Mike Driver
art blog(derogatory)
No title available
Cosmic Funnies
AnasAbdin
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
if i look back, i am lost
@theartofmadeline
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
izzy's playlists!
Jules of Nature
$LAYYYTER
KIROKAZE
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
No title available
JVL
Three Goblin Art
tumblr dot com
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
todays bird
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Germany
seen from Singapore
seen from Pakistan
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Iraq
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@rootedinrevisions
🩵 Welcome to My Blog 🩵
Hey there! I’m Kaley, and this is my little corner of Tumblr where I share my writing, thoughts, and favorite stories. Whether you’re here for my original works, fanfiction, or just to chat, I’m happy to have you!
💫 About Me:
Fandoms I follow: ✨ Glen Powell 🌪️ Twisters ✈️ Top Gun: Maverick 🦸♂️ Marvel / MCU
When I’m not writing, I’m probably rewatching my favorite movies or looking for my next favorite fic.
🚨 This blog is 18+ 🚨
Some of my writing contains mature themes, so minors do not interact. -- AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED!
📖 My Masterlist
✍️ Requests
As of January 2026 I will no longer be taking requests, to allow myself to catch up on my backlog of WIPs and focus on a few passion projects.
📚 Fanfiction Recommendations I also love reading and sharing incredible fics by other writers! If you’re looking for some great reads, check out my recommendation page:
☕ Support My Writing
If you enjoy my work and feel like showing some love, you can buy me a coffee! Never expected, always appreciated. 💙
Feel free to send me asks and say hi! 🖤
Announcement
Hey guys. After a lot of thinking, I’ve decided to step away from Tumblr for a while. I’m not sure yet if this is temporary or permanent, but lately being here has become more mentally draining than enjoyable for me.
There’s been a noticeable lack of interaction, alongside an increase in negative comments and asks, and I think I need to prioritize my peace for a bit. Writing is still something I love deeply, and I absolutely plan to continue writing, I just don’t think Tumblr is the right space for me anymore right now.
For the time being, I’ll only be posting my work on Wattpad and AO3 moving forward. I am at the same username, rootedinrevisions on both if you want to keep up with me on one of those platforms.
To everyone who has supported my stories, left kind comments, shared excitement, or simply read along quietly over the years: Thank you. It has meant more to me than you probably realize. 🤍
Oil & Honor - Chapter 15: The Day After
Summary: The day after the attack Jake shifts his focus to something simple: taking care of Vivienne. What begins as a quiet moment turns into gentle teasing and unspoken tension, but when Jake catches a glimpse of the bruises she still carries, the reality of what she endured settles heavily between them.
Warnings: References to past domestic abuse. Visible bruising/injury from prior abuse. Emotional aftermath of trauma. Protective themes and discussion of healing. Mild sexual tension and nudity.
Word Count: 5,600
Author’s Note: As with every chapter of this story, this was co-written together by Kaley (rootedinrevisions) and Kaitlyn (bykaitlynann).
All other chapters can be found at the series Masterlist at the link HERE
Vivienne woke slowly. Not the sharp, gasping kind of waking that had been haunting her for weeks as things with her and Ethan got progressively worse. No panic clawing up her throat. No desperate fight for breath. Just warmth.
For a moment she didn’t move. Her mind hovered somewhere between sleep and waking, drifting in that rare, peaceful space where nothing hurt and nothing demanded her attention.
Sunlight filled the room. It spilled across the far wall and stretched over the bed in warm, golden stripes, bright enough that it had clearly been there for a while. Late morning, maybe even close to noon.
Vivienne blinked at the ceiling, confused by the unfamiliar calm in her chest. The kind of heavy that only came after real sleep…the deep, uninterrupted kind her brain had refused to give her for what felt like forever.
The realization that she had slept came slowly. She had slept. Like actually slept. The thought was strange enough that she stayed still for another moment, almost afraid to disturb it.
Then instinct took over. Her hand drifted across the mattress beside her, reaching and looking for warmth. Her fingers met only cool sheets.
Vivienne’s eyes opened fully. The space beside her was empty. For a brief, sharp second, panic flickered through her chest. The same reflexive spike her body had experienced last night after waking alone and disoriented.
She pushed herself up on her elbows quickly, scanning the unfamiliar room. Right. The guest room. Jake’s house.
Vivienne exhaled slowly and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
The oversized sweatshirt she was wearing slipped down one shoulder as she moved, the soft cotton brushing against her skin. It took her a second to recognize it as Jake’s, the sleeves too long, the collar stretched just slightly from where she’d slept curled into it.
She tugged it back into place absently. The faint scent of his cologne clung to the fabric. Something warm and grounding settled in her chest at the realization.
Vivienne glanced back at the pillow beside her. It still carried the subtle dip where his head had been. The pillowcase smelled like him too.
She sat there for another moment, letting the quiet settle around her. The house itself felt calm. Safe.
Then she heard it. A voice. Low and steady, drifting faintly down the hallway.
Jake.
Vivienne turned her head toward the partially open bedroom door, listening. His voice was quiet enough that she couldn’t make out the words, just the calm cadence of him speaking to someone. On the phone, maybe.
The sound eased the last lingering knot in her chest. He was still here.
