound only to be promptly stopped by Erik’s other hand clamping over your mouth.

His fingers were skilled, running along your fabric covered slit with a precision that was above what you even thought possible for a guy, like he knew exactly where to touch you in a way that immediately had you whining against his hand.

It didn’t take long for your panties to be pushed aside only to make room for his fingers to start gliding through your wetness, promptly soaking his hand as you tried to close your legs out of reflex, only to clamp down on either sides of him, using his body to keep you open for him.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” he mused, a dry laugh leaving his lips as he looked down at you, once again giving you no warning as he pushed two fingers straight inside you, gifting you no patience on his part as he wasted no time pushing them inside you up to the knuckle.

Your muffled cry only served to egg him on further, the feeling of your hips trying to pull away from his fingers and your back arching spurring on a slightly cruel smirk across his features.

“You’re that fucking wound up just from my fingers inside you? Seriously?” his tone was mocking at best, leaving you only able to look up at him with eyes that were starting to grow misty as he fucked you with his fingers at a pace that almost hurt, but in the best way conceivable.

God, it was almost embarrassing how much your body reacted to him, the sounds you were making against his hand purely from his touch, you were acting like a cock hungry slut, but it seemed that it was exactly how Erik wanted you, especially when he ripped his fingers out of you out of nowhere with seemingly no warning, the pathetic sound you made at the absence that left you clenching around nothing.

He lifted his fingers up so that they were held right in your face, the sticky mess on his fingers glistening as he spread his fingers to show it off.

“Look at that..” he breathed, letting out an exhaled chuckle as he stared at it like he was almost in a trance, only to open his mouth and suck your mess off of his fingers with the most atrociously sloppy sound you’d ever heard, pulling them out of his mouth again and looking down at you. “Like fuckin’ honey.”

That image along was enough to have your whole body shivering, watching him slurp on his fingers, sucking your own essence off of them like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted; where you legs had been attempting to close before hand, your own body began to betray you, your hips lifting off of the bed as you let out a desperate sound, chasing after his touch again.

Seeing your response to losing the feeling of him, Erik only seemed to find amusement from the way you were whimpering and trying to find any sort of relief, his solution being to bring his hand back down to your pussy, yet only letting his finger tips begin to ghost over your clit, hardly making any contact, nowhere near enough as far as you were concerned.

All you could do was let out sounds of protest, your hands desperately fighting to break free from where he was holding them down with only one hand, his strength and ability to overpower you being more than enough needed to keep you right where he wanted to.

“Whats wrong, princess..?” he cooed at you, mocking you as he kept his face close to yours, continuing his string of almost touching you as he waited to see how long it would take for you to break. “Something you want? You want me to touch you?”

With his hand still held over your mouth, it wasn’t exactly easy to verbalise your answer, but a whimper that came out sounding more like a rugged groan and the nodding of your head, all paired up with the desperation of your eyes that were blown out to the size of dinner plates, he seemed to understand the message clear enough.

Just as he’d done before, he gave you no warning when he plunged his fingers back inside you, fucking you with them with a starting pace that had your eye’s rolling back into your head, practically crying out into his hand the sudden jump from feeling barely anything to being heinously overstimulated, your brain was beginning to turn to mush, you were becoming putty in his fingers.

You’d always imagined it might be something like this to a degree, but fucking yourself with you fingers late and night and shutting your eyes pretending it was him was practically nothing when compared to what was happening right then and there, the knot in your stomach growing tighter and tighter as you felt yourself starting to go numb.

“You gonna cum?” he teased, “Gonna gush all over my fingers like a nasty little slut? Fuuuuck, look at you, you can’t even hear what im saying.”

He was correct of course, anything he was saying to you was coming out as white noise as you finally felt you body coming loose around him, pulsing around his fingers as you let out obscene muffled noises and felt your toes curling, swearing for a moment or two that you went blind on one eye.

You were still in a daze when his hand came off of your mouth, taking in a deep breath of air that you hadn’t even realised was being kept from you, silence except for the sound of your panting.

Numb to the world around you, you hardly even felt real for the first ten seconds of laying there, feeling a few soft kisses peppering your forehead accompanied by a hand on your cheek.

“Hey now, come back to me..” Erik’s soft voice rang out, a small laugh following after it, finally starting to come back down to reality to see him looking down at you like he thought that state he’d left you in was hilarious.

You couldn’t form words, but he seemed to realise your eyes were focusing back in on him, his thumb running along your cheek as he tilted his head.

“You okay?” he whispered, watching you let out a small hum and a nod, one of your shaky hands coming up to grip his shoulder, almost in an attempt to ground yourself.

When you gave him another nodded, the hand that was on your cheek proceeded to give it a soft encouraging pat, a smile remaing on Erik’s face as he sat back and gripped your hips.

“Can I fuck you princess? Is that what you want?”

His question had you biting your lip as you looked up at him, the way his hands rubbed the tops of thigh’s slowly and softly, his own little way of keeping you grounded and comforted, seeking out permission from you before he went any further, that was the Erik that had always taken care of you, even if from a respectful distance.

“Please..” was the first word you’d managed to get out, your voice slightly croaky but clear enough that he definitely understood, causing him to let out a low groan at just how pathetically you begged for it.

With the jeans that were already undone, it hadn’t taken him much effort to pull them down to his knees, his grey boxers leaving nothing to the imagination as you pushed yourself up on your elbows, your bottom lip being caught between your teeth as soon as you saw the length and size you were about to be working with.

The only way you could have been described in that moment was a bitch in heat, desperate and needy in a way that couldn’t be described in words.

Then as if you weren’t already cock hungry enough, even just from seeing the tattooed barb wire on his v-line, or the dark hair creepy out of the boxers and up towards his belly button; As he pulled himself out and lazily pumped himself, your mouth fell open, the whimper leaving your throat being so pathetic that you were almost ashamed.

Looking down at his own cock, Erik let out a throaty laugh, continuing to continued to slowly drag his hand up and down his shaft when he looked back up at you, realising what it was that had constituted the noise from you.

“You like it?” he teased, running his thumb over the top of the thick curved barbell, letting you stare at it for a few more seconds before he put a hand on your knee.

“You want it?” he asked, his hand gliding down to rest on your hip.

When you nodded, he smiled and lifted your hips, turning you over slowly so that your ass was up in the air, your cheek coming to rest snugly against the sheets as he placed his hand flat inbetween your shoulder blades to push your upper body down.

“That’s it, I’ve got you..” he reassured, his hand coming to glide over your ass cheek, admiring the view for a few sweet seconds, letting you enjoy the feeling of a soft touch against your skin, at least for a few seconds.

**THWACK**

You were lucky your face was in the sheets, otherwise the sound of you crying out would have been audible throughout the whole house, the sharp pain of Erik’s hand coming down to spank you barely even registering before he was sending another one down on your skin.

The kicking of your legs was futile, the whimpers leaving your throat seeming to produce little mercy from Erik as he let down one more harsh smack, just as you felt his tip starting to run up and down your entrance, the cold metal of his piercing making you jump.

“You gonna let me fuck this pussy? Huh?” he grunted, making a point to push just his tip inside you, barely even penetrating you to begin with. “Gonna let me fill it up with my cum? You gonna take it all?”

His words, along with the unbearable teasing, had you pushing your ass back against him, desperate for him to push himself deeper inside you, only for him to back away each time you tried to your dismay, a desperate whimper emerging from your throat each time.

“Pretty baby wants dick so bad..” he cooed, almost as if he genuinely felt sorry for you, but you both knew better, the more you were begging for him, the better it was.

Not as harshly as he had pushed his fingers inside you, Erik gripped your hips, pushing himself in at a fast enough speed that had you gasping, but didn’t hurt by any means, telling you that beneath the show he was putting on, he still was making sure not to hurt you, at least not in a way that you didn’t want him to.

Your gasp was quickly offset with a soft cry, your eyes squeezing shut as his cock invaded your insides, pushing through without resistance as your wetness let him glide inside fairly easily.

It was a little bit of a push before Erik finally sunk inside you completely, when his hips finally made contact with your ass, bottoming out with a deep groan that had him tipping his head back and shutting his eyes.

“Fuuuuck..” he groaned, you could feel the way his grip on your hips tightened, along with the way his cock twitched inside you; just as much as you could feel him fighting back his instinct to move, fighting back his desire to pound into you with no mercy until you were ready.

“Just..” he breathed “Tell me when I can start moving princess..”

The way he was able to switch back and forth between cruel and caring was just so painfully Erik, just as it always was with him, one minute he’d act like he was bothered by your very presence, then you’d give him those same puppy dog eyes and he’d be left unable to say no to you.

Turning your head and straining your neck to look back at him, your mouth hung open for a few moments as you let yourself finish getting used to the stretch, as well as the feeling of his piercing tickling right against that sweet spot inside you, every time he moved in the slightest it sent lighting through you, unable to hide your whimpers.

Opening your eyes back up, you gave him a nod, preparing yourself for what was no doubt going to be a brutal pace that he was about to set.

He started out slow, giving you a chance to make sure he wasn’t hurting you, gradually gathering up speed which only made your moans grow louder, giving you no choice but you let your face fall back against the sheets to make sure it was muffled, eventually he was pistoning inside you, a concentrated rhythm being followed as he gripped your hips so tightly it stung.

Risking a look back, you turned your head only to be greeted by the sight of Erik thrusting into you, staring down at the sight of himself coming in and out of you as his mouth hung open, low groans and grunts leaving his chest.

As if he had felt your eyes on him, Erik looked up, meeting your gaze which only seemed to stir him further, biting his lip as he leaned forward and reached to grab a fistful of your hair, forcing you to arch your back and stare up at the wall, letting him fuck you so hard no sound was even coming out of you anymore, just leaving your mouth hanging open and your eyes rolling into the back of your skull.

“Thaaaats it.. fucking take it like a dirty fucking cockslut…” his words sounded just as desperate as you had previously, breathed out and slightly higher pitched in a way that told you he was feeling it all just as much as you were. “Fuck, fuck, wanted to have you like this for so long… wanted you on my bed spread out just like this..”

Memories of touching yourself just to the very idea of something like this happening came flooding in, laying there in your bed back at home and closing your eyes and picturing Erik in your head, wondering if he ever thought about you in the way you thought about him.

Now here you were getting confirmation that he’d wanted you for just as long as you’d wanted him, years of frustration and pining finally being thrown out of the window as you were actually there, bent over for him and letting him fuck you like a whore, pent up urges years in the making fuelling the way he jack hammered into you.

“Shit.. turn over..” he grunted, pulling out of you and gripping your shoulder in his hand to flip you onto your back before you could even compute what he was asking you. “Need to see those eyes..”

Letting Erik manhandle you into whatever position he wanted, you couldn’t stop yourself from lifting your head to get a glimpse of him lining himself back up, unable to stop your legs from shivering and your mouth falling open with a whine when you pushed his cock back inside you.

Bringing you gaze back up to where he was kneeling above you, you stared into each others eyes, making a point to put on those same puppy dog eyes that got him every time, feeling him begin to fuck you noticeably harder when you looked up at him.

“Fuck.. yes.. look at me..” he groaned, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your knees, pushing to where your knees were almost touching your shoulders, folding you in a way that allowed for a whole new angle, unable to hide the way your face contorted and your brows turned upwards.

Your head tipped back, soft cries being the only sound you were capable of making anymore, so completely and totally fucked out to the point that you could hardly even form any proper thoughts.

A hand came to rest on your cheek, your head coming forward and your eyes opening again to see Erik looking right in the verge himself just as you were, his eyes staring down at you intensely as he seemed to be chasing your gaze.

“Please don’t stop looking at me..” he begged, the dominant nature he had taken on previously becoming replaced by the unbearable urge to cum, chasing his release desperately.

The way you were gripping at each other, your hands coming up to rest on either side of his face, you silence each other in the form of a kiss, Erik’s moans into your mouth seeming to be exactly what was needed to push you over the edge, wrapping your arms around his neck as you cried out, tucking your face in his neck as you began to pulse, soaking his dick and squeezing it tightly in a way that had his thrusts turning shallow, barely even pulling out of you before he was pushing back in.

Your hand found its way to the back of his head, tangling your fingers into the tufts of dark hair and gripping whatever you could as you practically sobbed against his shoulder, your legs shaking as your pussy squeezed him.

Pulling on his hair and cumming around his cock proved to be exactly what was needed to push Erik over the edge he’d been chasing, feeling his thrusts stiffen and stop and start randomly as he painted your walls with cum, starting to leak out of you already.

His moans we’re high pitched, his hips going from ramming against your own to softly and slowly rolling deeply, riding out his orgasm bit by bit as you felt his body starting to give way, letting him collapse on top of you and into your arms.

Each time his hips moved again the slightest bit, you whimpered, gripping his hair again and squeezing his hips with your legs, still highly sensitive from the way he’d been mercilessly fucking you only moments ago.

You had no idea how long you both laid there on his bed, letting his thick cum leak out of you as he sat inside you, resting his forehead on your chest and panting deeply, trying to come down from his high before you both felt even semi conscious again.

When it finally felt real again, like you had floated back down into your physical bodies once again, you looked at Erik and couldn’t fight back the smile that made its way onto your features, apparently contagious as Erik let out a soft laugh and leaned forward to capture your lips in a soft kiss, the sudden movement making you whimper against his lips that had him pulling back suddenly.

“Shit, sorry.” he wheezed, pushing his weight off of you and slowly pulling his now soft dick out of you with a sharp hiss through his teeth.

Pulling his grey boxers back over his hips, he moved back down to lay next to you on his back, turning his head to look over at you and reaching out to slowly pull you against him, letting you rest your head on his chest.

“I’ve got you..” he whispered, letting you lay there and recover slowly but surely, letting your eyes open and close softly as the exhaustion finally started to claim you.

When you shut your eyes, you didn’t even realise you’d fallen asleep until you woke up to a hand on your face, having now been tucked into the covers while Erik got up and fetched a washcloth from the bathroom.

“Shh..shh, it’s okay, it’s just me..” he whispered when you’d fussed softly, running his thumb along your cheek and letting you open your eyes slowly to see him standing there.

You let him clean you off softly, feeling him take care to be as gentle as he could before discarding the cloth and pulling a pair of his own sweat pants and shirt over you while you faded in and out of consciousness.

Finally as he crawled back into bed with you, you didn’t hesitate to roll back into his arms, feeling them wrap around you as a kiss was laid on the top of your head.

“You have no idea how long i’ve been waiting to do that..” he whispered against your temple as you clung to his body heat, letting him trace little shapes along your back with his finger tips.

“Just wish you hadn’t waited as long as you did..” you whispered back, a soft exhale of a laugh leaving him.

“Good things come to those who wait?” he offered up, only receiving a soft smack against his arm from you which only made him laugh more.

“Yeah, okay, I deserved that one.” he wheezed as he just pulled you closer against him, taking a deep inhale of your scent and exhaling with a satisfied hum.

“Hope you know that now that i’ve got you, i’m never letting you go.” his last words to you before you both started to fall asleep, snoring softly in each others arms in his bed, something you’d both waited almost four years to do, finally happening here and now.

[the-a-word-2214]

drink the honey | erik campbell x fem!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in visiting your friends' bar, you happen to meet his older brother, aka the guy who pierced your ears forever ago. cue a lesson in grief and exactly what can be pierced and where, as well as a night you won't soon be forgetting. wc 9.7k (i am. so sorry.) title stolen from closer by nine inch nails. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: erik campbell (final destination: bloodlines, 2025) x fem!reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: semi-canon compliance (howard has gone to his great reward, the shop fire happened, but none of the death hitlist stuff), drinking, one single mention of jerry fuckin fenbury, mild descriptions of burn injuries/scars, lots of innuendos, smut (minors dni)(holy shit there's a lot here, bear with me yall): p in v, creampie city baby (but then mention of intention to use morning-after pill), oral (f!receiving), genital piercings (like... we all watched the same movie, we know what's going down), lots of teasing, hittin it from the back + spanking (i know yall saw what he did to that garbage truck), biting/hickies, one tiny quick slap to a cheek, panty thief erik, look-in-the-mirror type shenanigans, light choking, halfway decent aftercare considering the circumstances, nicknames such as: sweetheart, baby, babygirl, princess/prince 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: soooo like after a year-long writing hiatus, i am back. it's been. a lot. and as far as this fic goes, i cannot explain myself, i knew i needed erik carnally even before the garbage truck thing so like. idk, dick piercing goes brrrr. anyway. follow @babybluebex-writes to be notified whenever i post a new fic!

You had only seen him once before. He had been the guy at the sketchy tattoo shop downtown that had done your second lobe piercings, and he was totally fine. It hardly hurt, probably because he was able to distract you long enough for the needle to pierce your skin by getting you talking about your own job, and he was pretty good about reminding you how to clean the piercings and everything. You didn’t exactly remember his name— something with an E, or an A? It was a little while ago, and you had been a walk-in— but you acutely remember his big, blue eyes and the stink of cigarettes that lingered on the leather jacket he wore while piercing you. That, actually, was the same jacket he was wearing right now, sitting directly across the bar from you. 

He was by himself, bottle of Hice in hand, seemingly off in his own world as he gazed at the bartop. Every so often, every time the cute blond bartender passed by him, he would lift his head and give him a curt nod or a flick of his eyebrows, but he didn’t talk to anyone else or look in any one direction other than down. You were totally intrigued by him, even though he was not your usual type— as your friend beside you had joked as you walked into the bar earlier that night, maybe your “boyfriend” would be working, AKA Bobby, the cute blond bartender. Bobby was an absolute sweetheart, greeting you with a grin and asking how your night was every single time you came in, but he was a sweetie with everyone that walked into the bar, so, even though it wasn’t necessarily special treatment, it made you like him a whole lot. 

Speaking of your friend… You looked one way and the other, trying to catch sight of her, and you frowned mildly as you tugged your phone from your purse. Just as you suspected, she had texted you about ten minutes before, telling you that she had absconded to go smoke, which was code for “I’m going on an adventure and it’ll be your job in two hours to track me down and get me back home”. You sighed, clicking off your phone screen, and sucked down the last of your liquor from your plastic cup. 

“Lookin’ pretty glum there, friend,” a voice said, and you gazed up to see Bobby. There was a relative lull in the crowd, although the rap music playing over the speakers still shook the walls, and Bobby’s kind smile softened you. “What’s got you down?” 

“Ah, shit,” you chuckled. “Not sad or anything. Just tired.” 

“Tired?” Bobby repeated. “You want a vodka Redbull?”

You shook your head. “Just a long day at work,” you informed him. “Didn’t really even wanna come out, but Anna convinced me, and then immediately…” You trailed off, gesturing around you and the obvious lack of Anna. Even though you had never seen Bobby outside the bar, you had been going for years and knew him well, and Bobby had a good memory of the regulars, so he nodded, familiar with Anna’s disappearing act. “Probably one more of these, then close up my tab.” 

“You got it,” Bobby said. “Single or double?” 

You twisted your mouth as you thought about it. Obviously, you wanted a double, but a single would probably be better for you and your poor wallet. Bobby tilted his head towards you with a smile, almost as if to say C’mon, you know you wanna, and you sighed. “Just a single,” you told him. 

“Heard,” Bobby nodded. As he made your drink, you watched him walk to the opposite end of the bar and sharply say something to the brooding piercer, and he looked up from the bartop again to say something equally sharp back at him. A weary smile passed over his face, and he pulled at the glass bottle of beer. 

“Hey, so,” you started as Bobby handed you your cup. “Who’s that at the end you keep talking to?” 

Bobby scoffed. “Who’s asking?” he started, popping a small black cocktail straw in your drink. 

“He pierced my seconds for me a few months ago,” you explained. “Was thinking about getting my nose done, and wanted to go back to him, but I couldn’t remember his name.” A total lie; you liked your nose the way it was, with the appropriate number of holes. You just wanted to know more about him; he had a pull, like a magnet, and you needed more. 

“You let that motherfucker stick needles in you?” Bobby chuckled. “And you want more? Ill-advised.” 

“Okay, well, who is he?” you asked, a flash of fear running cold down your body. 

“Erik,” Bobby said, and your brain flashed with recognition. Erik; that’s right. Something with an E. 

“And it’s bad that Erik pierced my ears because…?” you asked. “Did he, like, get his license taken away or something?” 

“No, no,” Bobby sighed. “Ah, I shouldn’t talk shit about him. He’s my older brother, though, I can’t help it. Genetically predisposed to give him hell… Maybe not genetically, but y’know, half-genetically, or whatever…” 

Oh. Throughout the years, you could recall Bobby making passing mentions of his siblings— his older sister graduating college last year, his older brother flunking out of college prior to you ever meeting Bobby, his sister being “back in town”, his brother “traveling for work”, yada yada yada. “This the same brother that flunked outta college?” you asked, and Bobby laughed loudly. 

“Yes!” he wheezed. “Yep, that’s him! Fuck, how do you remember that?” 

“Because I’m a nice person, Bobby!” you smiled. “I remember things that people tell me!” 

“Shit, that’s funny,” Bobby said. “Yeah, one and the same. Went for one semester, decided he didn’t like it, grades went downhill, dropped out before they could boot him out… Probably for the best, honestly, he never really was into the whole ‘establishment’ thing. Think he only ever went there to get our mom off his back.” 

“Dad didn’t care?” you started, and a twinge flashed over Bobby’s face. 