Vivienne stood slowly, the wooden floor cool beneath her bare feet. The shirt hem brushed against her thighs as she crossed the room, pushing the door open just a little wider.
The hallway beyond was bright with morning light. Jake’s voice carried more clearly now, coming from somewhere further down the hall.
Vivienne followed the sound of Jake’s voice down the hallway, moving slowly, the quiet house amplifying every small creak of the floor beneath her bare feet.
The door at the end of the hall stood half open. Inside, Jake’s voice carried clearly now. Steady and controlled, the same calm tone he’d used the night before when he’d talked her through the panic.
Only this time it was sharper. More focused. His work voice.
Vivienne stopped just outside the doorway. Jake sat at a large desk near the window, one elbow resting on the arm of his chair as he held his phone to his ear. Sunlight poured in behind him, catching along the edge of his shoulders and the ends of his hair.
He was dressed more casually than she’d ever seen him. Dark jeans and a gray t-shirt. A laptop sat open in front of him. Several documents were spread across the desk.
Vivienne stayed quiet, not wanting to interrupt.
Jake hadn’t noticed her yet.
“Yes,” he was saying into the phone, his tone polite but immovable. “She won’t be in this week.”
A faint voice murmured on the other end, too quiet for Vivienne to make out. Jake leaned back slightly in the chair.
“No,” he said calmly. “It’s not optional.”
Another pause. His fingers tapped once against the armrest.
“I understand,” he continued, still perfectly controlled. “But that’s the situation.”
Vivienne felt a small, uneasy flicker in her chest. She hadn’t even thought about work yet. Hadn’t thought about emails piling up, meetings she was supposed to attend, the dozen responsibilities waiting for her back at the office.
Jake had. Of course he had.
“Take her off the calendar for the rest of the week,” he said. “Everything.”
A longer pause this time. Then Jake added, quieter but unmistakably firm,
“And if anyone needs something from her, they can go through me.”
The words settled into Vivienne’s chest like something warm and heavy. He wasn’t just giving her time off. He was standing between her and the world.
Another murmur from the other end of the line. Jake sighed softly through his nose.
“No, there won’t be a statement,” he said. “Not right now.”
He shifted in his chair, glancing briefly at the laptop screen.
“I’ll be working remotely for the next few days,” he continued. “If anything urgent comes up, send it to me.”
More talking from the other end. Jake listened, expression unreadable.
“Good.” He straightened slightly. “That’s all I needed.”
It was only then that his gaze lifted from the desk. And landed directly on Vivienne.
His eyes flicked quickly over her face, taking in everything at once: the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, the bare feet, the way she was leaning slightly against the doorframe like she wasn’t fully sure of her balance yet. Concern replaced the work-focus in an instant.
Jake turned slightly away from the doorway, bringing the phone closer to his mouth. The tone had changed again, shorter now. “We’ll finish the rest later.”
Another murmur of acknowledgment.
Jake nodded once. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He ended the call before the other man could say anything else. The room fell quiet.
Vivienne suddenly felt strangely self-conscious standing there, like she’d wandered into a part of his world she hadn’t been meant to see.
Jake pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. The movement was unhurried, but purposeful. By the time he crossed the room toward her, all traces of the professional CEO-to-be armor he’d been wearing on the phone had faded.
Now he just looked like Jake again.
Jake stopped a few feet in front of her. Up close, Vivienne could see the small signs that he’d been awake for a while. The faint shadows beneath his eyes, the slight crease in his shirt like he’d been leaning forward at the desk for too long.
But his attention was steady, focused entirely on her.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
Something in his expression told her he didn’t quite believe that. His eyes lingered on her a second longer. Then he nodded.
“You hungry?”
The question caught her off guard enough so that she had to think about it.
“No,” she admitted. “But I should probably eat.”
Jake nodded again, already shifting slightly toward the hallway behind him.
“Alright.” He gestured lightly with his hand. “Come on, I’ll make you something.”
Vivienne hesitated a beat. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he said easily. The corner of his mouth lifted just a little. “But I’m going to.”
Jake turned toward the kitchen, clearly expecting her to follow. After a moment, she did. The house felt different in daylight. Less like the shadowy refuge it had been the night before and more like a place someone actually lived in. Clean lines, soft light spilling through wide windows, the quiet hum of a refrigerator somewhere ahead.
Jake moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, opening the fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs.
“Coffee?” He asked over his shoulder.
“Yes,” Vivienne said immediately.
Jake glanced back at her briefly, amusement flickering across his face. He set a pan on the stove, the soft clink of metal against the burner filling the quiet space.
Vivienne hovered near the kitchen island, leaning lightly against the counter as she watched him.
There was something oddly grounding about the simplicity of it. Jake cracking eggs into a bowl. The soft hiss of butter melting in the pan. The smell of coffee beginning to brew.
Normal things. Ordinary things. For the first time since the attack, the world didn’t feel like it was spinning out from under her feet.
Jake moved with calm efficiency, stirring the eggs with one hand while reaching for plates with the other.
He glanced at her again. “You can sit, you know.”
Vivienne huffed a soft breath that might almost have been a laugh. “I’m supervising.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “Is that what that is?”
She shrugged slightly, folding her arms on the counter. “Someone has to make sure you don’t burn anything.”
That earned her a small, surprised smile. And something warm flickered quietly in her chest when she saw it.
Jake slid the eggs from the pan onto two plates and set them on the counter between them.
“Toast?” He asked.
Vivienne leaned forward slightly, watching him move around the kitchen like she was studying a complicated piece of machinery.
“You already made toast,” she said.
Jake glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve been here for thirty seconds. How do you know that?”
She pointed toward the toaster with quiet certainty. Two slices were already sitting on the small rack beside it, perfectly golden.
“Because you seem like the kind of person who preemptively makes toast.”
Jake paused, one hand resting on the cabinet door. “The kind of person who…what?”
“Plans ahead,” she said simply. “Organized. Efficient. Probably organizes things for fun.”
Jake closed the cabinet slowly. “I do not organize things for fun.”
Vivienne tilted her head, glancing around the kitchen. Everything was spotless. The counters were clear. The knives were lined up neatly in a wooden block. Even the fruit bowl looked suspiciously curated.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You absolutely alphabetize things.”
Jake slid the plates toward her. “Eat your eggs.”
Vivienne pulled the plate closer but didn’t pick up the fork yet. Instead she leaned an elbow on the counter, studying him with quiet amusement.
“You sounded very serious on that call,” she said.
Jake reached for the coffee pot. “I was working.”
“You said ‘it’s not optional’ in a very intense tone,” she continued.
Jake handed her a mug. “The thing we were discussing wasn’t optional.”
Vivienne wrapped her hands around the warmth of it, the steam rising gently between them. “That poor HR guy.”
“Josh.”
“Josh,” she repeated. “He sounded terrified.”
“He wasn’t terrified.”
“You sighed at him.”
Jake leaned against the counter across from her. “I sigh at everyone.”
Vivienne finally picked up her fork and took a small bite of the eggs. She chewed thoughtfully. Jake watched her face like he was waiting for a performance review. Vivienne swallowed. Then she made a small, contemplative hum.
Jake’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that sound mean?”
She tilted her head slightly. “It means they’re…fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes.”
Jake crossed his arms. “Define ‘fine.’”
Vivienne gestured vaguely with the fork. “They’re eggs.”
“That’s the goal.”
“They’re competent eggs.”
Jake stared at her. “Competent.”
“Maybe slightly overconfident eggs.”
Jake let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I’m not sure eggs can be overconfident.”
Vivienne’s mouth twitched. “Well these are.”
Jake shook his head slowly, turning back to the stove to turn off the burner. When he faced her again, she was smiling. Not the tight, polite smile she’d worn through meetings and conversations at work. A real one. Small. But real.
For a second Jake just…watched her. Something in his chest shifted quietly. He hadn’t seen that smile in days. He was glad to be part of the reason it had returned.
Vivienne took another bite, glancing around the kitchen again. “I’m serious about the organization thing though.”
Jake followed her gaze. “What about it?”
She nodded toward a drawer slightly open beside the sink. Inside were rows of utensils laid out with almost suspicious precision.
“You’ve got your forks separated by size.”
Jake looked at the drawer. Then back at her. “That’s normal.”
“No,” she said. “Normal people have a utensil pile in a drawer.”
“A utensil pile is chaos.”
Vivienne lifted her mug again, eyes bright with quiet amusement now. “Your spice rack is alphabetical, isn’t it?”
Jake hesitated just long enough to confirm it.
Her smile widened. “I knew it.”
“It makes things easier to find.”
“You’re terrifying.”
Jake leaned back against the counter again, arms loosely crossed. “You’re judging me while eating my eggs.”
Vivienne took another bite.
“They’re competent eggs, remember?”
Jake shook his head again, but this time there was a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Across the counter, Vivienne laughed softly. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t big. But it was real. And Jake felt the sound of it settle somewhere deep in his chest. For the first time since the night in the parking lot, he wasn’t just seeing the fragile, shaken version of her that trauma had left behind.
Vivienne eventually set her fork down and leaned back slightly against the counter, wrapping both hands around her coffee mug again. The warmth soaked into her fingers, grounding in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.
Jake gathered the plates without comment, rinsing them and setting them neatly in the dishwasher. He closed the dishwasher and wiped his hands on a towel before glancing back at her.
Then he stepped past her toward the living room, and he tipped his head slightly. “Come sit.”
Vivienne followed him. The living room was bright with late morning light, the wide windows letting in long stretches of pale gold across the floor and the dark fabric of the couch.
Jake dropped onto one end of it with the familiar ease of someone settling into his own space. Vivienne hesitated only briefly before sitting beside him.
Not too close. But not far either.
Jake picked up his phone from the coffee table, his thumb already moving across the screen as he scanned through whatever had accumulated while he’d been away from it.
“Work?” Vivienne asked.
“Mm.”
She tucked one leg underneath herself on the couch, angling slightly toward him. “What kind of disaster are we dealing with today?”
Jake’s thumb paused briefly.
“Nothing exciting.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“You want exciting disasters?”
“I work in corporate strategy,” she said. “Exciting disasters are basically my specialty.”
Jake glanced at her, eyebrow lifting slightly. “Is that how you describe it?”
“Internally,” she said. “Yes.”
Vivienne watched him for a moment. Jake huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh before looking back down at his phone.