“Well,” he started. “Not necessarily, but y’know… But Dad passed away about a year ago. It sorta sucked for all of us, obviously, and that’s when Ma got intense about… Well, everything. But he had been out of college for… Shit, more than ten years, and when Dad died, Erik just… I don’t know, he had a break or something. You find out, in the wake of your dad’s death, that your dad isn’t actually your dad and that your mom’s friend is actually your dad, and that fucks with you, so I get it, but he got super withdrawn from all of us after that. I mean, shit, this is the first time I’ve seen him in months.” 

“Wow,” you sighed. “That’s… Um…” 

“Sorry,” Bobby said, clearing his throat. “Airing out my half-brother’s dirty laundry, I shouldn’t have… I just worry about him, y’know? He’s my big bro. He used to be so… He lit up whatever room he walked into. He’d come over to grill for family barbecues and to play video games and just to, like, hang out, but ever since that fiasco last year, he’s just… Tattoo shop, his apartment, over and over. Getting him to even stop by tonight was like pulling teeth. Truly, I think he needs a girlfriend. Boyfriend. Cat. Whatever. Something to get him out of his head.”

The man across the bar certainly did not fit the shining description that Bobby gave of the old Erik. By now, he had his phone in his hand, lighting up his face, and the light glinted off a large silver ring hanging from his nose. You remembered the same jewelry from when you met him, and you absentmindedly tugged on your earlobe. “Well, shit,” you said finally. “First of all, sorry for all of that. My dad isn’t really in my life, so I can’t sympathize exactly, but… Y’know. Still sucks. I’m sorry about that. And additionally… Jesus Christ, Bobby, you need to learn to keep your mouth shut!” 

Bobby smiled. “You wanted to close your tab, right?” he asked, and you nodded. “Sure thing.” 

You handed Bobby your card, and your gaze drifted to Erik one more. Still on his phone, but now with furrowed eyebrows, concentrating on something. The POS system was right next to where Erik sat, and you watched Bobby say something to his brother as he ran your card. You couldn’t read lips, so you were at a loss as to the conversation, but you watched Erik roll his eyes and swig at his beer, saying something in response to Bobby. Bobby froze up for a single second, then said something that you could obviously tell was “Really?”, and Erik nodded. Bobby seemed like he was malfunctioning, still for a moment, then turning back to the computer, then back to Erik once more, repeating “Really?”

Erik was obviously annoyed, cocking his head towards his little brother, and he went into the pocket of his leather jacket, extracting his wallet and passing his card to Bobby. Bobby pushed your own card into his empty hand and poked at the computer for a moment, and he ran Erik’s card through the computer. In a second, the POS churned out a receipt, and Bobby shoved it towards his brother as he turned back towards you and came your way. “Um,” Bobby started, a red flush hitting his cheeks. “So, Erik picked up your tab for you.” 

“Huh?” you asked as Bobby slid you your card back. “Why?” 

“Couldn’t tell you,” Bobby shrugged. “Maybe he thinks you’re my friend or something… Well, I mean, you are, kinda, we’re friendly…”

“Or maybe,” you started. “He’s getting a move-on with that ‘girlfriend’ thing you mentioned.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Bobby mumbled. 

“Or, and consider this,” you began, sliding your card back into your purse and grabbing your drink as you edged yourself off the barstool. “I’m a pretty girl who just gets drinks bought for her from time to time.” 

“I mean, obviously,” Bobby said with a smile. “It’s just never my brother doing the buying.”

Erik looked up from his phone as you approached him, and your heart slammed up against your ribcage with anxiety. His hair, all shaggy and a little too long, hung in his eyes, and a careful smile touched at his mouth. “Saw you talking to Bobby,” he said. He shifted slightly, opening his body towards you and not solely at the bar, and you saw Bobby give a sort-of pained smile, almost a “What the fuck?!” type of face. “Figured you were one of his little girlfriends or something.” 

“No, not me,” you said. “I’m just a regular, nothing more.” 

“Ah, well,” Erik shrugged. “Bobby can use as many friends as he can get.” He cast a look at his brother, who swiftly threw up a double bird, and Erik rolled his eyes. “So, does my baby brother’s regular friend have a name?” 

“Yes,” you said, and a smile came across his face when you told him your name. He repeated it back to you, gentle and sweet, like he was committing it to memory. You liked the way he said your name, and the closer proximity allowed you to see his pink mouth, the skin of his lips a little dry and bitten. 

“That’s pretty,” he told you. “I’m Erik, if Bobby didn’t already tell you.” 

“I already knew,” you told him. A flash of confusion wiped across his face, and you put a hand up to your ear, almost as if you were showing them off. “You did my seconds a little while ago.” 

“Oh!” Erik laughed. “Well, shit, I did, didn’t I? I remember you now; I knew I’d seen your pretty face before.”

“God,” you chuckled. “Are you always such a flirt?”

“Not always,” Erik said. “Only when it can make my baby brother uncomfortable.” He gestured towards Bobby with the end of his beer bottle, and Bobby gave him another “What the fuck?” type look before rolling his eyes and going to serve other people at the bar, away from you and Erik. 

“Well, you’re certainly brothers, based on attitude alone,” you said, and watched as Erik hooked the toe of his boot in the barstool opposite him and tugged it out, giving you a place to sit. 

“What, the blindingly good looks didn’t give it away first?” Erik asked. 

“You two look nothing alike,” you told him. After a momentary beat, you added, “I like your look better than his.” 

“Oh yeah?” Erik asked. “You into the brooding, mysterious types?” 

You shrugged. “I could be,” you said. “I think it’s the whole, like, ‘tortured artist’ thing you’ve got going on.”

“So, that answer is yes, the brooding and mysterious type,” Erik nodded. “Tortured artists are, in my experience, inherently brooding and mysterious. Can’t claim the title if you aren’t.” 

“Damn, today I learned,” you replied, and Erik gave a little laugh. You examined his face as he looked to the side, towards Bobby, to flag him down for another beer; soft skin, a little pale with a rosy flush, rough facial hair that showed a little ginger in the blue neon signage behind the bar, with thick, dark eyelashes around his almond eyes, piercing blue. A silver ring inside his nose, to match the ones in his ears; it looked like a thicker metal than you thought piercings typically were. “So, here, you can teach me something else. How did you get your nose ring in?” 

“Like, how you pierce a septum?” Erik asked. 

“No, like, that’s way… I don’t know…” you started, already regretting the question, knowing your next choice of words. “Way bigger and thicker than my earrings. How?” Your face burned hot at having to look him in the eyes and say the phrase “big and thick” to him, but he either didn’t catch the unintentional innuendo or actively chose not to acknowledge it. 

“Oh, I see,” Erik nodded. “Yeah, so, it’s a little complicated, a lot of terminology and shit, but the short of it is that you gotta stretch it out. Like, it wasn’t this big when I first did it, I’ve had to size up the hole over the years so I could get bigger and thicker things in there.” 

You bit your bottom lip to hold in your laughter, and Erik scoffed. “Okay, that was too much eye contact on my part for saying all of that, that’s my bad,” he said and shook his head. “I could have said that way differently.” 

“I-It’s fine,” you told him. He exchanged the empty bottle for another one from his brother, and Bobby passed him the bent-up bottle cap, which he put into an inside pocket of his jacket. “I mean, I started it.” 

“That you did,” Erik said. “But, yeah, it’s a whole thing, sizing up, it takes a while.” 

“Neat,” you said. “I don’t know too much about, like, tattoos or piercings or whatever, that’s not really my style.”

“Well, I’m an open book,” Erik shrugged. “You got questions, I’ve got answers. And I won’t even charge ya for it.” He gave you a playful wink, and the heat returned to your face. 

“Cool,” you nodded. “Do you have any tattoos?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Erik nodded quickly. “Got more ink than skin at this point, I’m pretty sure.” With that, he shrugged off his jacket, leaving him in just the black t-shirt for some band that you didn’t know, with that weird scratchy font that metal bands usually used. You could hardly focus on the t-shirt, though; all along his now-exposed arms, he had different pieces of artwork, all varying sizes, some colorful and some not, none of them remotely similar. You felt your eyes widen as Erik held out his arms to you, and you examined the spiderwebs, serpents, and roses that he had embedded in his skin forever. “You can touch ‘em, if you want,” he offered, then winced. “I promise I’m not trying to say everything as obscenely as possible.”

“It’s fine,” you smiled. Gently, as if you were worried you’d hurt him, you brushed your fingers along the large spiderweb that encompassed the majority of his lower right arm. “I mean, it’s just skin. Skin is skin, ink or not.” 

“I know,” Erik said. “But that’s a sorta cheat code with people like me— let the cute girl touch your tattoos and she might give you her number. A high success rate, you’d be surprised.”

You gently turned his arm over to get a look at the softer, paler skin on the inside of his arm, and you sighed. In large script, the word DAD was inked in, along with a pale scar in the shape of a heart towards the end. “Oh,” Erik started. “So, the heart was, um, sorta an accident. Not sorta, it was an accident, but, like, I don’t know, it’s a long story. The night after my father died, I was closing up shop by myself, and some freak fire got started. Through a series of unfortunate events, I ended up on the floor, but a jewelry case had busted in the fire and I didn’t realize it, and my arm—” He made an exaggerated splat noise that made you giggle despite the horror of the story. “Landed straight on top of it. Worst pain I’ve ever been in that I didn’t enjoy.”

“Wow,” you mumbled. “I’m glad you’re alright… I remember last year, hearing from some friends that there was a fire there, but… And I’m sorry ‘bout your dad.” You only added the last part to try to banish the thoughts that his last remark had ignited, but he did nothing to mitigate it. 

“Yeah, it’s coming up on a full year,” Erik said. “And I was thinking about it recently, and I’m tired of… I don’t know. When he died, I felt like I lost a part of myself. I mean, he’s my dad, y’know, I kinda did lose a part of myself. But one day a few weeks ago, I looked down at the tat and the burn scar, and saw that everything had healed up as nice as possible, like nothing bad happened at all, and I figured that it was Pops, taking care of me one last time. I realized I was tired of being a sad little recluse, especially if he was going to make sure I was okay.”

There’s the explanation that Bobby was looking for on why Erik changed. And, it seemed, like the old Erik was starting to rise from the grave. “That’s a nice thought,” you told him. You let go of his arm and cleared your throat, going after a sip of your drink, and you added, “Do you have any more?” 

“Thoughts?” Erik joked, and you smiled. 

“No, tattoos,” you told him. “I’m assuming it’s not just your arms.”

“Oh,” Erik said, shaking his head. “Nah, got ‘em all over. You can sorta see this one…” He hooked a finger in the collar of his shirt and tugged slightly, showing off the corner of what looked vaguely like a bird’s wing— “And my stomach piece, and the bullshit on my sides… And more.”

You could tell he was fishing for you to ask what “more” meant, and you gave him a soft smile. You could read his energy as easily as a book, and the words that his soul and body gave to you were telling you some things that you’d rather hear his voice say and his lips move around. “More?” you repeated. His hands weren’t all full of ink, and you carefully let your finger trace the lines of his palm as you lowered your voice as quiet as you could. “My, my, Erik. That almost sounds like an invitation.” 

The hand of his that you weren’t tracing touched your knee, moving slowly to give you time to retreat if you wanted to. “An invitation to do what, exactly?” he asked, and you slotted your bottom lip between your teeth. “Oh, don’t you go getting shy on me now, baby. You’re almost there. All you gotta do is ask.” 

A shiver ran down your back at the sweet little name he bestowed upon you, and you battled it with venom. “What if I don’t wanna ask?” you countered. “What if I’m content just looking at the tattoos on your arms, and have no interest whatsoever at seeing what’s under— and inside— your pants?” 

Erik laughed the way that only incredibly hot guys could get away with, his lip between his teeth as his laughter rumbled low in his chest. “Who said anything about getting in my pants?” he asked. Moving slowly, once again giving you time to move if you so wanted, he got up from the stool he was sat on, instead leaning up on the bar on his elbow. He was taller standing than sitting, and having to look just so slightly upward made your mouth run dry. He wasn’t a big guy, but definitely not some twig, but the energy radiating from his chest made you feel so tiny in comparison. You didn’t hate it, though. Now, as close as you were, you could smell the mentholated smoke on him, and it made you dizzy. What the fuck was wrong with you? You had never been so unashamedly turned on by someone before. 

“I did,” you said boldly. 

“Now, that’s mixed signals,” Erik chuckled. “You don’t wanna see the tattoos or piercings I’ve got under my jeans, and yet you wanna get inside ‘em?”

You paused, replaying what he said in your head as your eyes widened, and quietly replied, “Piercings?” 

He smiled slow, biting the edge of his lip, looking like the cat who ate the canary. “It’s like I told you, babygirl,” he said. “All you gotta do is ask.”

He took a half-step closer to you, his hand landing on your waist, and he angled his head down so that his mouth was right next to your ear. To an innocent passerby, it could have looked like he was just talking to you so he wouldn’t have to shout over the music, but the words that spilled from his lips were anything but innocent: “If you knew how fucking hard I was right now, you wouldn’t be wasting any more time out here. You’d take me into the bathroom and lock the door, and you’d open your legs and let me stretch your pussy open and do whatever I want to you. Right?” You nodded quickly, your own hand reaching out and hooking a finger in his belt loop to draw him closer. His tongue slowly wet his bottom lip as he took in your reaction, and he added, “And I bet you’d just love to be split open on my cock, wouldn’t you? Take me in your mouth, in your sopping wet little cunt. I bet you’re such a slut that you’d let me… Nah, you wouldn’t let me, you would beg me… To cum inside you, breed that filthy little cunt of yours until you’re absolutely full of me.”

You nodded quickly and grunted out a meek “Mhm.” 

“You ever had a pierced cock before, baby?” Erik asked softly, almost turning sweet for a moment. But you knew it wasn’t sweetness; it was condescension, he was making fun of how mild-mannered you had turned. It only made the fire under your dress burn hotter. If he could have bent you over that bar that very second, you would have let him. But then his words sank into your skin— Sank maybe isn’t the right word. It hit you like a truck, slammed under your skin like all the ink on his body, needled in with a satisfied pain. Did he say pierced? 

“N-No,” you stammered. “I didn’t even know you could… That anyone would wanna…” 

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded. “You wanna know a secret?” You looked at him with widened eyes, nodding, and his big blues softened at your doe-in-headlights look. “Only just got it last year. You’ll be the first to know what it feels like.” 

“Oh my God,” you gasped. “I’m flattered.” 

“How ‘bout you go check out that bathroom?” he asked, and you nodded again. Your head was spinning at the notion, and Erik’s eyebrows creased for a moment. “If you don’t, that’s alright. Let me know if I’m coming on too strong, I can back off or fuck off completely, if you want.” 

“I like my men strong,” you told him, and you did. Forthright, assertive, commandeering; he was ticking all your boxes. “I was just thinking about it.”

“About what?” Erik asked. “I need words, sweetheart. I can’t do what you don’t tell me about. I’ll do anything for you. Just ask.” 

You cast your gaze to the side, to your forgotten drink and his beer, and you whispered, “How many of those have you had?” 

“That’s only my second one,” Erik told you. “I’m not drunk. Not even a little bit. And you?” 

“Just the one,” you said. “And this has been collecting melted ice since I came over. But you know that, you paid for them.” 

“Fuck, am I glad I did,” Erik smiled. “I wasn’t sure how else to get your attention. You were having such a good conversation with Bobby, I was almost worried the wrong Campbell brother might get a hold of you.” 

“Easy, tiger,” you told him. “You don’t have a hold of me yet.” 

Erik nodded slowly, the hand on your waist carefully sliding upwards to flatten against the small of your back, his pinkie edging oh-so-slightly under the waistband of your skirt. “M’getting there,” he told you. “I like to take my time, y’know?” 

“Slow and steady?” you asked. 

“Something like that,” Erik replied. Then, gently, a shift to a much softer side, he nestled his lips into your neck, just below your ear, and he gave it a gentle kiss. “Go to the bathroom, get all nice and ready for me while I finish up here. Can you do that, sweetheart?” 

You nodded. “Don’t keep me waiting too long,” you told him, squeezing his arm. 

In turn, his hand abandoned your leg and snatched your wrist. His grip wasn’t painfully tight, just enough to let you know that he meant business, and he said, “If I walk in there and catch you touching yourself, you’re gonna be in huge trouble. Okay? None of that shit, I’m the only one who makes you cum tonight.” Your eyes stuck on his mouth as he talked, the way his pink lips pulled and puckered as he talked, and that dizzy, hypnotized feeling came back. You wanted to kiss him, taste his mouth and tongue and feel his pretty lips against yours, but you were nearly certain that a quick fuck in the bathroom of a bar wasn’t exactly a “kiss” sort of situation. 

Luckily, Erik read your mind. His own eyes flicked down to look at your mouth, and he sighed softly. “Lemme…” he whispered, and he surged into you, pressing his lips to yours for just long enough for you to get a head full of his scent. If he had stayed put for one second more, you would have kissed him back (again, if he decided to spread you open on that bar right then and there, you would have let him without question, so a simple kiss felt relatively lowkey), and, as he pulled away, you felt like it was a painful parting. “Just wanted a little taste,” he told you, swiping his thumb along the corner of his bottom lip. “God, if your pussy tastes half as good as your mouth, I might have to really pick my battles ‘bout what I want to do to you.” 

As you departed towards the restroom, Erik sent a quick swat to your ass, and you bit your lip as you smiled at him. The restroom was towards the back, down a corridor about halfway until the room with the sign on the door, and you slowly opened it, expecting the resistance of someone in there shouting, but nothing came. A single-room situation, the counter for the sink painted shitty black with stickers for local bands and Sharpie graffiti littering the walls, and, thankfully, a functioning lock. You set your purse on the hook on the door, tugging out your phone to make sure Anna hadn’t texted you back, and you frowned at a new message from her. r u ok?? She had asked, sent less than 20 minutes ago. u haven’t come and found me and begged to go home yet!! :P

You quickly pecked out a message that was light on details, a simple got to talking to a friend, i’ll be done soon, and you turned towards the mirror, swiping at your lips with your finger to tidy up your lipstick. Erik didn’t seem all too concerned with the state of your makeup, but you still wanted it to look nice, and your concentration on cleaning up lipstick made you jump in shock when the doorknob to the bathroom started to jostle. You took a deep, steadying breath— you had never hooked up with a stranger in the bathroom before, and your chest felt full of nervous energy— and flipped the lock back on the door, then turned back to the mirror, trying to act unaffected and nonchalant. 

Erik was quiet as a ghost as he entered, deliberately shutting the door behind him and locking it once more, and he came to stand behind you, looking in the cracked and dirty mirror as well. You could trace his eyeline, though, and he was only looking at you as he moved his arms to brace against the counter, trapping you against his chest. He seemed almost contemplative as he tilted his head, shifting his eyeline to your neck and the sliver of shoulder coming out of the collar, and he pressed his mouth to your bit of shoulder. He left soft, slow kisses on your skin, traveling up to your neck, then pressing another kiss below your ear. “Did you do what I asked?” he whispered in your ear. “Got yourself ready for me?” 

“Not yet,” you admitted. “Was sorta hopin’ you’d do it for me.”

Quick as a flash, one of his hands was up off the counter, slithering around down your front to go up your skirt. His thick bicep pressed up against your body, pulling you closer into him, and you hummed with satisfaction as his big hand roughly cupped your pussy. He hadn’t done anything yet, hardly even touched you, really, but you were already wet, dampening your panties. “Fuck,” he groaned, pressing his cheek into your neck. “I can feel you, sweetheart, you’re soaked. Surely that can’t all be for me.” 

“Who else would it be for?” you asked, and a wicked smile crossed his face. 

Erik moved with confidence, like he had done it a thousand times, his fingers stroking the wetness of your panties with rough pressure, almost like he was threatening to penetrate you through the thin fabric. You realized he seemed to be mapping you out, memorizing the way you felt, and his fingers moved upwards just a bit to grind against your throbbing clit. A choked moan involuntarily left your lips, and he carefully nibbled at your soft neck. You had a feeling that he would have sank his teeth in if you would let him, and you hated to admit that you would have. Something about him made you feel dangerous for even knowing his name, and your blood felt like fire in your veins. 

“You want ‘em?” Erik asked.

You panted, pressing your ass back into him like some pathetic bitch in heat, and your heart skipped a beat at the feeling of him right against your ass, stiff inside his pants. You felt like you could have drooled as Erik laughed, rumbling low in his chest, and your voice came out as a high-pitched whine: “Want your cock, Erik, please!” 

“Oh, yeah?” he asked. “No prep, nothing? You like it when it hurts, huh? Fuck, what a woman…” He bit his bottom lip as he smiled and shook his head, seemingly impressed with you, and, as fast as lightning, his hand cracked against your ass, palm open, echoing around the tin bathroom. The sting and flame of pain made the headrush increase tenfold, and the burn of tears pricked at your eyes. You loved it, though. The dudes you fucked before were pretty easy and vanilla, and even though this wasn’t exactly the kinkiest hook-up to ever take place, even just spanking you was the most wild thing a guy had ever done. Something told you, though, that spanking and hitting it from the back (also something new for you) were part and parcel of Erik’s routine. 