Her shoulders slowly sank deeper into the cushions as the last of the tension in her body unwound. Without really thinking about it, she leaned slightly to the side. Her shoulder brushed his arm. Jake didn’t move away. He barely reacted at all, except for the subtle shift of his arm settling a little more comfortably along the back of the couch.
Vivienne rested her head lightly against his shoulder. The contact was tentative at first, like she was testing whether it would feel safe.
Jake kept scrolling through emails with one hand. His other arm drifted down almost automatically, resting loosely along the back of the couch behind her.
The steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her cheek was warm and grounding. Vivienne let out a slow breath. Her eyes drifted toward the window across the room, sunlight shifting lazily across the floor.
Jake’s thumb continued moving across the screen of his phone, answering a message, skimming another email.
Next to him, Vivienne’s body gradually softened. The tension in her shoulders eased first. Then the slight tightness in her posture disappeared. Her breathing slowed.
Jake felt the shift before he looked down. Vivienne had slipped further against him now, her head resting fully against his chest instead of his shoulder. One hand had curled loosely in the fabric of his T-shirt.
He glanced down carefully. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing deep and steady. She’d fallen asleep on him. Again.
Jake went still for a moment, as if even the smallest movement might wake her. Then he shifted his phone slightly in his hand so he could keep reading one handed.
His other arm stayed exactly where it was. Holding her in place.
Vivienne didn’t stir. She only tucked slightly closer against him, her fingers tightening briefly in the fabric of his shirt before relaxing again.
Jake returned his attention to his phone. Emails. Messages. Work continuing somewhere out in the world beyond the quiet of the house. But he didn’t move. Didn’t try to reposition her. He just worked around her weight against him. And let her sleep.
* * * * * * * *
The house stayed still around them for the next few hours, sunlight shifting slowly across the floor as late morning edged toward afternoon.
Jake worked through his inbox one-handed, answering what he could and flagging the rest for later. Every so often his eyes drifted down to Vivienne, checking the slow rhythm of her breathing where she slept against his chest.
She hadn’t moved much. Just the occasional small shift, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt before relaxing again.
It was the first time he’d seen her sleep this deeply. Even the night before when he had laid in bed with her, she wasn’t quite this at peace.
Jake was halfway through drafting a response to an email when he felt th e change in her breathing. Her body shifted slightly against him, her head lifting just enough that her hair brushed across his jaw.
Vivienne blinked slowly, her eyes still heavy with sleep. For a moment she didn’t move. Just lay there, warm and half-curled against him, clearly still caught somewhere between dreams and waking.
Jake glanced down at her.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
Her gaze lifted toward his face.
“Oh,” she murmured softly, clearly realizing where she was. “Sorry.”
“You fell asleep.”
“I put that together.”
The corner of his mouth moved slightly.
Vivienne rubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand, still leaning against him.
“How long?”
“Not long.”
That was a lie, and she had a feeling since the sun was starting to set through the window. But she didn’t question it.
Her gaze drifted downward as she lowered her hand. Toward the phone still resting loosely in Jake’s other hand.
The screen was still lit. An article open in the middle of it. Vivienne didn’t mean to read it. Her eyes just caught the headline before she could look away.
LOCAL INVESTIGATION CONTINUES AFTER ASSAULT IN DOWNTOWN APARTMENT COMPLEX
The words blurred for a second as her brain struggled to catch up. There was a smaller line of text beneath the headline.
Vivienne felt the shift in her body before she could stop it. Her stomach dropped. A cold, creeping tightness spread across her chest. She forced herself to breathe normally. To keep her face neutral. Her eyes moved quickly away from the screen, focusing instead on the coffee table across the room.
It was just a headline. Just a stupid article. It shouldn’t matter.
Her fingers curled slightly against Jake’s shirt without her realizing it. Jake felt the change instantly. The tension in her body was subtle, but it was there. Her shoulders had gone tight. Her breathing shallower. He looked down.
Vivienne was staring across the room like she’d suddenly forgotten where she was. Jake’s gaze flicked to his phone. Then back to her face.
He didn’t ask what she’d seen. He already knew. Jake locked his phone and set it down on the coffee table. The screen went dark.
Vivienne hadn’t moved. She was still sitting half leaning against him, but her body had gone rigid, like she was trying to hold herself perfectly still so nothing inside her would crack open.
Jake watched her for a moment. The tight line of her shoulders. The way her fingers had twisted slightly in the fabric of his shirt. Her breathing wasn’t panicked. Not yet. But it was heading there.
He kept his voice soft when he spoke. “Vivienne.”
Her eyes flicked toward him. There was something fragile there now. Something pulled tight behind the calm mask she was trying to hold in place.
He opened his arm slightly. “Come here.”
It wasn’t a command. Just an invitation.
Vivienne hesitated. For a second it looked like she might shake her head. Like the part of her brain that insisted she had to stay composed, stay controlled, stay fine was trying to win.
But her body was already leaning toward him. Slowly, almost cautiously, she shifted. One knee moved on the couch beside his thigh. Then the other. Jake didn’t move to help her. Didn’t guide her. He just stayed still and let her come to him.
Vivienne settled carefully into his lap, her legs on either side of him, like she wasn’t entirely aware she’d chosen that position until she was already there. The moment she was close enough, her arms slid around his shoulders. Her face buried against the side of his neck.Jake’s arms came up automatically, one around her back, the other steady against her side.