His hand bunched up in the fabric of your panties, pulling it tight for just a moment, before inching it down your legs. He greedily took in the sight through the mirror as you dug your fingernails into your palms, and his free hand moved to grasp your chin, making you look in the mirror with him. “You see that?” he whispered, capturing the soft flesh of your ear in his teeth. You nodded quickly, whimpering, and the quietest growl purred at his throat. “What do you see? Tell me.” 

“I-I see…” you started, and you shuffled a bit to get your panties off completely. Erik balled them up in his fist and slipped them into the front pocket of his jeans, and your whole body pulsed and throbbed. “Am I gettin’ those back?” 

“Debatable,” Erik said swiftly, and he let go of your jaw to land a not-exactly gentle hit on your cheek before grabbing your face once more. “Eyes on the prize, sweetheart, tell me what you’re lookin’ at.”

“You,” you choked out. 

“Oh yeah?” he mused. “What am I doing?” 

The skin-to-skin contact of his rough fingers with your clit made you think you would cum from that alone. His middle fingers circled your bud, putting the perfect amount of pressure to have your legs shake, and you keened high in your throat, squirming to press your back fully against his front. You could feel his heartbeat against your shoulder blade, dampened through your clothes but still quick, fast— he was excited, nervous, on-the-edge-of-his-seat, like you, and then you remembered the secret he had told you. He had never had sex with his piercing before. He was probably as wigged out of his mind about it as you were. “Touchin’ me,” you gasped. “Touching my clit, making me feel so good.” 

“Good girl,” he whispered. His hand on your jaw slunk down, repositioning to grip your throat, and you watched his face tense as he faltered. “If I do something you don’t like, please tell me. Don’t be quiet just ‘cause I like it, okay? I wanna get my rocks off, sure, but, at the end of the day, I’m only satisfied if you are. So, if I’m too rough or say something weird or you wanna do something else, just say the word and I’ll do it.” 

“You’re okay,” you assured him. “I’ve, umm… Never done anything like this before.”

His hands jumped away from your body like your skin had burned him. “Like what?” he asked. “‘Like this’, what is ‘this’?” 

The ceasing of his rubbings on your clit made you sigh, and the shaking in your legs got worse. “The-the slapping,” you started, but a genuine laugh bubbled from your chest. “Looking in the mirror, choking, all of that, it’s new for me.” 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I-I just assumed, that’s totally on me.”

“I never told you to stop,” you offered lightly, raising your eyes to look at him in the mirror. “I never said I didn’t like it. I mean, if you hadn’t stopped rubbing my clit, I probably would’ve cum.” 

Those big blue eyes of his blinked once with surprise, and he said, “Fuck. You were that close?” With your nod, Erik laughed. “Damn. Shame on me, sweetheart.” 

“I do think that I want you to fuck me from the front,” you told him, easily turning to face him. “I mean, I can’t very well watch your cock sink into me if you’re fucking me from the back, can I?” 

“Where have you been all my life?” Erik asked, all breathy like he couldn’t believe what you were saying to him, and you smiled. Your minds seemed to think the same thing at the same time, because his hands went under your ass to help you as you perched on the edge of the counter, opening your legs for him to see all the slick and wet he had left you with. His chest heaved as he drank in the sight of your pussy, his hands skimming up your thighs, and you reached out to grab at his belt buckle, undoing it with much more deft fingers than you were used to having. He let you get as far as pulling down his zipper before he dug his blunt nails into your soft skin, making that growling purr again. 

“I just need a taste of you,” he told you, and before your brain could catch up with what he meant, he was getting down on his knees and he was getting to work, licking a broad, fat stripe up your glistening cunt. The wet warmth of his tongue made a broken moan rip from your mouth, and your head tilted back as he landed a messy kiss on your hole, throbbing and clenching around nothing. “Just like I thought, sweetheart: sweet as candy. I oughta start calling you sugar, huh?” 

He shifted, standing back to his full height, and the fire in your veins grew hotter at the sight of his mouth, shining in the light with your wet. You reached out for him and drew him into a messy kiss, and you let out your first true, full-chested moan of the night as you let yourself sink fully into him, into his smell and taste and energy, and Erik’s hips bucked forward. “Fuck,” he hissed, and drew in a tight breath. “I knew it was sensitive, they told me it would be, but fuck me, that’s intense.” 

“What is?” you asked, chasing him back into another kiss. 

“My stupid dick,” Erik chuckled against your mouth. “Rubbing against my pants, it’s, like, holy shit. You’d think I’d never had my dick touched before, the way it feels.” 

You resumed the job that you had abandoned before as you kissed him, and his hands joined you to help tug down his jeans just enough to shove down the band of his boxers, his belt buckle jingling as it moved. He had a nice dick, decently long and deliciously thick— now you understood what his whole “stretching you out” thing was about, because oh my God— but you couldn’t focus on the whole thing for too long. Extending from his beautiful rosy tip was the silver metal ball, indicative of the end of a piercing, and your stomach pitched. That was going inside of you, and you had never thought something could be so arousing. Quickly, before he could push your hand away, you wrapped your fingers around his length, pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth as you stroked his cock. 

His cock jumped in your hand as he groaned, his eyebrows furrowing with the pleasure of it. “Fuck,” he gasped. ��Holy shit, sweetheart, I think you’re gonna kill me if you make me wait any longer.” 

“We wouldn't want that,” you told him. You shuffled a bit, opening your legs wider for him, and his strong hands angled your legs to wrap around his waist. He was quick, obviously rather skilled with it, as he grasped his cock and guided it to your hole, pressing just the smallest bit in before he raised his eyes up to meet yours. A shiver ran down your back at the eye contact, and he seemed to notice the effect he had on you, because he put a hand on your face, keeping you from moving. 

“If it hurts,” he started. “Don’t tell me. Just scream for me.” 

Your breaths timed in tandem as he bullied his way inside you, going slowly to savor your tight resistance, and you gasped. His dick felt so good inside you, that funny little electrical charge working overtime with every bit he gave you, but the hard ball of the piercing in you nearly made tears fall. Not because it hurt— it didn’t; it was noticeable, of course, but you couldn’t pinpoint exactly why it felt so damn good, it just did. His cock was stiff and hard and hot, heated steel under warm velvet, and you cried out a wrecked little noise as he bottomed out, his thick balls nestled against your ass. 

Thankfully, you somehow managed to keep your head on straight and look at his face, and you saw a man possessed. His cheeks pink, his spit-slick rosebud mouth open, eyes squeezed shut and eyebrows pitched, messy hair falling over his forehead. God, the man was in heaven inside you, and his moan came as he opened his eyes. “Fuck,” he laughed. “Look at that— fits like a glove. A really tight, really… Really warm, super wet… Glove— Fuck.” He abandoned the joke almost immediately, instead moving to pull his hips back, his eyes greedily taking in the sight of himself. You watched as well, seeing his softest skin all slick and shiny with your wetness, and he pulled himself out fully, watching as your hole throbbed in his absence. 

“God,” you whined, a pit opening in your stomach. “Erik, baby, put it back in, please.”

“I like the way you say my name,” he told you. “You say it like… I don’t know. Like you love the way it tastes.”

“I do,” you told him. Your chest heaved as you waited for him to take pity on you, and he quickly shoved your shirt up your chest, exposing your tits and the pushup bra you had worn, and he gave a wolfish grin. 

“Good,” he said. “I’m so glad. Now, sweetheart, you said you wanted my cock back inside you?” 

“Yes!” you yelped. He leaned down and kissed the swell of your tits as you writhed, and you added, “Please, Erik, please, put your cock inside me again, I feel so empty without you in my pussy.” 

“Such a filthy fuckin’ mouth,” Erik smiled, and he shook his head. “Nah, Bobby wouldn’t have been able to handle you, you would’ve knocked him out, you’re too much for him.” 

“Y’know,” you started. “I came here tonight to see Bobby. My friend always jokes that he’s my boyfriend.” 

Erik’s eyebrows furrowed, this time in confusion. “Have you fucked him?” he asked with narrowed eyes. 

“No,” you told him quickly. “Just— I don’t know. Had a little crush on him, that’s all. It’s those blue eyes, makes it hard to keep a girl away. Same as you, actually.” 

“Past tense ‘had’ a crush on baby brother,” Erik repeated. “Not present tense?”

“Not as of… About half an hour ago,” you told him. “Found another somebody to focus on.” 

“Someone caught your attention over Bobby?” Erik laughed. “Whoever that guy is, he is one lucky bastard. I bet you’d let him lick your pussy, wouldn’t you?” He rolled his eyes at his own joke, and you giggled softly. 

“I’d even let him fuck me in this gross-ass bar bathroom,” you said. “If only he would shut his stupid mouth and put his dick back inside me.” 

Erik made a big show of closing his mouth, looking a little like a gaping fish, and you held back a snort of laughter. This time, you watched him, slapping your pussy with the head of his cock a few times, hearing the wet sound echo around the bathroom, and his dick twitched as he ran his thumb across his sensitive head, smearing his pearly pre-cum around. “Jesus,” he gasped. “Gotta quit doing that, s’gonna make me bust before I’ve even really fucked you.” 

You watched as he situated his pierced head back at your entrance, and you felt like all the breath in your chest got knocked out in one punch as he pushed inside, a little quicker and rougher than before. He didn’t waste time to start up a rhythm, wrinkling his nose as he gripped your hips and fucked you, and your arms circled around his neck, hiding in his shoulder and attempting to muffle your noises. It wasn’t quiet exactly in the bathroom, the music from the bar proper still very clearly audible, the walls still sorta rattling with the heavy bass, and you weren’t worried that anyone out there would hear you, but you were also hesitant to risk it. “D-Does anyone know?” you stammered. 

“Know what?” Erik asked. His belt rattled again as he snapped his hips forward into you, and you let out a wrecked moan into the dip of his neck. 

“That we’re in here together,” you said. “Th-That you’re fucking me within an inch of my life.” 

“I don’t think so,” Erik said. “Told Bobby I was heading back here, then was gonna split, but I don’t know if he saw you come back, so who knows what he knows. Why, are you worried your little boyfriend is gonna get jealous?” 

“No,” you told him with a shaky voice. He was so close to that spot inside you with every drag of his cock, and you could almost taste the incoming pop of electricity that would snap on your tongue when he did. 

“You want people to know I’m fucking you back here?” Erik asked. “Let the whole damn bar know that a pretty thing like you would let someone like me violate you? Damn, girl, you might be kinkier than me.” 

“Not likely,” you countered. “I mean, who here has the pierced genitals?” 

“Fair point,” Erik said. “Ya like it?” 

“I might never go back to regular dicks after this,” you chuckled, and Erik nodded in satisfaction. “But I don’t know if it’s the piercing, or if you’re just an absolute godlike fuck, even without that thing.” 

“Mix of both?” Erik offered. “I’m sure my sparkling personality has something to do with it too.” 

Before you could think of a snappy comeback, he fucked into you, and that electricity popped in your mouth as white flashed in your vision. “Fuck!” you squealed, tangling your fingers in his hair. “Erik, oh my God!” 

“Right there?” he asked, and you nodded quickly. His grip on your waist tightened, and you could almost feel the capillaries bursting under your skin to bruise up all tender by tomorrow morning as he fucked into that spot once more. Your whole body jostled with the feeling, and you squeezed your thighs hard around his body, urging him on. He was quick with it now, hammering into you and forcing out uh-uh-uh! moans from you, and you dug your fingernails into his scalp. He wasn’t quiet either, hissing in tight breaths and groaning as you throbbed around him, and a properly loud moan tumbled from his lips when your mouth attached to his neck, sucking at the sensitive pulse point. “Fuck, you gonna mark me up?” he panted, and you looked up at his face. His forehead under his hair was shiny with sweat, his eyes blown way the fuck out, lips bitten all red and raw— he was just about the most handsome guy you’d ever seen. 

“S’that so bad?” you asked, leaning back and biting at a different part of his skin. You intended to leave many bruises, in as many places as possible, and one of his strong hands lifted from your hip to cradle your head against his neck. Your tongue soothed the sting of your bites, and you could feel his throat and chest rumble as he pitched his head towards the ceiling and moaned. 

“Not at all,” he whispered. “‘Specially if you leave your pretty lipstick all over my neck.”

“Wanna leave it everywhere,” you told him. That telltale knot was tightening at the bottom of your tummy, and, based on his shaky breathing and the slow increase in volume, he didn’t have much longer left either. “E, baby,” you whispered, and he touched his forehead to yours, stealing a kiss to your mouth. “Wanna see us. Turn me around.” 

The brief few seconds where he pulled out of you felt like torture, but he guided you off the counter and around, back in the position you started with. You steadied yourself on your hands, and hardly had time to even think again before he was back inside you, anchoring on your hips. It was louder now too, the hits of his skin on yours coming faster with the angle shift, and his dick (and the associated piercing) rubbed against your tender spot with every single thrust. Your legs felt like jelly and you dug your nails into the countertop as you looked up to the mirror, and you jumped with shock. 

Who the absolute fuck were you looking at? By all accounts, the girl in the mirror was you— she had your eyes, your pretty face, the same outfit you wore. But her eyes were blown wide like she was rolling, her lipstick smeared across her face with her mascara gathered and running under her eyes. Her fingers moved when yours did, her chest heaved when yours did, she even moaned when you did. This was you; or, at least, this is what Erik did to you. You didn’t hate the fucked-out look on yourself. 

You cast your gaze to Erik in the mirror and found him studying your reflection as well, his bottom lip firmly between his teeth. He had pulled his shirt up with the position change, and your mouth watered at the collection of tattoos on his chest and stomach, the focal point being the large, dark skull in the middle of his torso. His stomach tensed and flexed as he fucked you, and you only managed to catch a momentary silver glint of nipple rings (what the fuck was with this guy?) before the knot in your stomach began to loosen, threatening the last shreds of your sanity. 

“Erik!” you squealed. Skillfully, he molded his front to your back and placed his arms over top of yours, threading your fingers together as he bit at your shoulder. 

“You gonna cum?” he asked, and you sobbed as his rhythm changed, from quick and hurried, to one hard slam after the other, a decidedly slower flow but all the more serving to get you to your end. “You gonna scream when you cream all over my cock?”

“Yes!” you cried. “Fuck, I’m so close, E, please!” 

“Aw, you poor thing,” he said, all condescending once more. “Little sweetheart, can’t take it anymore, huh?” One of his hands started to inch away from yours, and you knew exactly what he was on his way to do. 

You weren’t sure if his rough fingers actually made contact with your clit when you came. True to your word, you sobbed and moaned through your climax, drawn from so deep within your chest that it almost hurt, your head dropping forward as your whole body shook in the aftermath of the absolute assault on your nervous system. Erik’s strength was on full show now, because he used the little bit of it that he still had harnessed to keep you upright, his arm around your waist as he roughly buried himself up to the hilt in you, and it didn’t take long for you to feel the warmth of his cum inside you. You hadn’t even thought about a condom until right that second, when it was decidedly too late for one. 

And then it was quiet. Not completely, of course; his breathing was rattly and hard from exertion, and you were sniffling and whimpering, but it was much less noise than it had previously been. He cleared his throat and sniffed, and he carefully stood back to his full height with a sigh. “Goddamn…” he whispered. “You alright, sweetheart?” 

“M’good,” you whispered. “Just… Holy shit.” 

Erik chuckled raspily. “I know,” he said. “Think you can stand, or do you need me to hold onto ya?” 

“I can stand,” you assured him, and he slowly withdrew from you, earning himself one last, pathetic moan as his piercing rubbed against the spot inside you that felt raw and ultra-sensitive. The emptiness inside you was a strange feeling that you weren’t used to, and you tried to even out your breathing as he reached around you, grabbing at the stack of paper towels next to the sink. Before you really knew what was happening, he was on you again, turning you and lifting you back onto the counter, and you started, “Erik, I can’t, not again, give me a minute before—”

He shushed you, soft and gentle. “Not what I’m doing, sweetheart,” he told you, lifting your head up to look at him with a finger under your chin. He ran the tap against a few of the paper towels, soaking them with cold water, and he carefully wiped at your cheeks, trying to cool you down and help you settle. “There you go, that’s good, we’re calming down, we’re okay. What’s the shaking for? You alright, is it just the adrenaline? Or is something wrong?” 

You hadn’t even noticed the quivering that had started in your hands until he said something, and you frowned. “I’m alright,” you whispered. “Just… Oh my God.” 

He gave you a lopsided smile, then went to wipe down the sides of your mouth, cleaning up your makeup. “I know,” he said. “That was… I’ve never been like that before. I don’t know what happened to me. S’like I got inside you and, like, Hulked out or something. That was super fucked up, I’m sorry you had to see that.” 

You couldn’t help your laughter. “See that?” you repeated. “Erik, I’m the one you were fucking, I lived through that. Don’t know if I’ll be able to walk tomorrow, let alone out of here tonight.” 

Erik pouted at you. “Poor little princess,” he joked. “Need your prince to carry you into your Uber home?” 

“I don’t need saving,” you smiled. “But I might need your number.” 

Erik shared your smile, and he swooped in to land a kiss on your mouth. “See? I told you; we let cute girls touch our tattoos, and we get their numbers.”

When you woke up the next morning, in your own apartment, Anna already puking her hungover guts out in the bathroom, the first thing you thought about was Erik. You both managed to escape the bathroom unnoticed, even if you were walking like you had just ridden a bike across the country nonstop, and you found Anna out front, sharing a cigarette with some frat-dude-looking motherfucker. She hadn’t seen you and Erik together, so she didn’t try to pry into what you had been doing, but you caught Bobby’s eye, and he absolutely knew. Erik went back to his seat at the end of the bar, and you heard him ask his brother for a shot of tequila, and Bobby asked about what had happened just then, but Anna was whisking you away before you heard Erik’s response. It didn’t occur to you until you were already in the Uber home with a much-more-drunk-than-you Anna that you didn’t actually give Erik your phone number, and you could have hit yourself. How stupid did you have to be? Dude fucks you dumb and cums inside you, and you don’t even get his fucking number? What a fail.

Your whole body was sore and raw as you shifted in bed, grabbing at your phone tangled in your blankets. It was on 2% battery, having been forgotten the moment you got home, but it wasn’t the battery percentage that you were focused on. You had two texts, both about an hour old and from the same unsaved phone number, a local area code. The first text was a payment to you for $50, and the second said I’m an idiot. Get some breakfast and a Plan B. Take care of yourself. :)

Just as you were unlocking your phone to text Erik back, asking how exactly he got your phone number (probably Bobby), your phone vibrated with a third text; you could envision, for the past hour, him pacing around and debating whether to text you again. You had certainly done it before, and then promptly thrown your phone across the room when you finally hit send. So when will I get to see you again? 

You hit the call button, and the phone trilled for just a few seconds before the call picked up. Erik’s raspy voice, half-morning voice and half an obvious hangover from time spent at the bar after you left, said your name, as sweet as honey, like the first time he said it, but it wasn’t a question, like he was surprised you called. No, he was even and prepared, calm, cool, and collected. The memory of him last night, eyes blown out like he was on molly and his hair in his face, flashed in your mind’s eye, such a contrast from him right now, and you smiled. “If I sent you my address, would you come pick me up?” you asked. “We can get breakfast together, and you can see me again.” 

“Only if you also wanna see me,” Erik said. 

You could hear his smile from across the phone, and it made you smile even wider, like some lovesick teenager. “I would love nothing more.” 

[the-a-word-2214]

What are Tom Sturridge’s most notable roles besides Dream? Wondering where to start in his filmography

[the-a-word-2214]

Golden retriever/lost puppy Corinthian was not something I knew I needed

[the-a-word-2214]

i think half of being a decent human is just going 'that's not my business'.

someone in a wheelchair stood up? not my business.

someone has a service dog but doesn't visibly need it? not my business.

someone is acting weird? not my business.

someone is participating in a culture i don't understand? not my business.

someone got an abortion? not my business.

someone identifies in a way that doesn't make sense to me? not my business.

someone has a medical issue i don't understand? not my business.

if it doesn't negatively impact me or others, it's not my business. and i will continue to push for legislation that allows people to just live their lives, because why should i or the government have a say in shit that doesn't affect us? it's not our business.

[the-a-word-2214]

put the daylight in your eyes (i)

roy goode x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a young mother of two in New Mexico, left alone as your brother-in-law hunts for the outlaw gang that left you a widow and left him brotherless. Four men on horseback ride up in the night asking for a place to stay for the evening, and you don't feel like they'll take "no" for an answer.

author's note: well haigh there. or should i say howdy. if this has any similarities to my western remmick that is because. i wrote this first and bastardized it for that fic lol. now for this fic i ask you to go with a lot. reader has two kids. was married previously. surname is redd. this is also just a lot of buildup. we are slow burning lads.

warnings: vague allusions to period-typical violence and misogyny, oral sex (fem receiving), f/m sex

The four men look out at the ridge to see a mid-sized ranch that seems fairly empty. A small herd of cattle graze on a patch of brownish grass. Two riders on horseback corral the animals with the help of a dog. Looking longer, Roy realises one is a horse and the other is a pony, and both riders are young boys. Neither one can be any older than twelve, and the one on the pony is especially little.

“If it’s just them herdin’, prob’ly they’re the only men down there” he says out loud. 

“Might be,” Frank agrees. “You think their mama’d be kind enough to give us some shelter for the night? Maybe patch you up?”

“I’m fine.” 

“I think let’s find out,” Gatz grunts.