Her body trembled almost immediately. Just a quiet, uncontrollable shaking that moved through her shoulders and into his chest.
Vivienne pressed her face deeper into his neck, her breath warm and uneven against his skin. For a moment she said nothing.
Jake could feel her trying to hold it together. Trying not to break.
Then, very quietly, the words slipped out. “I don’t want to be scared anymore.”
Jake went completely still. His hand tightened slightly against her back. “I’ve got you. He’s not going to hurt you again.”
Vivienne’s grip on his shoulders tightened slightly. Her body was still shaking.
Jake didn’t try to stop it. He just stayed exactly where he was, one hand resting warm and steady against the middle of her back, the other holding her securely against him.
Vivienne’s breathing gradually steadied. The trembling in her shoulders softened, fading into small aftershocks that moved through her every so often. Jake’s hand remained warm against her back, moving slowly, and absentmindedly, steady enough that she could follow the rhythm of it.
Eventually Vivienne shifted. Just enough to lift her head from the curve of his neck. Her hair brushed across his jaw as she moved, and suddenly they were very close again, closer than they had been since the night before.
Jake’s hand, still resting on her back, slid upward almost without thought. His fingers came to rest lightly along the side of her jaw.
Vivienne’s eyes lifted to his. Jake studied her face carefully. His thumb brushed lightly against her cheek.
His voice dropped to something softer. “Tell me what you need.”
For a moment she seemed to search his face, like she was measuring the weight of the question. Then she whispered the answer.
“You.”
He held her gaze for another second, making sure she meant it. She leaned a fraction closer to him. That was enough for Jake. He leaned in slowly, giving her space to stop him just in case he was misinterpreting what she had said.
Their lips met gently. The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Nothing like the desperation of the night before in the bathroom. This one felt more intentional.
Vivienne’s hands rested lightly on his shoulders, her fingers curled suddenly into the fabric of his shirt, gripping it like she needed something solid to hold onto.
Jake felt it immediately. The small, determined tug. His hand slid more firmly along her jaw as the kiss deepened slightly. Still gentle and unhurried, but no longer quite as tentative.
Vivienne leaned into him fully now, her grip tightening in his shirt as she kissed him back.
Jake’s hand moved without much thought. Sliding from her jaw down along the side of her neck. Then lower. Resting lightly against her waist, and giving it a little squeeze.
The contact was gentle. But the moment his hand settled there, Vivienne’s body reacted. She flinched. Her shoulders went rigid, her breath catching in a way that had nothing to do with the kiss.
Jake felt it instantly. He pulled back, ending the kiss before it could become anything else. His hand left her waist at the same moment.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Vivienne blinked, like she was coming back into the room from somewhere far away. Like him touching her waist made her mind go somewhere else.
Jake’s eyes searched her face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly.
The answer came too fast. Too automatic.
Jake didn’t move. His hands stayed where they were now, resting lightly at his sides.
“I need more than fine.” He said, his voice staying calm.
Vivienne swallowed. Her gaze dropped briefly, like she didn’t know where to put it.
“It’s not you,” she said quietly.
Jake didn’t answer right away. He just waited for her to give him more information. Vivienne shifted slightly in his lap, one hand loosening from his shirt. Her fingers moved to the hem of the oversized sweatshirt she was wearing, his sweatshirt.
She hesitated. Then she lifted the fabric a few inches.
“It's just a little tender still”
Jake’s eyes followed the movement. The bruise sat low on her side, just above her hip. Dark. Angry. The shape of it wasn’t subtle. Fingers had pressed there hard enough to leave marks that had already deepened into purple and blue.
For a second Jake didn’t breathe. His gaze locked on it. Vivienne glanced down too, like she was seeing it again through his eyes.
“It looks worse than it feels,” she said softly. “It’s just a little tender.”
Jake’s jaw tightened. The hand that had been resting lightly at his side stilled completely, like he was suddenly afraid to touch her.
His eyes lifted slowly back to her face.
“You should’ve told me,” he said quietly.
Vivienne gave a small shrug, letting the sweatshirt fall back down. “I didn’t think about it until you touched there.”
Jake’s gaze drifted back to where the bruise had been for a moment, even though the fabric covered it now. Something dark flickered behind his eyes. His brain started picturing exactly how that bruise got there.
“Hey,” she murmured.Her hand came up, resting lightly against his chest. “It’s okay.”
Jake looked at her again. The words clearly didn’t land the way she meant them.
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”
Vivienne studied his face for a moment. Then her hand slid slightly higher against his chest, fingers curling gently in the fabric like she was grounding both of them.
“It’s healing,” she said. “And he can’t hurt me anymore, right? That’s what you said.”
Jake went very still. For a second something sharp moved through his expression…anger, quiet and controlled, aimed somewhere far away from the woman sitting in his lap.
But when he looked back at her, his voice was steady again.
“Right,” he said. “He can’t.”
Vivienne watched the careful way he held himself back. Then she reached for his wrist. Guiding his hand. Gently placing it higher this time, above the bruise. Jake’s fingers rested there, warm through the fabric of the sweatshirt.
Vivienne leaned into him again, resting her forehead briefly against his.
“See?” She murmured. “I’m okay.”
His thumb moved once against her side, slow and cautious.
Vivienne rested her forehead against his for a moment, breathing steady now. Jake exhaled slowly. Then his hand slid away from her waist.
“Come on,” he murmured.
Vivienne blinked slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him. “What?”
Jake gave her a small nod toward the hallway.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She frowned a little, confused. “I’m okay—”
“I know,” he said gently. “Just humor me.”
He was already easing her off his lap, standing carefully so he didn’t hurt her. His hand stayed loosely at her back, guiding without pushing.
“Just give me a minute to get it set up.”
Vivienne watched him disappear briefly upstairs. She could hear him moving around in there. Water turning on, a cabinet opening, the quiet clink of something being set on the counter.
By the time she stepped into the doorway of the master bathroom a minute later, the bathroom was filling slowly with steam.
Jake glanced over his shoulder.
“Shower okay?” He asked.
Vivienne leaned against the doorframe for a second, studying him.
“Yeah,” she said softly.
Jake nodded once.
“There’s a towel on the rack. And—” he hesitated briefly, then opened a drawer and pulled out a soft T-shirt and a pair of loose lounge pants.
He handed them to her.
“You can wear these.”
Vivienne looked down at the clothes in her hands.
“You’re going to run out of clothes if you keep lending them to me,” she said faintly.
Jake shrugged. “I think I’ll survive.”
Then she stepped closer, brushing lightly past him toward the shower. The water was already running, steam slowly filling the room. Vivienne paused near the sink, glancing back at him. Jake had moved to the doorway, giving her space like he’d promised.
“You don’t have to stand guard,” she said lightly.
“Not standing guard.”
“Looks like standing guard.”
Jake folded his arms loosely. “Just making sure you don’t pass out in there.”
Vivienne smiled faintly at that. Then, without another word, she reached for the hem of the oversized sweatshirt she was still wearing.
Jake immediately looked away. Which, of course, made her smile widen.
“Oh my God,” she said softly. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to apologize to the floor.”
Jake exhaled through his nose, still not looking. Behind him he heard the soft rustle of fabric. The sweatshirt landed somewhere on the counter.
When he glanced back despite himself, Vivienne was standing there in just his boxers, loose on her frame, the waistband folded slightly.
She caught him looking. Her eyebrow lifted.
“See?” She teased. “World didn’t end.”
Jake huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”
“Maybe.” She said as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and slid the boxers down before stepping toward the shower.
Jake turned away again automatically. But not before his eyes caught something that wiped the humor right out of him.
Faint bruises. Finger shaped shadows still scattered across her skin. Just like the one on her waist. His jaw tightened. The playful moment faded instantly. Vivienne didn’t notice. She had already stepped into the shower, disappearing behind the glass as the steam thickened around her.
Jake stayed where he was for a second longer, staring at the tile floor. A quiet anger settled in his chest.
And somewhere beneath it, something else took shape too.
A promise. He would wait. As long as she needed. But someday…when she was healed, when the shadows were gone and the fear wasn’t lurking behind every flinch…he was going to show her what it meant to be touched by a man with care. With patience. With respect.
Jake ran a hand through his hair and stepped out of the bathroom, giving her the privacy she deserved.
* * * * * * * *
By the time she came back out twenty minutes later, the house was quiet again. Jake was in the master bedroom now, leaning back against the headboard with a book he clearly hadn’t turned a page of.
He looked up when she stepped in. Her hair was damp, his T-shirt hanging loose on her frame.
“You feel better?” He asked.
Vivienne nodded. “Yeah.”
Jake lifted the blanket slightly in silent invitation. Vivienne slipped into the bed beside him, settling against his side. Her head rested against his chest. Jake wrapped an arm around her automatically.
The room was dim now, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting warm shadows across the walls. Outside, the world had quieted into late evening. Distant traffic, the faint rustle of wind against the trees.
Vivienne listened to the rhythm of his breathing. The slow rise and fall beneath her cheek had a grounding effect she hadn’t expected.
It was strange to her. How something so simple could make the world feel manageable again.
Her fingers drifted idly across the fabric of his T-shirt, tracing small, absentminded lines.
“What’s going on in that head?” He asked gently.
Vivienne was quiet for a few seconds. Then she shifted slightly so she could look up at him.
“I keep waiting for it to feel different,” she admitted.
“Different how?”
She shrugged faintly. “I don’t know. Like I’m supposed to be…more upset. Or more scared. Or something.”
Jake watched her carefully, letting her keep going.
“Sure I’ve had a few moments where I had flashbacks in my dreams. But right now?” She continued softly. “I just feel…calm.” Her gaze searched his face. “Is that weird?”
Jake shook his head immediately. “No.”
Vivienne studied him, like she was checking whether he actually meant it. Jake’s thumb moved slowly against her arm.
“Your brain’s finally getting a break,” he said. “That’s not weird.”
“Feels like I’m cheating somehow,” she murmured.
Jake frowned slightly. “Cheating?”
“Like I shouldn’t be allowed to feel okay yet.”
Jake’s arm tightened around her just a fraction. “Vivienne.”
She looked up.
“You don’t have to earn feeling safe,” he said quietly.