Your youngest son Wendell sits at the table, exhausted.

“That’s good work you done out there, boys,” you say. 

You wipe Dell’s face with a wet towel, kissing him on the head.

“Thank you, Mama,” he chirps, panting. 

“Of course, baby.” 

Your older boy Thomas cleans off his own face, and you put a cup of water in front of him. Tommy drinks it down, wiping off his mouth.

“When’s Uncle Joe comin’ back?” Dell asks, his voice dry from the dust. 

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” you tell him softly. “But if we really need him, we can send a telegram to Corpus Christi.”

“Okay.”

“Now, who’s gonna say grace?”

“Oh, me, me!” Dell volunteers.

You all grasp hands and hear the sound of hooves beating on the ground. 

“You think that’s him?”

“Prob’ly just people goin’ West. Go on, baby.”

“Thanks for all the food and watch over all the horses and the chickens and Mama and Uncle Joe and Tommy and Daddy in heaven-”

Tommy clears his throat and nods to the dog by the window.

“And Dusty. Amen.” 

The sound of horses gets closer, and you can feel the earth moving. Tommy jumps up to peek out the window.

“It’s four men comin’ this way,” he relays grimly.

“You think they’re Texas Rangers? Maybe they know Uncle Joe!” 

Two of the men dismount and walk up to the door. An older man and a younger one. Your heart pounds.

“You two sit now. I’ll go talk to ‘em.”

“I’m the man of the house,” Tommy insists.

“I said sit.”

You open and close the front door, looking out.

Roy thinks you look like a scared lizard, your eyes wide and blinking. Like you might dart off if they take another step forward. He expected to see a rugged Western wife, but you’re lovely. Your hair frames your sweet face, and your eyes are lit by the golden warmth of the setting sun. You’re young for a mother of two, but he won’t ask.

“Evenin’, ma’am.” 

“Evenin’. How can I help you gentlemen?”

The older man smiles at you. He’s got a short gray beard and wears a Stetson. The younger man has a wide brimmed one with a tie hanging loose under his chin. Stormy eyes look at you from under that brim, and scruffy bronze facial hair adorns his lip and chin. 

“Ma’am, I’m Frank Griffin, this here’s my son Roy. That’s Gatz, and that’s Floyd.”

Roy manages to hide his surprise at Frank using their real names. Your face didn’t change when he said it, though. Either you know already and you’re smart enough not to react, or you don’t know at all. He can see you’re frightened. You’d have to be crazy not to be. 

You squeak out your name, giving the last name your late husband gave you, Redd. 

“Your husband here, ma’am?” Frank asks. 

Your eyes flick away.

“I… I’m a widow, sir.”

“Very sorry to hear that.”

“This’s my brother-in-law’s ranch.” call me a phoenician the way im gettin phonetic up in this bitch

“He here?”

“Not presently, sir. He’s on business,” you lie. 

“Those two we seen herdin’ cattle, they yours?”

“Yes, they’re my boys,” you confirm. 

“You ‘n them ‘lil boys runnin’ this whole place alone?” 

“We manage, sir,” you say. 

You try to present an air of comfort. As though you are not terrified and your heart is not pounding at four strange men in the dark of night searching for shelter. As though you are not one lone woman with two little boys alone on a cattle ranch one hour from any other people. 

“Are you Texas Rangers?” the smaller boy shouts from the window. 

“Dell, I told you sit,” you scold them softly.

“C’mon out here, son.” 

You don’t like these men addressing your boys, but Dell scurries out to your side, his brother on the other side.

“This is Wendell and Thomas,” you introduce them, a hand on Dell’s head and Tommy’ shoulder. “Boys, this is Mr. Griffin.” 

Roy can tell you’re gripping them tight, like any one of their gang might lunge forward and snatch them up from your arms. Dell hugs your leg and stares with wide eyes, but he doesn’t look scared. Tommy scowls at them. 

“Whew. You two are some strong young men.” 

“I ain’t a man, I’m only six,” Dell says. 

“Taller ‘n I was that age,” Roy jokes.

He sees the boy grin at that, and that he’s missing a tooth on the top and bottom. 

Tommy glares at them. A dog growls from inside.

“You tell that dog to stop it now,” you chide.

Tommy whistles and the dog whimpers, then quiets. 

“How old’re you, boy?” Frank asks, an odd grin on his face.

Tommy crosses his arms.

“Nine, and I’ll be ten in April,” he answers, puffing his chest. 

“Man of the house, ain’t you?” Frank says, which makes the boy hide a grin. 

“You fellas lookin’ for some place to stay?”

Frank nods.

“That we are, Mrs. Redd. Reckon it’ll storm tonight.” 

“I got no food to spare.”

“No need,” Gatz starts.

“We got our own,” Floyd finishes.

“But I got some room in the barn- oh, Lord, are you bleedin’?”

You point to Roy’s side. You can see he’s soaked through his shirt, and the bulge of bandages wrapped beneath.

“Ain’t nothin’-”

“No, please, come in. Y’all can tie up your horses and settle up in that barn,” you tell the two other men.

“That’s very kind, ma’am, thank you,” Frank says.

Your boys sit and eat their supper as you carefully clean Roy’s bloody wound. You know this is what a fresh graze from a bullet looks like, you saw enough on your husband and his brother. 

Roy can tell you’ve dealt with an injury like this.

“Are you Rangers?” Dell asks again, a splotch of soup by his mouth.

“Eat your supper, baby. Don’t bother them.”

You look up and meet eyes with Tommy.

“Would you clean his face?” 

Tommy takes a cloth and wipes the food off of his brother’s face. 

“You pretty good on that pony, for a boy your age,” Roy tells the younger boy.

“His name is Samson, cause Uncle Joe used to have a doggy called Delilah too.”

“Young man knows his Bible.”

“Mhm! Uncle Joe taught me.”

Roy hisses when the wet cloth touches his wound.

“I’m sorry. I-I’ll try to be gentle,” you comfort him softly. 

“Nothin’ I can’t handle, ma’am.” 

“Is it really just you three out here all alone?” Frank asks her.

Tommy stares at the two men. 

“Well, my brother-in-law is here, usually.”

You glance at Frank. You can tell these men are no good. Wicked men always have a silver tongue and a kind smile. But your little boys are so tired. You can’t spend another morning coaxing them out of bed and drying tears. 

“If y’all could help any with the land, I’d be inclined to let y’all stay longer.”

Your voice drops.

“Them two can’t do all this alone. And you fellas seem strong-”

“We’ll help,” Roy speaks before Frank can, gazing at you. 

Frank side-eyes him, and smiles at you. He knows Roy has a soft spot for pretty women who need help, and it’s gotten them in trouble more times than he’d like.

“Why of course, ma’am.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You tie a bandage over Roy’s cut and stand.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Wendell holds out his bowl.

“All done!”

“You ate it all? You were really hungry, huh?”

“Mhm.”

You take his bowl and kiss him on the head, wiping his mouth with your apron. 

“I’m tired, Mama,” Dell whines.

“Let’s wash up and we’ll get you and Tommy in bed.”

“I ain’t tired,” Tommy grumbles. 

“Well, wash up anyway and you can read for a little while, alright?”

“Do we hafta?” 

“Yes, we do.”

“That’s a smart lady, your mama. Hygiene is important, son,” Frank urges.

“That’s right.”

Dell reaches up and you sigh.

“You too big, sugar,” you tell him softly. You pick him up anyway, you can never say no to your sweet boy. He rests his head on your shoulder. “Say goodnight now, boys.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Griffin.”

Tommy stares at them.

“Night.”

“G’night,” Frank and Roy mumble.

“I’ll get them settled and bring you some blankets. I only have a few.”

“We’ll be appreciative of anythin’ you can spare, ma’am.”

They smoke together outside of the barn as they watch the shape of you move in the window. You tuck Dell in and kiss his head, then put out the lamp by his bed. 

“You like that filly,” Frank tells Roy.

“Maybe.”

“She’s the kind you like,” Gatz teases.

“What’s that mean?”

“You like them scared ones. The ones who need a hero.”

“I ain’t no hero.”

“We know you ain’t,” Floyd grumbles.

“I like how she is with them boys. Real gentle.”

Gatz scoffs.

“What?”

“Goode wants a mama,” he jokes to Floyd.

“Real sweet, Roy.”

“Mr. Griffin,” you call.

“Mrs. Redd.”

You walk over to them carrying a basket and a lantern.

“Some blankets for you. Some uh, extra socks too.”

“Socks?”

“Ridin’ men always need socks,” you say knowingly. 

You aren’t wrong. Roy can feel his toes touching the inside of his boots.

“Mighty thoughtful, ma’am,” Frank tells her.

“I put an extra bandage in there for you,” you say to Roy.

He feels strange under your gaze. You look at him like a wounded animal, or a spooked stallion ready to kick. 

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be up at dawn for the chickens. Boys need help with the cattle the most. The horses-”

“Our boy Roy is mighty fine with horses,” Gatz adds.

“I’ll take any help I can get,” you sigh in full honesty. “Well, goodnight. Please um… let me know tomorrow if you need anything else.”

“Night, ma’am.”

“Goodnight.”

You turn back and head to the house. They watch the light go out. Gatz and Floyd turn in, leaving Frank alone with Roy. He sighs, shaking his head.

“I think she’s hidin’ somethin’.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“She wouldn’t look you in the eye.”

“Suppose she was just scared?”

He shakes his head.

“No, this was different.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t want them botherin’ her,” Roy grits, jerks his thumb back to the barn where Gatz and Floyd sleep, “or them ‘lil boys.” 

“I’ll see to it. We best get to bed if we’re playin’ ranch hands tomorrow.”

“G’night, Frank.”

“Goodnight, son.”

The next morning the men rise with the rooster and the roadrunners. The four men make their way over to the house, dressed and ready. Frank opens the door and they see the two boys eating breakfast, bed-headed and droopy-eyed.

“I wanna go back to sleep, Mama,” Dell complains softly. 

“You don’t hafta work so hard today, baby. We got a lotta help.”

“Sirs,” Tommy greets them.

You turn around, surprised.

“I’m sorry, I would have fixed somethin’ for you, but we-”

“No need, ma’am, we had some jerky.”

“I did brew some coffee, if you’d like that.”

“That’d be very nice,” Gatz says.

Roy feels uneasy watching Gatz and Floyd play at being gentlemen. 

You pour the men coffee as they crowd around your table, only Frank sits in one of the two empty chairs.

You hand Tommy his hat and kneel to help Dell pull on his suspenders as he sniffles and rubs at his eyes.

“Oh, my big brave boy,” you coo quietly. 

You brush the hair from his face and put his hat on. You pretend to gasp, putting both hands over your heart in mock fear. 

“Why, it’s that wicked outlaw, Texas Redd!”

He cracks a smile at the game and points a finger at you, pretending it’s a gun. 

“We’re gonna get all your cows!”

“Don’t rustle up all my cattle, outlaw, I beg you,” you continue.

“Only if you make us cornbread,” his brother adds to the game, pointing his finger and thumb just the same.

“Oh, whatever will I do?” you glance at Roy with a cheeky smile.

“Cowboys cain’t help you now, lady,” Tommy says in a thicker twang. 

Dell breaks his scowl and giggles, hugging you. Roy can’t help but grin at how sweet it all is, how he longed for love like that when he was a kid.

“It’s just me and Tommy, Mama,” Dell tells you, taking off his hat. 

“Oh, I was so frightened,” you play along even more. 

You kiss his cheek and lightly push him to the door.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, Mama!” 

Tommy turns and you look at him expectantly. He bristles and kisses your cheek.

“I love you, Tommy.” 

“I love you, Mama,” he mumbles, hiding under the brim of his hat, embarrassed. 

“C’mon,” he grumbles to his brother, and whistles to the dog, “let’s go, Dusty.”

The boys walk out and you watch Tommy help Dell saddle on the pony, smiling at them.

“Go with ‘em,” Frank says to Gatz and Floyd. 

They finish their coffee, joining the boys.

“Six and nine, they said?” Frank asks.

You nod.

“Tommy is my stepson, actually. His mama passed just before I met my husband, he was only a baby. So… I’m the only mama he’s ever known. Dell’s mine.”

“How long has it been since your husband passed?”

“About one year. We were livin’ with their grandmother a while, in Texas.”

You wipe at a stray tear.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. Awful thing, losin’ a love,” Frank says. 

“It’s hard. Real hard, ‘specially with Joseph gone.”

You smile at your boys, watching them ride.

“But my little fella is happy as can be.”

“Does he leave often? Your brother-in-law?”

You blink, like you were in a trance.

“He comes and goes.” 

You’re lying again, your eyes on the mug of coffee in your hands.  

“We should get to work.”

The men ride circles around the boys. Eventually, Tommy rides over and slumps down by you at the bench on the porch. He takes off his hat and pats the dust off. You give him a cup of water that he guzzles down quickly. 

“You’re ridin’ that horse well, baby.” 

Tommy ignores your compliment. 

“I don’t like the way he looks at you, Mama,” he says, nodding to Roy. 

The cowboy is gazing at you as he follows your little boy around on his pony. You laugh softly at your son’s naïvety.

“That’s just how men look at women, sweetheart.” 

You know all kinds of looks, true, but the kind Roy is giving you is a strange one. 

“Uncle Joe don’t look at you like that.”

“Well, Joe sees me as his sister, seein’ as I was married to his brother.”

“I think they’re bad men, Mama.”

“I think they’re lost, Tommy.”

“What if they killed people?”

“Joe kills.” 

“That ain’t the same.” 

“How?”

“Uncle Joe’s a Ranger. He’s fightin’ for somethin’. Bad men kill for nothin’.”

You sit with it for a moment. Maybe your boy isn’t as innocent as you wished. You remember Joe telling Tommy what had happened to his father. 

Joe’s brother. Your husband. 

Your little boy took those words like a man, stoic and strong. But you know he crawled under your covers and cried on your shoulder all night long. 

“I promise we’re safe, honey.”

He nods and puts on his hat again. You pat his shoulder. 

“Get on back out there. I’m gonna go feed the horses.”

You put a scoop of feed into each horse’s bucket hung on the front door of each stall. There’s three left when Tommy rides the buckskin and Dell takes the pony. A palomino, a pinto, and a roan that Joseph calls Banjo, Fiddle, and Lady. 

“They’re good lookin’ horses,” Roy says.

You flinch and put a hand to your heart.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am.”

“I’m easily frightened. Just like Lady over there.”

“She’s the only female?”

“She was a gift. I was too scared of Banjo and Fiddle, there. Tommy’s horse and Dell’s pony were, too.”

“Your brother-in-law sounds like a good man.”

“He didn’t like me at first.”

“Why’s that?”

You hesitate.

“I was… um, I was engaged when my husband met me.”

Roy’s eyebrows raise.

“He was a wicked man. Pete saved me from him.”

He nods somberly, feeling some pity as he does. He approaches the palomino, shushing it as he pets it on the muzzle. 

“So… is this Banjo or Fiddle?”

“That one’s Banjo.”

He chuckles at the name, eyes on the animal.

“He’s a real menace, that horse. He kicks hard.” 

“Aw, I bet I could handle him.”

“I’m better with people than horses.”

“Well, that’s alright. I’d say I’m the opposite.”

“I think you make fine conversation, sir.”  

Roy feels something tugging at his heartstrings. Something raw and ugly. He tugs down the brim of his hat and focuses on the horse.

“You mind if I take him out?”

“If you don’t mind gettin’ bucked.” 

“I can handle buckin’, ma’am.” 

He glances back and sees you looking away, flushed and embarrassed. Oh, hell. 

Roy rides out to the edge of the land, where the wire fence blocks your livestock from roaming free. He sees a lone coyote out on a ridge, and draws his gun to shoot by its feet and spook it. He thinks about how scared you and the boys would be at the sound of gunshot, and slips the weapon back to its holster. 

Roy knows who he is, knows what he is. For some reason, even with this sick soul inside of him, he wants to show you kindness. To shelter you and your boys from Frank, Gatz, Floyd, the twins, every filthy outlaw in their gang. 

Hell, even his own damn self. 

“Let’s g’on back now,” he tells Banjo, patting his side and giving him a light squeeze with his legs. 

He brings Banjo into the stable and dismounts, gently leading him to his stall.

“Why, Mr. Banjo, I had no idea you could be so friendly,” you joke, Dell at your side. He rubs his eyes, his hat in his hand.

“He alright?”

“Oh, he just needs a nap is all.”

“No! I’m not tired,” he protests

“C’mon inside, and I’ll getcha some water.”

Roy follows you and Dell drags his feet. 

“Baby, you’re gettin’ too big for me to carry you now-” 

Roy lifts the boy up, throwing him over his shoulder playfully. Dell giggles, kicking his feet. 

“It’s naptime, boy,” Roy teases. 

“No!” 

He carries Dell upstairs and lightly tosses him on the bed. He lands on his back and blinks slowly. 

Roy ducks out of the room and closes the door. 

“But I’m not tired, Mama,” the boy protests.

“I know, baby. But let’s try anyway, okay?”

A moment later, you open the door and close it. You smile at Roy.

“Thank you,” you mouth to him. 

He shrugs and gives you a grin.  

You both head downstairs and you pour him a cup of water. 

“Could I ask you a favor, Mr. Griffin?”

“I’m Goode, actually.”

“Pardon?”

“My name, ma’am. It’s Roy Goode, not Griffin.”

“Oh. Mister… Goode.” 

He raises his brow in a gesture for you to speak. You take a breath.

“I ain’t been able to stock up in town with Joe gone. I can’t leave the boys alone and we can’t leave the animals. Would you… come with me tomorrow?” 

“Of course.”

You stand in front of him as he sits. 

“I ain’t stupid, y’know. I know what y’all are.”

“Ma’am-”

“I just said I ain’t stupid.”

He feels like a little boy being scolded. 

“Don’t gotta worry about me tellin’ nobody.”

You look at him with pleading eyes.

“Are my boys safe if we leave?”

Your tone is tense, serious.

“Yes-” 

“I mean it. They’re all I got,” you insist, voice breaking. “I got a Winchester in here. I don’t know how to use it, but that won’t stop me firin’.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Roy walks over to Frank, who’s sitting with Tommy as he drinks from a canteen. 

“My daddy was six feet tall, so I reckon I’m gonna be ‘bout that.”

“That right?”

“Frank,” Roy calls.

“Hey, son.”

“Where’s Dell?” Tommy asks.

“Your mama put him down for a nap.”

The boy scoffs. 

“Dang crybaby,” he mutters, putting his hat on. “C’mon, Dusty.”

The dog follows him and Roy looks at Frank.

“Widow asked me to take her to town tomorrow morning. To stock up.”

“That’s alright. Rest of the boys should be comin’ up on us in three days or so. I think I’ll send Gatz out to find ‘em.”

“Don’t bring ‘em here,” Roy says firmly. 

“No. Not yet.” 

“I mean not at all, Frank.” 

Frank eyes him.

“You gettin’ real bold, Roy.”

“She’s a nice lady, and she’s scared enough.”

“You sure it’s a good idea to go to town? Might be wanted posters around.”

“Shit, Frank. Might as well be in Texas, this close to the border.”

Frank raises a brow. 

“I’ll wear my hat ‘n keep my head down.”

The next day you deal with more tears rousing your little ranch hands. Dell can't stand the idea of you leaving, bawling as you cradle him in your lap.

“It’s only for a little while, baby-” 

“No, Mama, d-don’t go,” he cries. “What if there’s a coyote?” 

You wipe his face with your apron and kiss his forehead.

“Mr. Goode is comin’ with me.”

“What can Mr. Goode do?” Tommy mutters, side-eyeing the outlaw. 

Roy slowly pulls out his pistol, putting it on the table. Your older boy’s eyes go wide. 

“Ain’t no coyotes gettin’ past me, boy.” 

Roy lets Dell reach out and touch it. He pulls his hand back fast like the metal is red hot, retreating into your grasp.

“I’ll be back real quick, baby. Mr. Goode is gonna keep me very, very safe.”

“You swear?” Tommy asks. 

“Cross my heart,” Roy answers, drawing an x over his chest. 

You ride into town with Roy, which is really just a small outpost with an inn, a general store, and a Western Union office. 

You tie up your horses and step into the general store.

“Mrs. Redd. Been a while,” the girl at the counter says. 

“Irene, honey. You’re gettin’ tall.”

She eyes Roy.

“Um, this is my new ranch-hand, Mr. Smith.”

Roy is impressed that you know to use a fake name, but still tilts his hat down. 

“Well, what can I get for you?”

You give her the list. Feed, oats, rice, flour, molasses, beans, and salt. Some salted pork and beef, too. Roy looks around the shop. 

“You got bullets?” he asks. 

“For huntin’ rifles ‘n shotguns, yeah. Just over there.” 

“And whatever he grabs too, Irene.”

“Sure thing.”

Roy helps you fix everything over Lady’s saddle and you head back. 

Tommy gets his horse Tambourine settled in the stall as he hears the sound of horses coming near.

You and Roy ride up, and he helps you unload. Both horses are carrying a lot, which they’re happy to be free of. Roy takes Lady to the stable and gets her in her stall, Banjo follows.

“Hey, Tommy.”

“Mister,” Tommy greets him.

“Your mama’s gettin’ supper started.”

Tommy glares at him.

“She wanted your help, I think.”