She shifted closer again, tucking herself more comfortably against him. Jake reached over and switched off the lamp. The room fell into soft darkness. Vivienne let out a slow breath, her body relaxing fully against him. Within minutes, her breathing evened out.
The room fell into soft darkness.
Vivienne let out a slow breath, her body relaxing fully against him.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out.
-
Tags:
@crossskylinesandcontrails I @echoingbirdsofprey I @fanficmom94 I @simplypaisleyjane I @khouse712 I @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 I @football1921 I @literal-tv-menace I @elizabeth-holland24 I @mylifeisanoxymoron21 I @bellarkeselection I @auntiechele I @avengersfan25 I @dumbassusername I @jbennsquared I @calirindo I @fantasyfootballchampion I @pensfan5871 I @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87 I @lunatygerqueen I @hookslove1592 I @lulunothulu I @hunterthecharmer I @mrsevans90 I @lauraseresin I @x3zerochanx3 I @teacupsandtopgun I @queenslandlover-93 I @isabelstardis I @myglenpowellera I @idontwannabehere78 I @tylerscowboyhat I @smoothdogsgirl I @djs8891 I @saucy-sassy-sparkly I @alipap3 I @dudinhastuff I @glenpowellluver I @missmarveledsblog I @fore45fore I @starkleila I @stinkerbelle007 I @cardi-bre91 I @lonelsoul50 I @love2write2626 I @gamingwolfcharlie I @alwayshave-faith I @midnightmagpiemama I @lynnevanss I @hidazinie
No Signal, No Control
Summary: What starts as playful teasing stretches across weeks of silence, tension, and unanswered messages…until Jake finally sees exactly what you’ve been leaving for him. When he gets back and has you within reach again, he’s not letting go.
Character/Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin (Top Gun: Maverick) x Reader
Warnings: Strong language. Mutual pining / unresolved tension. Sexting/Suggestive photos. Explicit sexual content (Praise, Masturbation, Oral-Male Receiving), some very mild humiliation due to something that happens to Jake that I’m not going to spoil.
Word Count: 6,494
Author’s Note: So this fic is the brain child of a conversation I had with a friend of mine and it kind of spiraled from what I thought would be like 1-2k words and here we are at 6500. So thank you to the person who gave me inspiration (you know who you are). Hope you all enjoy xx
The hangar was all noise and movement, yet you found a quiet corner, tucked behind the hulking belly of a Super Hornet, where the smell of jet fuel clung to your hair and the concrete vibrated with the promise of takeoffs in the morning.
You shifted your weight from foot to foot, boots squeaking as you pretended you were here for any reason except the obvious one: to see him before he left.
Jake was already waiting. He leaned back against a tool chest, arms crossed, sleeves rolled to the elbow in a way that did violent things to your self control. He caught your eye and, as always, grinned like he could see straight through your careful composure.
“Was starting to think you’d ghosted me, honey,” he said, voice pitched low enough that it didn’t echo.
“You’re not even wheels-up yet, and already I’m the tragic ex,” you shot back.
He grinned wider like he was proud of you for keeping pace with him. He shoved off the chest and strolled over to you, dog tags glinting against his black shirt. You waited until he was close enough to crowd your space, just shy of touching, before you let yourself look up and meet his gaze. He always did this: moved right into your gravity, and waited to see what you’d do.
“Tell me you’re not gonna miss this,” he said.
He had a way of drawing out the syllables, sweet and slow, and it wasn’t clear if he meant the flying or the flirting.
You snorted. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve got a whole backup squadron on speed dial while you guys are gone.
“Yeah?” He murmured, stepping in that last inch. “Bet they won’t match my stamina.”
You matched him, unblinking. “You’re right, most people need a break eventually.”
He let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, and you could see how much effort it cost him not to laugh out loud. The other pilots and crew passed by without looking, either too used to you and Jake or wise enough to pretend ignorance. It didn’t matter. In this little world, Jake was the sun and you were the planet that pretended not to orbit him.
“You sure you don’t want to give me a proper sendoff?” He murmured, leaning in closer, voice low enough it brushed over your mouth.
You pretended to consider, weighing the pros and cons with mock gravity, like the fate of the entire Western seaboard depended on whether or not you caved.
“Not sure you can handle a real goodbye.”
“Oh, I love it when you try to scare me,” he said, grin feral now, and before you could blink he had closed the half-inch gap, mouth landing on yours
The first kiss was a test. Quick. Calculated. But Jake had never been the type to settle for standard issue. The second kiss lingered, blooming out at the corners, his hands anchoring you.
Your fingers curled into his shirt and he made a quiet sound against your mouth—something rougher than he probably meant to let out—and pulled you closer like he’d almost forgotten where you ended and he started.
When you pulled back, it was barely an inch.
“That’s it?” y=You murmured, breath uneven. “I expected something more…legendary.”
He stared at you for half a second like he was deciding something. Then he kissed you again. Harder this time. Less patience. Less restraint. Your back bumped lightly against the side of the jet and you laughed against his mouth, but it dissolved into something softer when his hand slid up your side, anchoring you there.
“Legendary’s for when I get back,” he muttered against your lips. “This is just—”
You kissed him again before he could finish. Because apparently that’s what this was now. Interrupting each other with mouths instead of words.
“God, you’re the worst,” you breathed when you managed to pull back.