“Hmph.”

The boy treads out, his dog following. 

You wait on the porch.

“Mr. Goode,” you call as he passes.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m fixin’ supper for everyone, if you wanna tell yours to wash up ‘n join us.”

“That’s mighty kind of you. I’ll fetch ‘em.” 

You have no extra chairs, so the men eat standing, save for Frank.

“You boys were hungry, huh?” you ask as they wolf down the chili you made.

“Thank you, Mama,” Dell chirps.

“You’re welcome, baby.” 

“This is some good cooking, ma’am.”

Gatz and Floyd nod and hum in agreement. 

“This is so damn good,” Roy groans, his mouth full.

You blink in surprise and Tommy shoots Roy a look.

“You ain’t ‘posed to swear ‘round ladies,” the boy says, no doubt repeating your words. 

“Not ‘posed to talk with your mouth full neither!” Dell adds. 

“Boys,” you chide them softly.

“Sorry, ma’am.” 

“Oh, I’m just glad you like it,” you say softly, unable to meet his eye.

“You’re raisin’ up two fine young men, Mrs. Redd.” 

“Thank you.”

You carry Dell on your hip as supper finishes up. He rests his head against your shoulder, drifting off.

“Say goodnight, now.”

“Goodnight!”

The men mutter their own goodnights, and Tommy nods to them quietly. 

“Night, Mama.” “Goodnight, baby,” you tell him, kissing his head. He goes upstairs. 

The men collect their things and leave slowly. Roy takes his sweet time, wanting to linger in your presence just a bit longer. 

“Mama, can I have a story?” Dell asks. 

“Yeah, baby. Which one?”

Dell whispers in your ear and your eyebrows raise as your eyes flick to Roy.

“Mr. Goode?”

“Ma’am?”

“Would you… mind readin’ Wendell a story before you turn in?” 

Roy knows he can’t read, but he’s sure Frank has told him enough Bible stories that he could repeat one. He smiles at the boy.

“Sure, kid.”

You tuck in Dell and sit on his bed, brushing the hair from his face. Roy watches your careful fingers flip through a well-loved, leather-bound Bible. The pages are crinkled and a few of the corners folded in. Roy’s eyes pass over the words, though he doesn’t know what they say.

“Which story do you want, baby?”

“I want Mr. Goode to tell one…”

“He’s gonna read it.” 

“No, I want him to tell a story.” 

“Oh.”

You glance at Roy, with that sweet embarrassed look on your face.

“You don’t have to, Mr. G-”

“Hey, that’s alright. Lemme think’a one.” 

Your little boy claps his hands together. 

Roy leans back in the chair, thinking of a story. You can’t help but shift at the way his legs are spread wide and the stance he takes, hands rubbing up and down his thighs in thought. He points at Dell, clicking his tongue.

“Now, I’ll tell you this story, boy. But you gotta promise me you’ll never do what I did.”

Dell nods, grinning. 

Roy spins a yarn, intriguing both you and your son. It’s tense and even a little spooky, making the boy hide under his blankets. Roy leans forward, an elbow on his knee. Your heart aches watching your baby drift off to the outlaw’s voice, remembering when Peter used to tell Tommy about his adventures around Texas. 

“And that’s that,” Roy finishes in a soft voice, Dell curled up on his side.

“Goodnight, baby,” you murmurs, kissing his forehead and smoothing a hand over his hair.

You both exit the room, closing his door quietly.

“Thank you, Mr. Goode,” you say as you descend the stairs. 

“Anytime.”

You linger for a moment, looking at each other in the low light of your kitchen. It feels like each of you is waiting for the other to speak as you stand there.

“He likes you,” you finally break the silence, and the eye contact.

“He’s a good kid, they both are. And you’re a good mama.”  

“I do my best.”

“I was an orphan. And if anyone loved me as much as you love those boys?” 

He sucks his teeth.

“Shit, I’d be a different man.” 

“I had no kin when Peter met me, I just got too much love to give, I suppose.”

You look up at him and kiss his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mr. Goode”

You pull back and he grabs your wrist, meeting your eyes.

“You can call me Roy.” 

He feels your warm breath puff against his chin.

You tell him to call you by your name, your voice faint. 

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“G’night.” 

He speaks your name softly, right against your skin. 

“Goodnight, Roy,” you breathe.

The next day is more of the same. The men mutter to each other as they work and drink your coffee. You hope it isn’t laced with the acrid taste of your fear. You feel something terrible coming, a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach that danger is lurking just over that hill.

That evening, you sit up at night, looking out at the empty corral from the bench on your porch.

“You up mighty late,” Roy says softly.

“Roy.”

“Mind if I join you?” 

“Please.”

He steps up to join you on the porch. 

“I can’t sleep,” you tell him.

He sighs and leans on the wall next to you. You hesitate.

“Sit with me,” you urge him softly.

He takes a seat on the bench. 

“I was sixteen when I met that man, the one who I was gonna marry,” you start. “Now I got no kin, so… I think I’ll be a nun, so I’m on my way to a church in Illinois, but I meet a man called Rip Carter at the train station. He takes me in. Not like a daddy. He wants me too much to make it like that. Six months later, I’m in a nice new dress in a ginhouse in Texas and I’m there to make men spend money on… blackjack, faro, craps. Nobody lays a hand on me- because Rip would put a bullet through ‘em if they did, I just talk sweet and bring them to the tables.”

Roy shifts in place. 

“Rip says he’s gonna marry me. He just keeps sayin’ it for a few years, but he don’t do it. And then a man called Peter Redd comes in… and everythin’ is just different about him. He’s older than me, big ‘n tall. ‘Bout six feet. The sorta man that could really hurt me if he wanted. But he’s kind. He don’t look at me like I’m supper. And I want him to take me upstairs, I really do. And he whisks me to his hotel room across the street, and he… he’s so gentle with me. So tender. ‘Course… he’s extra gentle cause his wife has just passed, and his mother is with his new baby boy. And this big man, this Texas Ranger, he just breaks down ‘n cries. I know he’s gonna be my husband that night.”

Roy moves closer to you, leaning forward.

“And I tell him so in the morning. I say, ‘sir, I think I’m meant to be your wife’. And he laughs. But he thinks about it, he really does. I tell him… I’ll be a mama for that baby, and you ain’t lived till you tasted my chili.”

Roy chuckles.

“I know that’s right.”

“And he says yes. Now Rip don’t like that none, seein’ as I’m makin’ him two hundred dollars in a week.”

Two hundred. Holy shit, Roy thinks.

“Course I don’t really get any of it. Rip keeps most of it, gives me a few dollars when I ask for it. He tries to make a fuss and Pete socks him in the face. And he takes me away to Lubbock the next day. We’re married in a week, and next thing I know I’m swaddlin’ Tommy and I’m fallin’ asleep in Pete’s arms.”

Roy puts a hand over yours. 

“Sounds like you need someone to take care of you,” he murmurs. 

You look at him for a moment and nod thoughtfully.

“Joe tries. He even asked if I wanted to get married, just so… I wouldn’t be alone, so the boys would have a daddy. But he’s like a brother, and he ain’t nothin’ but an uncle. He’s kind, though.” 

Roy’s never been particularly kind to anyone since he joined up with Frank. He doesn’t care for whoring like the other men, but he likes a good woman now and again. He can’t say he’s any kind to them either. 

“I… I’d like to take care of you,” he tells you cautiously, eyes on your lips.

They sit in a soft pout as you look at him.

“Just… for tonight? Please?” he asks, voice just above a whisper.

He would never let the other men hear him talk to a woman like this. He’s just too proud.

You touch his face, your thumb swiping over his cheek.

“The boys are upstairs,” you whisper. 

“I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” he insists, an inch from your lips.

You take his hand and tug him. He follows gladly as you make their way to your bedroom.

It’s modest and simple. When he sees a bed big enough for two people, he realises this must be Joseph’s room. The door closes and he holds your face, finally kissing you. You lean into it, your breath hitching when he puts his hands on your hips. He holds you tight, one hand pressing on the small of your back.

“Be gentle with me,” you plead softly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pushes down his suspenders and unbuttons his shirt, tossing it on the floor. He pulls up his undershirt and you hesitate before unbuttoning your dress. He helps you, undoing the ties underneath and leaving you bare in front of him.

“Siddown, darlin’,” Roy husks.

You could melt at the sweet name, sitting on the bed. He sinks to his knees in front of you and parts your legs.

“Roy,” you squeak out.

“Just lemme look atcha.”

He groans, seeing your glistening, wet cunt.

“Oh, baby,” he purrs. “You’re soakin’.” 

You squirm in place and he licks his lips.

“She ever been licked?” he husks. 

You hide your face and shake your head.

He groans at the thought of being the first man to service you like this.

“Lemme do my damndest then.” 

You pant, hands planted on the bed. He moves closer on his knees, hooking his hands below your thighs to bring you to the edge of the bed.

“Now you just put these legs up here on my shoulders like so,” he explains, kissing your inner thigh. “And don’t be afraid to grab my hair.” 

“I don’t wanna hurt you-”

He looks up at you.

“That ain’t gonna hurt me.”

He leans in, parting you with his fingers. He presses a soft kiss to your clit, making you jolt. You cover your mouth.

“Oh!”

He licks a stripe upward, swirling his tongue around your clit. He pushes in a finger and curls it up.

“God, that f-feels so go-od,” you moans out, praising him. 

His hand grips your thigh tighter as his tongue slips inside of you, making you gasp and card your fingers through his hair. You grab a handful of his bronze curls and your grip tightens as he licks at your clit again. 

“Oh, Roy… yes, honey, right there. Oh… y-yes…” 

Your pitch changes as he adds another finger, pressing around for that soft spot that makes ladies go wild. 

He curls his fingers and you yank on his hair, clapping a hand over your mouth. 

He moans against you and you feel faint. You slowly lay back and buck your hips against his face.

“Please, darlin’, I gotta taste you cummin’ on my tongue,” he urges, his tongue pushing inside of you. 

You twitch and twist your upper body, gasping. 

“Don’t stop, Roy, right there,” you pant as quietly as you can. 

He won’t stop, not until he’s drunk up every drop he can get. He feels like he’s been walking through the desert for years and he’s finally tasting water. 

“Give it to me, c’mon,” he begs you, panting against your bare skin. 

His hips rock in place as he searches for some kind of friction. Your thighs squeeze the sides of his head. He’d take dying here like this over a hangman any day. 

“Yes, honey… oh, you- shit, Roy, yes!” 

You grab your pillow, muffling yourself with fabric and feathers. He feels you bucking against his face and holds your hips to the bed, kissing your center softly as you pant, coming down. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he murmurs against your thigh. “Fuck, thank you.” 

He looks up at you with eager eyes that make you laugh hoarsely. You sit up and wince, and look down at him.

“Ain’t you handsome like that?” you say softly, cupping his face with one cheek. He pushes into your touch. He needs you to touch him all over, to talk to him in that sweet voice. 

You point to the rag in the wash basin on the chest of drawers. 

“Clean your face off so I can kiss you.”

He darts over, wiping off his mouth and chin so he can crawl on the bed and kiss you again. You lay back, arms open and waiting for him. 

“C’mere,” you urge him.

He stops between your legs, still panting. Your delicate hands undo his britches and pull them down. He looks away. It’s too gentle. 

“Oh, wow,” you gasp quietly.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me no lady never told you it’s big.”

He hides a grin and you swat his bare thigh, making him twitch.

“Don’t be prideful now.”

He moves closed and you grip him at the base to line him up. You're so wet, your thighs sticky and shiny with your own slick. He groans, his eyes shutting. He thrusts to find purchase and you both gasp when he does. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers. 

He pushes in and out, rocking slightly as he pushes in further.

“You takin’ it s-so good,” he stammers, overwhelmed by the feeling.

He wants to play the suave outlaw and have you begging for him. Gatz’ words bounce around in his head. Goode wants a mama.

You rest your palms on his chest as he slides in, skin to skin, flush against each other. 

“You so tight, darlin’,” he mumbles. 

He lets out a quiet wince, looking at the place you connect. 

You sigh contentedly, giving him a soft kiss. He huffs, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“You got me filled right up, cowboy,” you murmur. 

He nods silently. You hold him as he rocks into you, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Y’so damn pretty,” he breathes, kissing your neck and collarbone.

“Y-you just keep on like that,” you encourage him, pressing your hands to his chest. 

He lifts your hips into his lap, planting his arms on either side of you. You bite your lip, looking at his bicep. He pushes a little noise out of you every time he leans in again, peppering your face with kisses as he does. You giggle, a light, soft sound. One that reminds him you’re around the same age.

He feels your fingers touch the scar on his side. He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, burying himself in you once again. You lead his hand between your legs and he brushes at your clit, making you buck up and grab his arm.

“Oh, Roy… oh, y-you’re doin’ so good, honey,” you praise him.

He can’t help the whimper that leaves him when you hold his face and look at him so sweetly. His hips stutter and he roughly circles your clit as he chases his release.

“Cum for me, honey, please,” he begs you, face against your chest. “Please, I-I gotta feel you ‘round me ‘fore I pull out, please…” 

“Shit,” you hiss. You dig your nails into his shoulder, holding him tight as you tense up.

Your cunt throbs, milking his cock tightly, gushing on him. He kisses you and swallows down your moans and the squeaky whine you make when he grinds against you, filling you up all the way.

“‘S too much, ‘s too much, I-I gotta- fuck,” he babbles, pushing back to pull himself out. He grunts, spilling on your bare thigh. 

You're shaking and sweating, panting as you look up at him. 

“Damn,” you sigh, laughing.

You both wash up with the cloth and basin. You admire his bare body and how carefully he cleans himself.

You kiss his cheek as you pull your nightgown on.

You share the bed together, tucked into his side. You're sweet like this. Like you finally get a moment to be free, to be taken care of. He could play daddy if he tried hard enough, he thinks. 

He thinks he’d do just about anything for you now. 

“Mama?” Dell’s voice sounds from outside your door.

“Shit. Go out the window,” you whisper. 

He opens the window and climbs out, pulling on his shirt as he does. You lean out and give him a kiss before turning around. He waits under the window, listening. 

You open the door and see Dell clutching the little quilt his grandmother made when he was born. You kneel down. 

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“Yeah,” he pouts, nodding. 

You kiss his head.

“I dreamed I got bit by a rattlesnake and it hurt, Mama,” he cries. 

“Oh, baby. You want to sleep with me tonight?”

“Mhm…” 

Roy sleeps in the barn, hat over his eyes. He dreams about you, your hands, your sweet voice.

In his dreams, he’s teaching your boys to ride proper. He’s tending the ranch with you and the boys. At night you share supper, and Wendell sits on his knee as he tells stories. There’s no Frank, no gang, just you and him and these boys. Your belly, round with his baby, and your pretty face being the last thing he sees at night and the first thing he sees in the morning. 

Roy never imagined himself as a father, but he could be. Just maybe.

[the-a-word-2214]

Seriously foaming at the mouth for Loki x reader content

[the-a-word-2214]

Paddy Mayne + pet names

[the-a-word-2214]

Joan and Bert, deleted scene

[the-a-word-2214]

We're Fated to Pretend

Episode I

James Cook x fem!reader

summary: after years of silence and heartache, James Cook crashes back into your life in the most unexpected way—wearing a mask, saving you from danger, and kissing you upside-down in the pouring rain. The once-reckless boy your father used to arrest is now the vigilante your father’s sworn to catch. As suspicion brews and memories resurface, you’re left reeling from the kiss you can’t forget and the gut-wrenching realization that Cook and the infamous cheeky neighborhood hero known as Spider-Man are one in the same.

wc: 7.7k

a/n: I’ve always had a soft spot for Spider-Man, something about the angst, the humor, the mask, the heart. Then the Spidey!Cook brain worms burrowed themselves into my noggin and refused to let go!! But it wasn’t until Moga @somnolenthour sent me their absolutely beautiful Spidey!Cook fanart that truly inspired me to write it. Big thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard as always, for being the best beta reader and moral support a girl could ask for. I’ll definitely be writing more of this AU, but instead of a traditional multi-chapter fic, it’ll unfold in a more episodic format—each part will work as its own little story with loosely connected threads. Think filthy, romantic chaos of the week. No smut this time around but I hope you still enjoy swinging through Episode I 🕷💋

warnings: Spider-Man AU, morally gray vigilante Cook, forbidden romance, reformed delinquent Cook (but like...barely), mentions of past character death (Effy), guilt kink adjacent energy, girl dinner (Cook edition), explicit language, heavy sexual tension, implied masturbation, public teasing, rough kissing, thigh touching under the dinner table, secret identity shenanigans, emotionally devastating forehead kisses, dangerous levels of longing, eventual smut

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Episode I: I'm Feeling Rough, I'm Feeling Raw (I'm in the Prime of My Life)

You’d always liked New York at night.

Something about the way the city blurred and shimmered after dark felt strangely intimate, like you were in on some secret. Rain slicked the pavement into watery mirrors, reflecting neon signs in hazy blues and reds. Your sneakers splashed through shallow puddles, soaking the hems of your jeans as you tugged your jacket closer around your shoulders.

You knew better than to take a shortcut down a back alley after sunset—especially being the daughter of the NYPD’s Police Chief—but you were tired, frustrated, and honestly, a little defiant tonight. The meeting at home had drained your patience. Spider-Man was all anyone could talk about anymore. It consumed your father’s every waking moment, the obsession to hunt him down, coloring every dinner conversation, every tense silence.

“You don’t know who that man is,” your dad had snapped, eyes darkening beneath his furrowed brow. His coffee had sat untouched, paperwork sprawling across your kitchen table like evidence in some twisted crime documentary.

Neither do you, you'd thought bitterly.

You shook your head to clear it, stepping quicker now, your footsteps echoing faintly off graffitied brick walls. Queens felt alive around you, humming with electricity. Maybe it was the storm rolling in, crackling distant thunder and promising rain, or maybe it was the low shiver of anticipation you’d felt ever since Spider-Man had first appeared—clad in white and blue, a flash of scarlet jacket tossed over his shoulders, always disappearing before anyone got a clear look at him.

Maybe it was because deep down, a tiny, reckless part of you hoped you'd catch a glimpse of him tonight.

Your pulse fluttered at the thought. Ridiculous, you told yourself, as your shoes splashed through another puddle, the alley narrowing ahead. He wasn’t a hero—not according to your dad, anyway. Spider-Man was dangerous, unpredictable, a masked vigilante with no respect for the law.

But wasn’t that exactly why you felt so inexplicably drawn to him?

You rounded the next corner, lost in your thoughts, and collided with something off in the air—an immediate, instinctual chill prickling the back of your neck.

Your steps slowed.

Under the flickering orange glow of a dying streetlamp stood a man. Hood pulled up, face shadowed, but his body was unmistakably solid—tall, broad, blocking the narrow passage like a wall you hadn’t seen coming. He stood too still. Too quiet. Like he’d been waiting.

Your heart jerked violently in your chest.

His head tilted slightly, like he’d just noticed you—but something about the way he moved said he’d been tracking you for longer than that. Your stomach churned. You froze mid-step, shoes scraping against wet concrete, every survival instinct lighting up all at once.

The man stepped forward slowly.

You saw the flash before you even saw the blade—just a quick, metallic glint in his hand as it caught the stuttering light. Long. Shiny. Too deliberate to be anything but a threat.

“Well now,” he said, voice syrupy and cruel. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing.”

Your lungs refused to work. You backed up a half-step, heart thudding so loud you could hear it in your ears. The walls of the alley felt like they were closing in, trapping you.

“You alone, baby girl?” he cooed mockingly, tone dipped in something sickly sweet and rotten beneath. “Didn’t nobody teach you it’s dangerous out here at night?”

Your lips parted, but your voice didn’t come. Your hands were trembling, damp with sweat. You clutched your bag tighter, pulse hammering in your throat, in your wrists, behind your eyes.

Think. Think. Do something. Yell. Run. Fucking move.

But your legs didn’t listen.

The man’s smile widened. Not kind. Not amused. It was the grin of someone who enjoyed fear, who’d seen it before and liked how it looked stretched across someone’s face. His blade caught the dim light again as he lifted it higher—slow, deliberate, meant for show.

He took another step forward. And then another. You backed up, heel slipping slightly on the slick pavement. Cold rain kissed the back of your neck. The alley had gone silent but for the tap-tap-tap of water hitting rusted metal and your own ragged breathing.

“You’ve got real bad luck tonight,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, meaner now. “Could scream. But no one’s gonna hear you.”

He was close now. Too close.

You finally found your voice—but it was just a whisper. “Don’t—please—”

“Oh, I love when they beg,” he purred, stepping into the halo of broken light. His face finally came into view—eyes gleaming under the hood, cheeks rough with stubble, lips curled into something dark and twisted. The knife twitched in his hand, fingers tightening like he was ready.

Your body locked up, adrenaline surging too fast, too hot. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All you could see was him—and the long blade meant for you.

Then—

A sound.

Sharp. Fast. A whoosh, like wind cutting through silk.

Something moved above you, high and fast and wrong, too fast to be natural. The air shifted. Something heavy slammed down from above—so fast you didn’t even see the impact, only felt it in your bones. The man was ripped from his stance, crashing hard into the opposite wall with a grunt, limbs pinned suddenly by thick bands of—what the hell?

Webbing.

He thrashed, cursing as his knife clattered to the ground and skidded toward your feet.

Your breath punched out of your lungs as you stumbled back, hands flying to your mouth. Your eyes shot upward, heart in your throat.

A figure dropped from above.

Upside down.

The first thing you honed in on was the suit: white, skintight, sculpted to every cut and curve of his body, shot through with vivid blue stitching, red jacket flaring dramatically like a flame in the rain, one leg bent around the fire escape railing, his body swaying slightly in the heavy silence.

The mask tilted toward you, sleek, angular, the eyes sharply expressive even without moving. They narrowed as they studied you, and through the distorted crackle of a voice modulator, you heard it.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He tilted his head, the motion lazy, and the modulated voice crackled low across the distance between you.

“Fucking hell, mate.” He nodded toward the assailant still writhing on the wall. “You really thought that’d go your way, did ya?”

He clicked his tongue and reached down—still hanging—shooting another web with a flick of his wrist, sealing the man’s mouth shut. The sound was disturbingly satisfying.

Then he turned fully to face you, like you were the only thing left in the alley worth his attention. And suddenly, you were the one pinned in place—by the weight of that stare, the electric crackle of something deeper than adrenaline rolling through your blood.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected Spider-Man to look like up close. Some faceless blur of justice, maybe. A stoic, noble figure in head-to-toe black.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Even with his voice distorted through the modulator, it was unmistakably British—smug, slow, with that cocky rhythm you hadn’t heard in years but would recognize in your sleep.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he said, the pet name dragging rough across the air like sandpaper over skin. “Can’t decide if I wanna web this cunt to a wall or take you home and make you scream louder than he did.”

You inhaled sharply. That voice—that fucking voice. Heat surged up your neck, your lips parting in disbelief as your heart stammered against your ribs.

He swayed gently, like he had all the time in the world to watch you spiral.

You knew that mouth. You knew the way he carried himself, the slight slouch, the cocky slowness in the way he spoke like he was undressing you between syllables. Even distorted, you knew.

And for a moment, all you could do was stare.

Rain began to fall in earnest now, fat droplets splattering your shoulders and trickling down your temple. The air grew heavy with ozone, the alley filling with steam where warm streetlamps hit cold stone. You didn’t blink. You barely breathed. You just looked at him, and he looked right back like he already knew what you were thinking.

Your hands ached from how tightly they were clenched at your sides.

The rain traced the curve of your cheekbone, slid along your jaw. It matted your hair to your face, soaked the thin fabric of your shirt, made the air feel thick and charged between you.

Spider-Man remained upside-down, unmoving. Waiting.

And you—god help you—you stepped closer.

You didn’t understand what was happening. Not really. All you knew was your heart felt like it would beat out of your chest if you didn’t do something. If you didn’t close the gap between you and whatever this wild, electric, inexplicable thing was.

Your fingers lifted, slow and shaking.

You reached for his mask.

And he let you.

You curled your hand around the fabric and gently pulled it down, just enough to reveal the lower half of his face.

The grin hit you first—lazy, crooked, utterly unrepentant.

Your breath caught in your throat. You swallowed. Once.

And then—still trembling, soaked to the bone—you leaned forward and kissed him.

You kissed him like it was inevitable.

Like the second your fingers touched that fabric, the second your eyes landed on that crooked mouth, something inside you had already given up.

The taste of him hit you instantly—rainwater and heat and something dizzyingly sinful—his lips parting the moment yours met his, as though he'd been waiting for it. His breath came hot against your tongue, a low groan rumbling from his chest like he felt it just as deep, just as desperate.

And he kissed you back.

Not sweetly. Not carefully. Not like a hero.

No—he kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been starved. Like he had something to prove. Like he owned your mouth, and this was him staking his claim.

Your hands curled into the damp fabric of his jacket as his tongue slid against yours, filthy and slow, his mouth moving with that signature kind of arrogance you’d only ever known one person to possess. His lips tilted into a smirk mid-kiss—smug, bastard—and when he sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, you let out a noise that was embarrassingly soft.

And he heard it.

He hummed against your mouth, pleased.

Your lungs burned. Your knees wobbled. Your entire body was singing, high and electric, caught between what the fuck is happening and don’t ever stop. The rain poured around you like static, cool and slick against your overheated skin, but it barely registered. You could only feel him—his breath, his mouth, his voice.

That voice.

Even without the distortion, it would’ve sent a thrill through you.

But the second he broke the kiss—slowly, purposefully, tongue teasing your top lip as he pulled back—and murmured:

“Didn’t think you had it in you, sweetheart…”

It hit you like a brick to the chest.

That accent. That mouth. That voice wrapped in sandpaper and honey. You knew it. You knew it.

Your breath hitched, heart flipping violently in your chest. You were staring at the lower half of his face, lips still glistening from the kiss, water dripping from his chin, and suddenly all the puzzle pieces rearranged themselves.

Cook.

It was James fucking Cook.

You’d know that voice anywhere—half-growled, half-mocked, always two seconds from saying something filthy enough to slap him for.

You stumbled back a half-step, blinking like you’d just woken up inside a hallucination.

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Cook—Spider-Man—smirked wider at the look on your face. The kind of look he used to live for. That dumb, reckless grin you hadn’t seen in years, the one he used to wear right before doing something illegal or inappropriate or insanely hot, and usually all three at once.

He leaned forward a little, upside-down still, rain dripping off his nose as he let the moment marinate—let you stare at him, recognize him, melt from it.

His voice was lower now, distorted but dragging like velvet:

“But fuck me…” He licked his bottom lip, slow. “Do it again, and I’ll let you sit on my face right here in this alley.”

You stood there—soaked, trembling, lips swollen and breath ragged—with heat pooling low in your belly like someone had struck a match. Every nerve ending on fire. Every thought scrambled.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

You just…stared. At him. At Cook. At Spider-Man.

What the fuck?

He tilted his head like he was reading your mind, and that grin widened, devilish and unrepentant.

And then—snap—he shot a web to the fire escape above and yanked himself up in one clean pull, disappearing into the shadows like he hadn’t just rocked your entire fucking world upside down. Like he hadn’t just kissed you like he owned you.

You stood there long after he was gone.

Rain fell.

The alley blurred.

Your lips tingled.

Your legs felt like jelly.

And somewhere in the back of your mind—beneath the static of adrenaline, the thrum of desire, the wild crash of your pulse—you knew:

You were in so much fucking trouble.

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Your body had collapsed, sure—muscles aching, clothes peeled off and tossed somewhere near the foot of your bed, skin still chilled from the rain. You’d laid in the dark with your damp hair spread across the pillow, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

But your mind? It wouldn’t shut up.

Every time your eyes drifted closed, you saw him. That mask. That mouth. The fucking grin. The way he kissed you like he’d been starving for it. The way he sounded—cocky and low and rough, even behind the modulator. That wasn’t some stranger in a suit.

That was Cook.

James fucking Cook.

It had to be. There was no denying it anymore.

You’d gone years without seeing him—maybe a glimpse here, a passing name mentioned in the background of a party or arrest report—but he’d vanished after Effy died. Went underground. You thought he’d left the city altogether.

But now?

He was swinging through Queens like it was his playground, sticking assholes to alley walls, and kissing you so hard your legs still shook from it.

And you hadn’t even told anyone.

Because how the hell do you say Spider-Man made out with me upside down in the rain and I think it was the guy my dad used to arrest for truancy, drunk and disorderly, and defacing public property back when I was in braces?

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

So you went downstairs.

You walked into the kitchen like you hadn’t just kissed a masked menace with the filthiest mouth in New York. You buttered toast. You poured coffee. You said good morning to your dad and tried not to flinch when he muttered:

“Spider-Man was spotted again last night. Midtown.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug. Heat pricked at your cheeks.

“Really?” you managed, keeping your tone breezy. “He save another cat or something?”

Your dad glanced up from his tablet, tired eyes narrowing. “No. Assault and attempted robbery. Girl got away thanks to him.”

Your stomach twisted. You were the girl. That was the alley.

“Good for her,” you said, sipping too fast, burning your tongue.

“Good for him, you mean,” your dad snapped, and now the sharp edge was back in his voice. “That guy needs to be brought in before he starts thinking he’s above the law.”

“He’s helping people.”

“He’s not a cop.”

You raised a brow. “Neither are firefighters. You gonna arrest them too?”

He stared at you. You stared right back.

The tension crackled thick between you.

“Just be careful out there,” he muttered finally. “It’s not safe at night. Especially alone.”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded like a good daughter and bit into your toast to keep from saying I was alone last night. And he found me before you ever would’ve.

Later that afternoon, you tried to focus. You read.

That was the goal, anyway—curling up on the living room couch with a blanket and a worn paperback, eyes scanning pages you weren’t absorbing. You read the same sentence over and over, but your mind drifted. Paragraphs blurred. Your thumb stopped turning the page.

Tried not to think about the kiss.

Tried not to think about the tongue, or the grin, or the voice.

Tried not to think about Effy.

She’d been everything. The kind of girl people wrote songs about—sharp, tragic, unknowable. She and Cook had been doomed from the start, and when she died, he shattered. You saw the way he changed. The wildness, the recklessness, the way he burned through the city like he wanted it to kill him.

And now he was this?

Spider-Man?

The guilt curled hot in your chest, but so did the hunger. He’d kissed you like he wanted to swallow you whole. You hadn’t wanted him to stop.

You still didn’t.

You thought about texting him—except, of course, you couldn’t. You didn’t have his number. You didn’t even know for sure if it was him.

But you did.

And just as that thought was sinking in, a knock echoed from the front door.

You froze.

Your dad yelled from the other room: “Can you get that?”

You padded barefoot down the hall, nerves twisting low in your stomach. You cracked the door open, heart in your throat.

There he was.

Standing on your porch like he owned the place. No mask. Just that stupid red jacket, hair rain-tousled, smirk already pulling at his mouth.

James. Fucking. Cook.

Your mouth went dry.

“Alright, sweetheart?” he said, like this was normal, like he hadn’t kissed you last night like he needed it to breathe. “Heard there was a good girl who lives here.”

You blinked. “What…What are you doing here?”

He held something up between two fingers.

Your wallet.

You stared at it.

“You dropped it,” he said, tone light. “In that alley. S’pose I could’ve mailed it, but—well. That’d ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”

Your heart thumped. “You were there?”

His brow quirked. “Was I?”

Your stomach twisted. “Cook—”

He stepped closer, lowering his hand and twirling the wallet between his fingers. “Didn’t say I was, babe. Maybe I just heard about it. Could be coincidence. Could be luck. Could be—what’s the word your dad likes—vigilante bullshit, yeah?”

You swallowed hard.

“Give me one good reason I should let you in,” you said, voice quieter now.

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Because I still owe you a proper kiss. One where I’m not upside down.”

And just like that, you opened the door.

He stepped inside like it was his house.

Like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb on your brain with that voice in the alley last night—like he hadn’t kissed you so hard it still ached in your mouth.

Your fingers were trembling around the wallet as you shut the door behind him. The latch clicked too loud in the silence.

Rain drummed steadily outside, soft and hypnotic against the windows. The smell of it—wet pavement, diesel, something earthy and sharp—drifted in with him. But beneath that was him—Cook—warm skin and smoke and the faded cologne he used to wear in high school that still smelled like recklessness.

He wandered casually down the hallway, ignoring the way you hovered by the door like your legs might give out. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jacket. His walk was slow, deliberate. He moved like he was thinking three steps ahead—like every footfall was a challenge.

You followed.

Your bare feet were silent on the hardwood, but your pulse was a thunderstorm in your ears. Your hoodie clung to your spine with heat. Every breath felt tight in your chest.

He stepped into the kitchen and leaned back against the counter like he’d done it a hundred times. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, painting him in pale yellow and shadow.

And god—he looked good.

Hair still damp from the rain, curling slightly around his ears. Cheeks flushed from the cold, a bruise yellowing just beneath the waterline of his left eye. That stupid red jacket unzipped just enough to show the black shirt clinging to his chest, damp and sheer in places, revealing the sharp cut of his collarbone. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, tongue flicking briefly against his bottom lip like he could taste the air.

He caught you staring and grinned.

“Nice place,” he said, glancing around with mock politeness. “Bit tame, though. Could use some bloodstains or bondage gear or somethin’. Spice it up.”

You stared at him, jaw tight. “Are you seriously making jokes right now?”

He raised both brows. “Would you rather I cry?”

“I’d rather you tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”

Cook’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened.

“Already told you. Returned somethin’ that belonged to you.” He nodded to the wallet in your hand. “What, you want me to say I just missed your pretty face? Would that make it easier for you to breathe around me, sweetheart?”

Your heart clenched. “Don’t call me that.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for a beat.

“Why not? Liked it last night.”

Your breath hitched.

He pushed off the counter and stepped toward you.

Slow. Deliberate. That casual swagger in his gait that made every movement look like foreplay. You backed up instinctively until your spine hit the fridge door with a soft thunk.

He stopped a few inches in front of you, gaze flicking down your body with zero subtlety.

“You always answer the door lookin’ like this?” he asked, voice quieter now, more intimate. “Or just for me?”

You glanced down. Hoodie, no bra, bare legs, still damp hair from the shower you took trying to forget him.

You flushed. “It’s my house. Didn’t know I was entertaining guests.”

He hummed. “Didn’t know I was a guest.”

And there it was again—that double edge. The way he said everything with a wink and a knife behind his teeth. The way he looked at you like he knew exactly how wet you were just from being near him.

You turned your face away, trying to hide the flush rising up your neck.

“You didn’t deny it,” you murmured.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t confirm it either.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He leaned closer, voice so low it slid under your skin and made your thighs press together.

“Then why’d you let me kiss you?”

You looked up at him sharply.

His pupils were blown, barely any blue left around the edges. His lips were slightly parted, wet and pink and maddeningly close. His breath smelled like spearmint and something darker—like heat, like sin, like him.

You hated how your body responded to him. How your skin came alive under his gaze. How your nipples hardened beneath your hoodie, how your thighs ached, how your mouth actually remembered the taste of his tongue.

“Because I was in shock,” you said, but your voice cracked in the middle.

He smiled slowly. “That why you kissed me back?”

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t need you to.

Cook took one step closer, his knee brushing against yours, the heat of his body blooming against you like static. His fingers brushed your wrist—light, teasing, tracing your pulse like he knew it was hammering for him.

“Want me to leave?” he asked softly.

You blinked. “What?”

His mouth curved. “Say the word. I’ll go. Never happened. I’ll walk outta here, and you can tell yourself you imagined the whole fuckin’ thing.”

He was so close. The air between you crackled. Every nerve ending screamed.

Your lips parted. You meant to say yes. You meant to tell him to get the fuck out, that he was dangerous, that you knew what kind of chaos clung to him like a second skin.

But what came out was:

“…No.”

And his grin sharpened.

“Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretched taut between you—fragile, dangerous, breakable.

Your heartbeat was a runaway drum, thudding in your throat, your wrists, the hollow of your chest. Cook’s eyes traced every flinch of your expression, every betraying breath, like he was mapping your weaknesses.

And you were letting him.

He hadn’t moved away. His chest still brushed yours with every slow, even breath, heat bleeding through his damp shirt into your skin. His gaze never left your face, lingering on your mouth like it was something he wanted to devour. You could feel your lips parting involuntarily beneath the weight of his stare, helpless to hide your vulnerability.

He’d always known how to disarm you, ever since you were teenagers. But now, he was wielding that talent like a weapon, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“You’re a problem, Cook,” you whispered finally, voice barely audible, thick with reluctance and want.

He leaned in, his mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, breath hot against your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured. “But I reckon I’m your favorite one.”

Your breath caught audibly and you felt his lips curve into a smile against your throat. He lingered there, just long enough to make you dizzy, inhaling like he could breathe you in.

“I shouldn’t do this,” you managed weakly, voice cracking around the edges. It was half a plea, half a confession.

He chuckled softly, breath ghosting over your pulse. “You already did.”

His mouth moved upward, tracing your jawline slowly, deliberately, until his lips hovered a breath from yours. You stared into eyes so deeply blue they seemed bottomless, your own gaze cloudy with helpless desire.

He cupped your chin, tipping your head back, thumb brushing the soft line of your lower lip. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice velvet-rough, dripping with sin. “Already fallin’ apart and I’ve barely even touched you.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, embarrassment and need tangling tight in your chest. “Fuck off.”

Cook laughed softly. “You kiss me with that mouth?”

“You kissed me,” you reminded him stubbornly.

He leaned closer, mouth teasing yours. “And you fuckin’ loved it.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny it—but his lips crushed yours before the words ever had a chance.

This kiss wasn’t like last night’s wild, frantic encounter in the rain. This was deeper, slower, deliberate—a kiss that savored every second, every taste, every surrendering breath. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing your mouth open gently, and when you relented, he slipped inside with a filthy, possessive groan.

His hand slid to cradle your neck, thumb stroking your jaw, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Your own hands, traitorous and trembling, curled into his damp jacket, clutching him closer, needing him nearer.

God, he tasted exactly like he did last night: like mint and nicotine and whiskey-soaked recklessness. He kissed you like he was imprinting himself onto your soul, erasing anyone else who’d ever been there. His tongue moved slowly against yours, filthy and indulgent, every stroke a taunt, a dare, a promise.

You whimpered against his mouth, and the sound shattered something fragile between you both.

His other hand slid down your side, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hard, lean line of his body pressed into yours, and suddenly you could feel exactly how much he wanted you—how hard and thick he was beneath the thin fabric of his jeans.

Your knees nearly buckled.

Cook broke away just enough to press his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. His voice was dark, low, wrecked with barely restrained desire.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped softly, sounding genuinely undone for once. “Dreamed about havin’ you like this, you know. Thought about it every fuckin’ night since—”

He stopped himself abruptly, jaw tight. His eyes darkened, something heavy and aching surfacing behind the lust.

“Since Effy?” you whispered carefully.

He flinched slightly, then sighed, brushing a tender thumb along your cheekbone. “Thought after her—thought there was nothin’ left, yeah? But then you—fuck—you just…happened.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. You cupped his face, eyes searching his carefully guarded expression. “Cook…”

He shook his head, leaning into your touch briefly, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Don’t ruin it, babe. Don’t think. Just…just fuckin’ kiss me.”

And you did.

You surged forward, lips crashing desperately against his, your arms circling his neck to anchor yourself. He responded immediately, scooping you up effortlessly and placing you on the kitchen counter, never breaking the kiss, deepening it instead, devouring you thoroughly.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him into you with a gasp as he ground forward against the heat pooling between your thighs. Your fingers twisted in his hair, tugging, needing more, needing everything he could give you.

Cook’s mouth slipped from yours to trace scorching kisses down your throat, biting gently at the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath your skin.

“I want you,” he growled softly, voice muffled against your skin. “Fuck, I want every bit of you, sweetheart. Your mouth. Your skin. Your cunt. Want to ruin you so badly you’ll never fuckin’ forget.”

You shuddered, head tipping back, offering more of yourself willingly. “Then do it,” you whispered recklessly, hips rolling against him involuntarily. “Please.”

He groaned, pulling back just enough to look at you—wild-eyed, flushed, chest heaving with unsteady breaths. His fingers traced down your hoodie, teasing the bare skin beneath, lingering just under the hem. His voice was hoarse, edged in desperation.

“You sure about this, babe?” he asked, eyes blazing into yours, searching. “Cause once I start, I ain’t gonna stop.”

Your heart hammered hard. Every inch of your skin burned, needy and aching. You knew he was dangerous—knew that getting involved with Cook was like holding a lit match too close to gasoline. But at that moment, you didn’t care.

You wanted him anyway.

“Cook,” you whispered, sliding your hands into his jacket, nails grazing his chest, feeling him shudder beneath your touch. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

He didn’t let you finish the threat.

He kissed you again, savage and deep, biting your lip hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue. His fingers finally slid beneath your hoodie, dragging slowly upward, tracing every rib, every curve, every sensitive inch of bare skin, and—

“Hey, honey, did someone come to the door?”

Your father’s voice echoed from upstairs, shattering the moment like glass. Cook froze instantly, lips still pressed to yours, both of you holding your breath, hearts thundering in the sudden silence.

His eyes met yours—wide, reckless, almost amused despite the interruption.

“Fuck,” you whispered breathlessly.

Cook smirked, pressing a final heated kiss to your swollen lips before stepping back just enough for you to slide down shakily from the counter. He adjusted his jacket lazily, looking entirely too smug given the situation.

“Better behave, sweetheart,” he drawled quietly, voice rich with dark amusement. “Daddy’s home.”

You flushed deeply, shooting him a glare as you straightened your clothes. He laughed softly, eyes sparkling wickedly.

And just like that, the spell between you broke—but you knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Because the way Cook looked at you—raw, possessive, hungry—promised this was only the beginning of something dangerous and all-consuming.

Something neither of you could walk away from.

Your father’s footsteps echoed down the stairs, steady, oblivious to the firestorm still raging in your veins.

You jerked your hoodie straight, cheeks blazing hot, and shot Cook a panicked glare. His smirk only widened, eyes dark with amusement and something more dangerous—hunger. The bastard had the nerve to casually lean back against the counter, posture relaxed, unbothered, as though your father’s sudden arrival wasn’t about to shatter the room apart.

The kitchen suddenly felt too small, air tight with tension. You sucked in a shaky breath, heart hammering painfully in your chest.

Your father rounded the corner, brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes landed on Cook. Surprise flickered briefly across his face, quickly replaced by wary suspicion.

“James Cook,” he said slowly, voice edged with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Cook grinned easily, all cocky charm and lazy confidence. “Evening, Chief,” he drawled smoothly. “Just returning something your daughter dropped last night. She invited me in for a bit.”

You shot Cook a sharp glare, skin prickling with heat. He met your gaze head-on, eyes glittering with silent laughter, utterly unapologetic.

Your dad glanced at you, brows raised questioningly. “What’d you drop?”

“Wallet,” you mumbled quickly, holding it up as proof, praying your voice didn’t betray how badly your nerves were shredded.

Your father nodded slowly, still clearly suspicious but not openly hostile. Yet.

“Right,” he said, tone carefully neutral. He studied Cook with narrowed eyes, scanning him head to toe like he was cataloging every possible threat. “Been a while, Cook. Haven’t seen your name on my desk in a few years. Keeping yourself out of trouble?”

Cook chuckled softly, tipping his chin up defiantly, arms folded casually across his chest. “Doing my best, sir,” he said, managing to sound both respectful and mocking at the same time. “Turns out even I can learn to behave.”

Your dad snorted, unconvinced. “Yeah, well. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He turned his attention back to you, frowning thoughtfully. “Dinner’s almost ready. You staying, Cook?”

Your eyes snapped up sharply, heart stuttering.

“No,” you blurted immediately, panic tightening your throat. “He’s just—”

Cook cut you off smoothly, voice dripping honeyed politeness. “I’d love to, Chief. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Your jaw clenched, panic clawing up your chest. Your father merely nodded, already distracted, clearly oblivious to the storm brewing in your eyes.

“Good. Set another plate, honey,” he said to you, turning back toward the stairs. “I’ll be down in ten.”

You glared murderously at Cook as soon as your dad was out of earshot. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Cook grinned wolfishly, stepping close enough to lower his voice. “Eating dinner with your family. Isn’t that obvious?”

“Why?”

His smile softened slightly, thumb brushing against your lower lip before you could jerk away. “Because it drives you fucking crazy.”

You flushed deeply, shoving his hand away, hissing quietly, “Behave yourself.”

He laughed, soft and rich and darkly amused. “You don’t really want me to.”

He was right—and that scared you more than anything.

Dinner was excruciating.

The table was set, plates gleaming under the soft glow of overhead lights. The scent of roast chicken and garlic potatoes filled the dining room, warm and comforting, sharply contrasted by the tense, crackling air that surrounded you. You sat stiffly across from Cook, your father at the head of the table, oblivious to the charged atmosphere simmering just beneath the surface.

Every breath felt labored. Your thighs pressed tightly together beneath the table, heart skittering every time Cook’s eyes flicked your way, knowing and smug and so maddeningly patient.

He made polite small talk with your dad, his answers respectful, thoughtful, utterly convincing—if you didn’t know better, you’d almost believe he was genuinely reformed.

But beneath the table, hidden from your father’s view, Cook was anything but polite.

His knee nudged yours lightly, deliberately, a silent taunt. You clenched your jaw, ignoring the flutter in your belly. His leg pressed closer, warm, solid muscle against your thigh, and you shifted nervously, breath hitching in your throat.

You shot him a warning glare. He stared back with open, wicked amusement, sipping his water calmly.

“—And we still can’t pin him down,” your father was saying, oblivious to your internal crisis. “Spider-Man. Half the force thinks he’s a hero. The other half thinks he’s a menace.”

Cook raised his brows, feigning innocent curiosity. “And what do you think, Chief?”

Your father snorted softly, shaking his head. “He’s dangerous. Reckless. You don’t fight crime with masks and theatrics. It doesn’t work. He’ll end up getting someone hurt—someone innocent.”

Cook’s eyes flashed briefly, lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Sounds personal.”

“It is,” your dad said firmly. “I’ve seen too many vigilantes end up dead—or worse, getting others killed.”

A charged silence hung in the air. You glanced up sharply, breath held, heart pounding, sensing Cook tense subtly beside you. His knee pressed harder against your thigh, fingers gripping his fork a fraction too tightly.

“You disagree?” your dad asked Cook, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Cook paused, then smiled faintly, leaning back casually. “Not my place, sir. Just sounds like a bloke who wants to help.”

Your father shook his head, scoffing quietly. “You’re naive if you believe that.”

Cook didn’t answer. Instead, beneath the table, his hand found your thigh, fingertips tracing lightly, dangerously, up along bare skin. Your breath caught sharply, eyes flying wide, fingers tightening around your knife.

You shot him a panicked glare, mouth silently shaping a desperate, furious “stop.”

He ignored you, gaze fixed calmly on your father as though nothing unusual was happening—as though he wasn’t sliding his hand higher, teasing the soft skin of your inner thigh, thumb circling lightly, making your pulse spike dangerously.

You swallowed hard, struggling to keep your breathing even, panic and arousal twisting violently together. Your cheeks burned, chest heaving slightly, but you couldn’t move—not without alerting your father.

Cook’s hand slid higher, bold and shameless, thumb grazing dangerously close to the soaked fabric of your underwear. You bit your lip so hard it hurt, body trembling slightly, unable to think or speak or breathe.

Your dad was talking again, oblivious, voice muffled by the blood roaring in your ears. Cook’s thumb brushed deliberately across the damp cotton between your thighs, gentle pressure enough to make your breath hitch audibly.

You shot up abruptly, chair scraping loudly across the hardwood floor.

“Sorry,” you gasped, voice shaking badly. “I—I need some air.”

You stumbled away from the table without waiting for a response, legs trembling beneath you, heart racing violently. You barely made it to the kitchen before Cook was suddenly behind you, hands steadying your waist, turning you gently to face him.

“Easy, love,” he murmured, voice soothing despite the filthy smirk on his lips. “Just breathe.”

You stared at him helplessly, heart pounding in your throat, anger and desire swirling chaotically within you.

“You’re an asshole,” you whispered breathlessly.

He smiled softly, leaning in until his lips brushed yours in a featherlight caress.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, thumb tracing your bottom lip slowly. “But you fucking love it.”

You wanted to deny it, but instead, you surged forward—deja vu—kissing him desperately, hands fisting in his jacket, unable to help yourself. He growled softly against your mouth, deepening the kiss, pinning you against the kitchen counter with his hips, grinding slowly against you until your mind went blissfully blank.

You knew he was trouble. You knew he was dangerous. You knew this could destroy you.

And yet, as Cook kissed you like you were oxygen, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

Not even a little.

The world returned slowly, in scattered fragments—your senses coming back online, grounding you piece by trembling piece.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, echoing through the hazy, half-lit kitchen. Cook’s breathing was rough, uneven, matching your own shaky rhythm. His forehead pressed against yours, warm and solid, grounding you even as your heart soared recklessly.

You forced your eyes open, blinking slowly at him through heavy, dazed lashes. He looked back at you, eyes darkened to deep oceanic blue, glazed with lust but softened by something deeper—something tender, unguarded, and achingly raw.

“I have to go,” he whispered reluctantly, voice thick and rasping with regret. His thumb traced your jaw gently, lingering on the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. You shivered involuntarily, heat flooding your cheeks, but nodded wordlessly.

“Yeah,” you murmured softly. “You should.”

But neither of you moved.

He sighed quietly, pressing one final, lingering kiss to your forehead, lips warm and comforting. “Better do it before I lose the nerve,” he murmured.

You laughed weakly. “Cook? Losing his nerve? Impossible.”

He smiled faintly, sadness ghosting at the edges. “Only when it comes to you.”

His hand found yours, warm fingers entwining gently, and he tugged softly, guiding you back toward the dining room. The table was empty now, dishes cleared, your father already disappearing upstairs, leaving you both blessedly alone again.

Cook released your hand reluctantly, taking a small step away as your father’s footsteps echoed briefly from the second floor.

Your dad appeared briefly at the top of the staircase, glancing down at you both, completely oblivious to the charged air still humming between you.

“You heading out, Cook?” your dad asked gruffly, exhaustion softening the edges of his usual authoritative tone.

Cook nodded, polite and respectful, a perfect actor once again. “Yeah, Chief. Thanks for dinner.”

Your dad inclined his head slightly, expression neutral. “Keep yourself out of trouble, kid.”

Cook’s mouth curved faintly into something bittersweet. “Trying my best, sir.”

Your father disappeared back upstairs without another word, footsteps retreating quietly, leaving you both standing alone in the hallway.

Silence descended, tense and heavy, the air thick with unspoken words and tangled emotions.

Cook glanced down at you, lips quirking into a faint, uncertain smile. You reached impulsively for his hand, fingers curling gently around his own, tugging softly toward the front door. “Come on,” you murmured, voice barely audible. “I’ll walk you out.”

He nodded wordlessly, following your lead onto the porch.

Outside, the storm had softened to gentle rain, the world painted silver and shadowy blue beneath the muted glow of streetlights. The air smelled fresh and crisp, laced with the scent of wet pavement and rain-slicked leaves. Water dripped rhythmically from the porch roof, tapping softly against the wooden steps.

You both lingered at the edge of the porch, standing close but not quite touching, shoulders brushing lightly in quiet, electric contact.

Finally, you gathered the courage to ask the question burning in your chest. Your voice was quiet, hesitant, slightly unsteady. “Cook?”

He glanced at you, expression suddenly serious, eyes watchful. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard, pulse quickening. “Why now? Why did you decide to come back, after all this time?”

He sighed, looking away briefly, tension rippling across his jaw. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, wrestling silently with himself.

Finally, he turned fully toward you, voice low, rich with quiet vulnerability. “I don’t fucking know,” he admitted softly. “Been running for years, trying to forget—Effy, this city, you. Thought if I stayed away long enough, it’d stop hurting. But it didn’t. Just kept getting worse. Kept fucking haunting me.”

Your heart ached at the quiet anguish threaded through his words. You reached out instinctively, fingers brushing gently against his arm, offering silent comfort. “Cook—”

He shook his head slowly, pressing on, eyes burning into yours. “Then I heard about what happened last night. That mugger—he almost—” He swallowed roughly, voice thick with suppressed emotion. “Couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you, and me not being there.”

He stepped closer, hand cupping your cheek tenderly, thumb tracing softly across your lips. “I just needed to see you again. Had to make sure you were alright. Thought I could handle it, thought I’d be fine just looking. But the second I saw you…” He laughed softly, bitterly. “I fucking knew I was done for.”

Your breath caught sharply, eyes stinging suddenly. You leaned helplessly into his touch, whispering shakily, “Why didn’t you say anything before? Why hide?”

He smiled sadly. “Didn’t want to hurt you, love. Thought you’d be better off without my chaos. Without my bullshit.”

You shook your head fiercely. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me.”

He chuckled softly, stepping even closer, voice barely audible. “I know. Learned that the hard way.”

You stare at him, heart hammering painfully, words caught somewhere in your throat. The rain fell softly around you, droplets sliding gently down your cheeks, tracing cool paths against heated skin.

He leaned in slowly, eyes searching yours. “Can I kiss you one last time tonight?” he whispered softly, almost pleading.

You nodded wordlessly, breath trembling.

His lips brushed yours, gentle this time—achingly slow, heartbreakingly sweet. He kissed you like he was savoring every second, every sensation, memorizing the shape of your mouth and the taste of your breath. The world faded away, leaving only the soft sound of rain, the warmth of his touch, and the quiet tenderness of his kiss.

When he finally pulled away, both of you breathless and trembling, he pressed his forehead gently against yours, eyes closed, voice breaking quietly in the fragile space between you.

“You know,” he murmured softly, almost shyly, “sometimes I wonder what might’ve happened if I'd stayed. If things had been different. If I’d been brave enough to admit how I felt about you sooner. Might’ve had something real. Something good.”

Your heart fluttered helplessly at his quiet confession. “Maybe we still can.”

His eyes opened, startled and soft. He smiled faintly, thumb tracing your cheekbone tenderly. “You deserve better than me.”

“I want you anyway,” you whispered fiercely.

He laughed softly, pulling you into a tight, protective embrace, mouth pressing gently against your temple. “Fuck, you’re stubborn.”

“You like it,” you murmured, smiling into his shoulder.

He squeezed you gently, breathing in deep, savoring your warmth. “Yeah. Reckon I love it, actually.”

You pulled back slightly, heart skipping wildly at his quiet admission. “Cook—”

“Shh,” he interrupted softly, pressing a gentle finger to your lips. “Don’t ruin it. Let me pretend just a bit longer.”

You fell quiet, nodding gently, chest aching sweetly with emotion.

He stepped back slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing softly from your cheek. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmured tenderly.

You smiled gently, whispering, “Goodnight, Cook.”

He walked slowly down the porch steps, pausing briefly at the bottom, glancing back at you, expression softening into something so openly affectionate it stole your breath.

Then, quietly, voice carrying just above the gentle rainfall, he said:

“Always been you, love. From day fucking one.”

And with that, he disappeared into the rainy night, leaving you standing breathless and trembling, chest bursting with warmth, hope, and sweet, aching longing.

You stood quietly on the porch for a long moment, face tilted toward the rain, smiling helplessly into the darkness.

Because despite everything—despite the danger, the chaos, the impossibility—you knew exactly what you wanted.

And tonight, finally, you admitted it fully to yourself:

You wanted James Cook.

Danger, chaos, heartbreak and all.

Forever.

[the-a-word-2214]

Ready? Shoot.

Paddy Mayne x F!Liaison!Reader

Description | The last thing Paddy Mayne had expected was a lady from GHQ to show up in the desert. He and you both must find a way to adapt

word count | 1.4k

cw! | mild misogyny, language, guns, drinking

credits | @the-a-word-2214 for the idea, @/enchanthings for the dividers

note | I’m not entirely happy with how this turned out but I wanted to go ahead and write something since I haven’t in so long. Feel free to send in a request or dm since they’re open <3

Paddy Mayne hadn’t expected to meet a woman when creating the SAS. There were nurses in the military, sure. However the SAS was a regiment built upon the very idea of sacrificing themselves. No nurses would be wasted upon a bunch of men with a death wish. The likelihood of a woman was made even less likely considering they were stationed within a desert. A particularly harsh section of desert at that. From howling sandstorms to battering heat, the abandoned fort they resided in was no place for a woman. But then again nothing went as expected out here.

They’d gotten word that a liaison would show up sooner or later. It wasn’t exactly a well kept secret that GHQ was keeping a close eye on them. They were an experiment after all. So they just accepted it. Then there was a letter updating that the officer had been sent out, that they’d arrive soon. A name was provided. A surname anyways. It wasn’t something they thought much of. Why should they need to?

So imagine Paddy’s surprise, everyone’s surprise, when the officer that steps out of the car is wearing a skirt. A fucking skirt. Shock wasn’t an effective word for the feeling. It was like a joke with no punchline.

There was nothing particularly special about the woman at first glance. The clothes she wore were suitable for the desert so she was clearly informed. There was a suitcase in her hand. It was enough to make him want to scoff.

The typically rowdy soldiers were silent for a long, long moment. The woman, the officer, approached him and Stirling. Paddy looked to the man, expecting even an ounce of a similar emotion. Irritation, shock, something. There was nothing. The bastard had known. He must have. There was little explanation otherwise.

He watched as you and Stirling shook hands, exchanging names and what one could classify as pleasantries. Then the attention turned to him. Paddy didn’t hold the same warmth. He didn’t take your hand when you offered it and he only gave a curt answer of his name. There was a brief moment, hardly even enough to notice, where her expression soured. But just as quick, she smiled again.

“It’s good to meet you, Major Mayne.”

You hadn’t expected to be put out in the desert. More often than not you did secretary and assistant tasks compared to this. That wasn’t to say you weren’t a teensy bit excited. You’d wanted to do more traditional liaison work, however this wasn’t exactly what you had in mind.

Originally you’d believed you knew the desert terrain from being stationed in Cairo. However you couldn’t have been more wrong now that you were in this place. The days were sweltering and the nights were freezing. And with the lack of proper shelter, she found herself stuck trying to shield and lessen the effects. The only upside you’d found with the living conditions was the fact that you got a tent to yourself.

The men there weren’t so bad though. They were crude and annoying, sure, but they never invaded your space or pushed boundaries. Perhaps it was because of the many conversations you’d had with them since your arrival. Maybe they’d been threatened. You didn’t much care for the reason, you were just happy to not have to deal with it.

However this didn’t stop Paddy from being rude. Well, maybe rude was the wrong word. He was more willfully ignorant of you. There was no clear desire to talk or help you, something that fit you just fine. Or it would’ve had he not been one of the ones GHQ wanted a report on. Due to this, you’d started forcing herself to approach him and talk to him.

This particular instance was in the morning, a time where it wasn’t too hot and wasn’t too cold. Some men were sleeping, some were awake. It was nice mix that made the camp quiet but not silent. The sun was golden and the sky was a milky blue.

“Lovely day, isn’t it, Major Mayne?” You chirped as you approached him. There was no reply. You persisted, speaking of things like the upcoming mission until he spoke.

“Do you know how to shoot?” You were silent, watching him as he continued to smoke.

“No. Do I need to know?”

“Well we’re not out here playing fucking hopscotch. What’re you gonna do in case of attack?” What was there to say? She never thought of that. Her job was always that of an assistant, she hadn’t considered self defense.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never had much use for a gun. I mean, I can use one.” That elicited an eye roll from Paddy.

“Are you good at it?”

“Well no-“

“The we’ve got our answer right there.”

It wasn’t ever really discussed that he’d teach you how to shoot. It sort of just happened. He picked up a simpler gun, nothing like the ones he carried himself, and he walked you to a more secluded area despite his apprehension. It was then that you decide what you’d perceived as willful ignorance was more similar to watchful silence. Interesting.

He placed down a few different object for you to aim at. A can, a glass, some tins. “You’re gonna need to hit these. And I don’t mean graze them, soldiers won’t run away because of something as insignificant as a bullet graze.”

You could only nod before kneeling. Bringing the gun up, you aimed at the first thing. A can. Once you were confident in your aim, you fired. And your bullets missed accordingly. Not even a graze.

Paddy neared after about half an hour of attempting to guide with words. Frustration was high on both ends. He kneeled behind you, the warmth of his body radiating as he lightly pressed against you. His rough hands carefully guided your position before leaning down and speaking into your ear.

“Ready? Shoot.”

And you did. And you hit it. Letting out a cry of excitement, you instinctively turned to see his reaction. You hadn’t expected anything, but for a split second you could’ve sworn there was a ghost of a smile. A flicker of warmth and amusement in those eyes. It was a small moment of connection, a spark, but you turned away with a sheepish but proud grin on your lips.

This went on a couple more times before he decided they needed to trek back to camp. It was hard not to notice how a certain tension had developed between them. One that made the air around them almost lighter. For you anyways. You’d never been happier holding a gun.

From that moment on, you found yourself caught in Paddy’s orbit. You frequently sat next to him in the mornings. Sometimes you two shared words, speaking of a variation of topics. From guns to literature. But sometimes you two also shared silence. Reveling in what peace you could get as you wrote reports back to GHQ. You were fond of both.

As time stretched, so did the time they spent together. They started sitting together after dinner. He even shared the occasional sip of liquor. It tasted like absolute dogshit to you, but you appreciated it nonetheless.

It was a night like that. One where they were the two sat in front of a fire alone, Paddy reciting poetry you didn’t understand a lick of. It didn’t bother you. Not a bit. Your mind was fuzzy with liquor and you were just happy to be there. The words didn’t need to make sense as the warmth of cheap whisky ran down her throat.

“How d’ya know all those fancy poems?” It was a silly question. But it made sense to you in that moment.

“Suppose I read.” It was a simple statement, and yet you made a sound of exaggerated realization. As if it hadn’t crossed your mind before.

It was a comfy air between them as he continued with the poetry with the occasional interjection from you. Liquor continued to be poured. The rations you’d built up of it finally being out to use. Though after a while Paddy decided that you’d had enough. Your eyelids were drooped and words slurred.

Putting your arm around his neck, he carefully guided her up and began to approach the tent. Your tent. You closed your eyes at one point, feeling as he laid you down. There was a pause though. A moment of tension. Though there was no kiss or anything of the nature, his hand lingered for just a moment before removing himself from the tent entirely.

It was then that she decided something.

Major Paddy Mayne wasn’t so bad.

make sure the leave a like and reblog if you enjoyed <3

[the-a-word-2214]

Jack O'Connell behind the scenes of Sinners (2025)

[the-a-word-2214]

worst way ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 22467

Bob Floyd is an incredible husband. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marry me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can call in sick?” he offers. 

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?” 

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

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me.” 

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

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

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

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.” 

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?” 

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

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

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

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

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—” 

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

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

“It wasn’t that hard.” 

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

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

He raises his brows. “Impressive.” 

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

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

“A number,” he replies, too quick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I at least get a name?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Hence, no military. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which is honestly kind of a miracle. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but he was military.” 

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

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

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?” 

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

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

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

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

“A military hookup.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But who you do, too. 

- Bob - 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob Floyd knows that sound. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Bob hears everything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hates himself almost instantly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every damn time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And how does he know that? 

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

That would be insane. Perverted, even. 

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“Wow. Okay.” 

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

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

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God. What is wrong with him? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.” 

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

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

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks. 

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—” 

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

“Didn’t get that either.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight. 

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

Jake scoffs. “Why me?” 

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

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And— 

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now Bob wants to die. 

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cock twitches. 

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

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

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

And God—he sees you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, did you notice? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.” 

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

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

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

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

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

His stomach drops. 

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

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

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

Bob frowns. “What dinner?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you too,” Bob mutters. 

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

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

It doesn’t. 

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

Again, it doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

That’s all. 

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

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

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

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

His cock brushes the pillow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” 

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

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

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

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

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. 

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

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

“You’re thinking it.” 

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

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

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

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

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.” 

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

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

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

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

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

But you cut in first. 

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

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years. 

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come. 

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck. 

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.” 

Bob nearly chokes. 

“I’m heading to bed,” you add. 

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.” 

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away. 

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific. 

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close. 

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum. 

- You - 

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you. 

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning. 

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe. 

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out. 

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk. 

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef. 

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is. 

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come. 

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it. 

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones. 

“No way.” 

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice. 

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.” 

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose. 

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless. 

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was. 

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?” 

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.” 

“Isn’t this whole island a base?” 

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.” 

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?” 

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block. 

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.” 

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?” 

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?” 

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.” 

He grins. “And?” 

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.” 

“But I’m worth it.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.” 

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.” 

He frowns. “What does that even mean?” 

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you. 

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake. 

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.” 

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?” 

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.” 

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.” 

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen. 

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone. 

He looks up. “Wait, just—” 

“See you later, pretty boy.” 

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home. 

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way. 

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker. 

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. 

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good. 

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and— 

Freeze. 

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered. 

What the fuck? 

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island. 

He’s home early. 

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches. 

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot. 

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.” 

Oh God. That’s Bob. 

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release. 

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are. 

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing. 

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door. 

And stop breathing. 

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move. 

And fuck, is it moving. 

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead. 

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there. 

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific. 

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious. 

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move. 

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach. 

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper. 

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who— 

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.” 

—who looks so fucking hot right now. 

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on. 

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles. 

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall. 

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight. 

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps. 

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—” 

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing. 

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears. 

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt. 

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles. 

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked. 

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful. 

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin. 

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing. 

God. You need something. Now. 

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate. 

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head. 

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality. 

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big. 

And God, you want it. 

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids. 

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit— 

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate. 

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore. 

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart. 

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base. 

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you. 

You fuck yourself harder. 

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well. 

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes. 

“F-fuck—” 

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come. 

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse. 

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now. 

Well, shit. That’s new. 

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast. 

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy. 

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room. 

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other. 

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone. 

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did. 

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right? 

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen. 

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed. 

Well. He would, after a release like that. 

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.” 

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.” 

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it. 

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board. 

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward. 

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island. 

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.” 

“Oh, that was nice of him.” 

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible. 

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine. 

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?” 

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.” 

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?” 

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip. 

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name. 

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down. 

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?” 

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.” 

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge. 

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that? 

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance. 

- 

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him. 

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue. 

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying. 

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot. 

When the hell did that happen? 

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it. 

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you. 

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth. 

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth. 

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything. 

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together. 

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up. 

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married. 

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day. 

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning. 

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡ 

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to. 

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect. 

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different. 

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today. 

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird. 

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right? 

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling. 

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs. 

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you. 

At this point, you’ll try anything. 

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building. 

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral. 

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week. 

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?” 

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.” 

Her brows lift, as if to say and? 

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.” 

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?” 

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck. 

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—” 

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.” 

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob. 

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’ 

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about. 

Fuck. 

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.” 

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.” 

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.” 

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee. 

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.” 

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.” 

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues. 

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building. 

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land. 

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.” 

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?” 

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.” 

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance. 

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy. 

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner. 

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—” 

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?” 

Oh. This is Maverick. 

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.” 

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile. 

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—” 

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?” 

“Nope.” 

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?” 

You nod. “Works for me.” 

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet. 

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open. 

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?” 

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?” 

“Yep.” 

“And how long have you been in love?” 

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.” 

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate. 

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?” 

You nod, but it’s not convincing. 

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—” 

“No way.” 

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar. 

“It’s you.” 

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut. 

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes. 

Your stomach lurches. 

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin. 

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up. 

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps. 

Bagman? 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze. 

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?” 

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.” 

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside. 

Oh no... Hangman? 

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman. 

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying. 

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests. 

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad. 

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly? 

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking. 

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through. 

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear. 

And then— 

Bob. 

He steps through the doorway— 

And freezes. 

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright. 

The silence is deafening. 

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out. 

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.” 

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face. 

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.” 

Maverick chokes beside you. 

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.” 

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes. 

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.” 

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs. 

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?” 

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.” 

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.” 

“Everything I say is funny.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—” 

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?” 

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either. 

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet. 

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid. 

He looks furious. Downright murderous. 

At first, you thought it might be at you. 

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.” 

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself. 

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest. 

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked. 

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you. 

Your stomach swoops. 

And suddenly, you can’t breathe. 

Because Bob Floyd is jealous. 

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams. 

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you. 

And for a second, you almost believe it. 

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away. 

He loves you. 

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—” 

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?” 

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond. 

You swallow hard and step forward. 

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.” 

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes. 

There’s a gasp. A chuckle. 

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters. 

But none of it matters. 

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop. 

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists. 

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next. 

But you do. 

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down. 

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim. 

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment. 

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers. 

You’re already gone. 

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t. 

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. 

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild. 

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?” 

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.” 

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion. 

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly. 

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.” 

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more. 

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.” 

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in. 

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin. 

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak. 

“Payback,” the taller one says. 

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.” 

You laugh softly, nodding again. 

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in. 

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…” 

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.” 

“Details,” he sighs wistfully. 

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.” 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?” 

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when— 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.” 

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.” 

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door. 

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.” 

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!” 

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door. 

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?” 

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious. 

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.” 

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other. 

Then— 

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again. 

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd. 

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.” 

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.” 

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath. 

- 

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin. 

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it. 

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely. 

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to. 

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate. 

God, you want him desperate. 

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps. 

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him. 

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear. 

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs. 

You want to be sore tomorrow. 

You want him sweaty and wild and undone. 

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does. 

But first—you want him to ruin you. 

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely. 

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce. 

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts. 

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves. 

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then— 

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped. 

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest. 

He steps inside—and your breath catches. 

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner. 

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them. 

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?” 

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you. 

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor. 

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—” 

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.” 

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving. 

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours. 

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours. 

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow. 

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs. 

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips. 

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. 

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.” 

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?” 

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning. 

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips. 

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.” 

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this. 

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts. 

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you. 

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. 

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head. 

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.” 

That’s all he needs. 

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares. 

Because nothing else matters now. 

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.” 

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning. 

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor. 

You flinch. He doesn’t. 

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. 

Then he drops to his knees. 

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin. 

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.” 

His hands urge your legs wider. 

And then his mouth is on you. 

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core. 

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.  

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?” 

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him. 

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.” 

“Say it again,” he breathes. 

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking. 

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.” 

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive. 

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire. 

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more. 

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough. 

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding. 

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough. 

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking. 

And he doesn’t stop. 

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close. 

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.” 

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks. 

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. 

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse. 

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought. 

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you. 

He stares. 

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—” 

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. 

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.” 

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick. 

Your breath stutters. 

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens. 

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper. 

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. 

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.” 

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness. 

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot. 

Your breath hitches. 

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading. 

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.” 

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in. 

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible. 

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.” 

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him. 

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good. 

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.” 

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper. 

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked. 

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.” 

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again. 

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders. 

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.” 

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours. 

You both freeze. 

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life. 

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control. 

And then it hits you. 

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs. 

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.” 

He goes still—completely still. 

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it. 

But then— 

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world. 

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes. 

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard. 

You both cry out. 

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way. 

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything. 

He is everything. 

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself. 

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” 

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost. 

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.” 

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor. 

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone. 

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.” 

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—” 

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest. 

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.” 

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you. 

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.” 

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.” 

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.” 

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—” 

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.” 

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes. 

The vase topples. 

Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile. 

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—” 

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it. 

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh. 

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares. 

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.” 

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide. 

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.” 

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look. 

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing. 

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.” 

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush? 

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel. 

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?” 

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.” 

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch. 

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach. 

His brows pull together. “What is it?” 

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.” 

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you. 

Then he nods. “I thought so.” 

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?” 

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head. 

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?” 

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.” 

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.” 

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters. 

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again. 

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again. 

[the-a-word-2214]

"save a horse, ride a cowboy"

roy goode x you

summary-> maybe in a a parallel universe, remmick is a cowboy named roy goode that betrayed his brotherhood, seeking shelter, he winds up on your doorstep.

it was late in the night, truckee, alice and iyovi had fallen asleep, but not you. you were sat outside the ol’ house, rocking back and forth on the hammock you had hung on the apple tree nearby.

alice had taken you in as a child after your parents left you all by your lonesome at her doorstep. since then, she fed you, gave you a nice warm place to stay like you were her own.

truthfully, alice was more like an older sister to you. she had taught you how to read and write, even gave you lessons on how to ride a horse from a young age.

living just outside of town, you learnt to dwell in the peace. there were no men, no bandits, just you and your family.

that all changed when you heard the galloping of a horse not too far away. you shot up, rushing back into the house to grab a shotgun, determined on defending your home.

when you stepped back out in the dark, a horse stood still outside the shack. as the dust settled, you caught a glimpse of a man, head hung low, body almost at the brink of going limp on the horse.

“you lost, mister?” you asked, cocking your shotgun, aiming it at the man’s chest.

you had no intention of firing the gun, but simply just to scare him.

when you got no response, you took a step closer, grip tightening on the gun.

however, the man didn’t do so much as flinch.

so you did what alice had taught you. you fired once, just enough to graze the man’s neck, not kill him.

he fell, off the horse and onto the dirt.

“what the hell?” you muttered, dropping your gun and jogging towards him.

you noticed that the dirt underneath his body was soaked in blood, but it didn’t make sense, the bullet barely touched him. your eyes trailed down his body, then you saw it. his abdomen, gushing with blood. it seemed like he’d already been shot at lesst once before he ended up at your door step.

after much struggle, you managed to drag the man into your stable where the horses had already grown out of, leaning his body on a stack of hay.

but the gunfire didn’t go unheard, soon, alice and iyovi came running to the stable. upon seeing a stranger bleeding out on their property, they had the valid reaction of freaking out.

“jesus, he’s dying!” alice silenced her own shouting, not wanting to wake truckee up.

“i see that, alice!” you replied, stepping away for iyovi to place her newly brewed medication on the bullet wound on his stomach.

she mixed some of her own herbs and spices together in a bowl, using a small wooden object to mix it all together, before lighting a splint to it and without any hesitation, cauterizing the open flesh.

in response, the man jerked away, letting out a loud, agonising scream as you jumped.

“guess he’s alive.” alice chuckled, grabbing the shotgun and heading back into the house with iyovi.

you spent the night in the stable, carefully and skillfully wrapping a makeshift bandage around his waist and one around the grazing wound on his neck.

you could only hope that you had made the right choice saving the stranger.

when morning came, you had gotten up early. you made breakfast for the family, placing them neatly on the table before taking your portion and wandering off back into the stable to observe your mystery man in the daylight.

he was absolutely stunning.

you could see him clearly now.

the man had features of a greek god, his honey brown hair falling into his face as he slept. he was dressed in a worn out shirt and pants, there were wears and tears all over… he looked like he’d been through hell.

you sat down beside the man, munching on your food as you stared at him like he was some side show attraction.

all of a sudden, his eyes started to blink open, squinting at the rays of sunlight that engulfed the entire place.

“good morning.” you said cheerfully, watching as he gasped and tried to back away but winced at the sudden movement. “i wouldn’t do that if i were you, ya got a pretty nasty wound.”

the man looked down, seeing what once was a hole gushing with blood, now wrapped in a cloth that wasn’t his. and it sure as hell didn’t wrap itself either.

“you’re welcome by the way.” you told him, pointing to the patched up injuries. “must’ve been one hell of’a night.”

he was beyond bewildered, his eyebrows pushed together as he searched your eyes for answers.

he opened his mouth to speak, but when he did, nothing came out of it- his throat hoarse and dry, and besides, with the bullet that scraped the column of his neck, it hurt to talk.

“i’ll get you some water.”

the man watched you get up, walking away.

he took his surroundings in, it was unfamiliar to him. if it weren’t for your warm and eager welcome when he had woken up, he would’ve assumed he had gotten kidnapped.

when you returned, you carried two glasses of water. only this time, you didn’t sit down. you stood nearly over him, looking down as you passed him a glass, in which he graciously nodded as a ‘thanks’.

you took a sip, “i’m guessing you’d have a lot of questions by now…”

he nodded.

“…well, so do i. so, we’re gonna help each other, alright?”

one more nod.

“who are you and where did you come from?”

silence lingered in the air for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say.

“please don’t make me pull out the shotgun again-”

“roy… my name’s roy goode.” he answered, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence. his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. he brought a hand up to his neck at the discomfort but you reached out, grabbing his hand before he could touch the scarf around his neck.

“don’t touch it, you’ll only make it worse.”

the both of you looked down at your hand on his. feeling embarrassed, you quickly cleared your throat, removing your hand. “so, roy goode, what brings ya out to my house in the middle of the night?”

once again, roy tried to speak but was restrained by the pain.

“shit, it’s alright, take your time but i’m not gonna stop interrogating you until i get all my answers.”

“y/n, what are you doing?”

you immediately straightened up, taking the glass from him as alice walked into the stable.

“i-i just thought he looked parched, i gave him some water, that’sall.”

“get back in the house.” she intructed.

with a ‘yes, ma’am.’ you were gone, leaving alice with the stranger as you headed back to the house.

“how is he?” iyovi asked as you handed her the glasses.

“he’ll be okay.” you replied, walking towards the window, pulling the curtain slightly apart.

you snuck a glance at roy who looked like he was in distress being interrogated by alice instead. then, his eyes wandered over to you in the house. you swore he perked up, so you gave a small wave.

he nodded in your direction, but he didn’t look away. not until you did.

a few minutes later, alice stormed back into the house, slamming the door shut behind her.

“y/n, i don’t trust him and neither should you.”

“what? who said i trusted him?”

she rolled her eyes, “you can’t be too nice to a man you don’t even know.”

“well, i kinda did shoot him, i guess i kinda owe him th-”

“that man is dangerous and not to be trusted. i can feel it.” she gritted through her teeth.

you weren’t going to listen to her, but for the sake of keeping the family in one piece and your head on your shoulders, you complied.

so you didn’t go to the stable for the rest of the day as per alices’ rules. but when supper time came along, the door creaked open, revealing a pitiful looking roy at your doorstep.

alice immediately got up from the dinner table, but you grabbed her arm.

“hey, how’re you feeling?” you asked him, interrupting alice before she could even speak.

“much better… thank you, miss.” he replied, letting himself into your home.

you smiled, “i’m y/n, this is my brother truckee, that’s iyovi, and you know alice.” you introduced everyone.

“do you wanna join us for supper, mr. goode?” truckee asked as he patted an empty seat, inviting the man over, which he gladly accepted.

alice shot the boy a look, “truckee.”

“it’ll be fine.” you covered for the boy, sending him a wink.

“no. we don’t even know a single thing about this man!” she raised her voice, yanking her arm out of your grip, slamming her hand on the table.

“alice, just-”

“keep your mouth shut, y/n. you-” she pointed to roy, her eyes flaring with anger, voice hoarse with rage. “-get out.”

sneaking out of the house at midnight had became easy on the account of doing it almost every night dince you were a teenager.

you glided past the creaky floorboards and carefully slipped out the door, making your way to the stable.

but roy wasn’t there.

instead, you found him with your horses out in the field. he was quiet as he stood in the middle of the animals, as if he were admiring them.

“what’re you doing?”

he turned his gaze away from the horses. seeing you, he smiled, just a little, making his way over to the fence.

“they’re beautiful.” he said, pointing to them.

you hummed in response, “they sure are…you should get back in the stable before alice realises you’re gone.”

“nah, it’s not big deal. plus, i’ve got you outside keepin’ an eye on me.” he shrugged, eyes crinkling as his nose scrunched.

he was good at negotiating, you scoffed.

“so what’s your deal? you got into a crossfire before stumbling your way here?” you teased him, nudging his elbow.

he chuckled, “you could say that.”

not satisfied with his response, you pressed further. “were you running from the bad men or were they from you?”

he went silent, looking down at his feet. “bandits.”

“bandits?”

“they’ve been terorrising every town they pass through… this time they took it further, robbing a train going into town, i had to stop’em.”

“what are you, robin hood?” you joked.

“i guess, but i lost all of it trying to outrun them. got this too.” he lifted his shirt, pointing at the bullet wound you had saved him from bleeding out of.

you sighed. the story seemed believable, but you still had a hint of doubt. his name felt familiar, something you’ve heard the townfolk speak word of, a legend that circled within the community.

“you should go back in, it’s late.” he said to you, crossing his arms on the wooden fence, leaning his weight on it as he looked at you.

you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, slightly nodded your head. “i guess i should.” taking small steps away from him before you turned around once again, “goodnight, roy.”

his lips quirked up, “goodnight, y/n.”

the next morning, you were at the window again, twirling the frabric of the curtain between your fingers as you watched roy’s sleeping form in the stable.

not in a way that made you look like a creep, but you were intrugued.

he looked calm, at peace even. not just as he slept, but every waking moment of the day, it didn’t add up to who he said he was.

then iyovi had woken up, browsing through the kitchen, pausing when she noticed you watching the man.

“you’re in love, darling girl.” she said flatly.

you dropped the curtain from your fingers, turning your head slightly to acknowledge her presence. “i’m not.” you whispered but she shook her head.

“i can see it in your eyes…there’s nothing wrong with it.”

iyovi could read you like an open book, she didn’t need to hide how well she knew you because she knew deep down you knew it too.

“be careful, y/n. i smell death on that one, the longer he stays, the stench will rub off on us too.”

your brows furrowed as she walked off just like that, “that was weird.” you mumbled to yourself as you pulled the curtain open once again.

only this time, you could see a small trail of dust in the distance.

and it was drawing dangerously close to you.

immediately you ran out the door, rushing to the stable as you barged in, startling roy awake.

“someone’s coming, you gotta go!” you warned, picking up the shotgun alice had left leaning against the stable doors.

you didn’t stay long to evaluate roy’s reaction, heading right back out onto the field, gun drawn as the man approached.

the norsed neighed as the man hopped of. he had a sheriff’s bade on, you recognised him.

“whoa, there’s no need for the gun, young lady.” he chuckled lowly, raising his hands up in the air. “now, there’s a man on the run, a very dangerous one, and i have reason to believe he may have stumbled his way onto your land… are you hidin’ anyone, miss?”

you stayed silent, eyes narrowing at the man.

in the blink of an eye, he drew out his gun from his belt, aiming it right at you like a stand-off.

“if he’s here, you ought to give’em up before things get ugly.”

you were interrupted by a loud bang. you whipped you head around, eyes landing on roy as he strolled his way towards the sheriff.

“let her go, and i’ll turn myself in.”

“what?”

“it’s alright, darlin’. just get back into the house.”

“no! he’s gonna give you up to those bandits!” you argued back, dropping your gun to your side.

roy’s gaze softened, he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you gently behind him as he faced the sheriff.

“my word, roy, you look like shit.” the sheriff remarked.

“could’ve been worse if it weren’t for her.” roy replied calmly.

“you’ve got a lot of men on your tail, y’know that? they’ve wiped out all too many townfolk lookin’ for ya.”

“guess i should be goin’ then.”

“that’s right son, you’re comin’ with me.”

roy sighed,defeated. he turned to you, “stay here, you’ve helped me way more than you should’ve already.”

“but-”

“it’s been a pleasure, darlin’. i owe my life to ya.”

he leaned down, lips pressing a soft kiss onto your cheek. “thank you.”

“time’s up, boy. time to go!” the sheriff shouted.

he gave you one last cheeky grin before hopping onto the sheriff’s horse behind him, sticking his hands out as he placed a pair of handcuffs around his wrist.

when the two departed, you ran back into the house, scrambling to grab supplies.

“jesus, what was all the noise outside?” alice asked, worried as she followed you around the house, trying to keep up. “and where do you think you’re going?”

“i need to save roy.” you huffed, stuffing a bag full of water, food and weapons.

“roy goode? are you insane?”

“sheriff took’em, he’s gonna shove him right into the bandit’s asses.”

“y/n, don’t. you know not to mess with them.” she tried to reason with you but you wouldn’t listen.

“you can stay here, or you can come with me, it’s your choice.”

she stopped in her tracks.

“when do we leave?”

i think it’s hilarious how more than one of jack o’connell’s characters ended up on someone doorstep

(Godless 2017 on Netflix)

[the-a-word-2214]

Jack O'Connell and his beautifully sculpted arms. Man can adapt to any role, but he's not afraid to show off his body...

[the-a-word-2214]

Currently watching Skins, Tumblr needs more Cook content (please fic writers 🙏)