“Yeah,” he said, already leaning in again, like he couldn’t help it, “but you keep coming back.”
Your hands slid up into his hair and that got him. You felt it in the way he went still for half a second, then moved, pressing closer, like he needed more of you, like he wasn’t getting enough.
Somewhere behind you, someone called his name. Neither of you reacted.
“You’re gonna be late,” you murmured, lips brushing his.
“Yeah,” he said, not pulling away.
Your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing the same air now, a little unsteady, a little too close to something neither of you were naming.
“You gonna be waiting for me when I get back?” He asked, quieter now.
You rolled your eyes, but your fingers didn’t leave his hair. “I’ll pencil you in.”
“Try not to forget about me,” he said.
“Not a chance.”
He stepped back after the Admiral called his name for a second time. He his hands dragging off you slow, like he didn’t quite want to let go.
You watched him walk away with that cocky strut. The kind of man who knew you’d be watching and made it look effortless. And you did watch, until he turned the corner and vanished.
* * * * * * * *
You spent the rest of the day in your own orbit, drifting from room to room with no purpose beyond the vague intention of not thinking about Jake Seresin. Which naturally, meant you thought about him constantly: the way his hands bracketed your hips, the electric edge in his voice when he teased you, the warmth lingering in your bones after that last, almost chaste goodbye.
You made it exactly three hours before you gave in to temptation. You scrolled through your camera roll, ignoring the too obvious thirst traps and instead landing on a selfie you’d taken by accident, hair still damp from a shower, face clean and soft and almost bashful. Jake’s t-shirt was loose on your shoulders, the You looked, against all odds, sweet.
You attached it to a message, thumbs hovering as you considered the first volley.
You left this.
You stared at the screen for a long moment, then added:
Think it suits me better.
You sent it and immediately set your phone face-down on the kitchen table, pretending you could resist the urge to check it every thirty seconds. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the hollow echo of your own nervous laughter.
Why did it matter so much if he saw? Why did you care about his reaction? Probably because you knew, with sickening certainty, that he’d see it and respond in kind. This was how it always went: you baited, he bit, then you spent the rest of the day untangling the consequences.
Except minutes passed. Then hours. You made lunch, washed a few dishes, and checked your phone, only to see the same unbroken silence. You tried to act unbothered. You tried to imagine him laughing in a plane somewhere, already plotting his next move. But each time you checked, there was nothing but your own face, caught mid-smile in his damn shirt.
By dusk, you were stretched on the couch, blanket knotted around your legs, phone balanced on your chest as if proximity would manifest a reply. You took another photo, this one more deliberate: hair in a messy bun, eyes half lidded, the hem of his shirt just covering your underwear.
Still nothing.
You considered sending a follow-up, something like wow, tough crowd or too busy saving democracy to answer? But you didn’t want to look desperate. Instead, you just stared at the first message, rereading it until the words lost their meaning and all you saw was the hint of a smile in your own reflection.
You wondered how long you could keep this up before you cracked. Probably not long.
It started as a game. You weren’t even sure you wanted a reply at this point; you just needed the power of knowing you could provoke him. So, when the next morning arrived and your phone screen remained stubbornly blank, you leveled up.
The second selfie took planning. You waited for the daylight to spill across your sheets, found the good light, dug his navy blue button down from your laundry basket and shrugged it on, barely bothering with the buttons. You stretched across the bed, his bed if you were honest, since it still smelled like him, and aimed the camera so it caught just enough skin and just enough sleep tousled innocence. You made sure the hem of the shirt only barely covered the soft part of your thighs. You took half a dozen, deleted most, and kept the one where you looked like you’d just been kissed awake.
You didn’t caption it. You just sent it, then immediately buried your face in the pillow, laughing into the fabric. If you could’ve been a fly on the wall in whatever base Jake was in, you would’ve paid money to see his face.
Hours passed. The only notification that lit up your phone was from your mother, asking about your plans for your sister’s wedding next month. You thumbed a reply “not sure yet!”, then toggled back to the chat with Jake, where your two photos sat like open dares.
You told yourself he’d seen them. That he was probably planning some elaborate comeback, maybe getting the perfect revenge selfie, or waiting to ambush you with a FaceTime call. But by mid afternoon, your nerves started to hum. The silence stretched. You thought about sending a follow up: ignore me all you want, you’re still not getting your shirt back. Instead, you went for a run, then came back and paced the apartment for half an hour, more restless than before.
The third escalation came about a week later, and it wasn’t an accident. You dressed for it: makeup done, hair brushed and glossed and sprayed to a shine, lips a dark cherry red that you knew drove him crazy. The lingerie wasn’t technically yours (stolen from a roommate’s bachelorette party stash, tags still attached), but it looked like it had been designed with Jake’s hands in mind: all emerald mesh and sinuous cutouts and barely-there lace. You paired it with a pair of pointy black heels and nothing else. You posed in the mirror for a while, finding the right angle. When you finally took the shot, it was deliberate. A long, slow glance over your shoulder.
This time, you almost didn’t send it. It felt dangerous, more revealing than any truth you’d ever confessed aloud to him. The truth of how obsessed you really were with him. Your thumb hovered over the send button, heart hammering, until you couldn’t take the tension anymore. You hit send, then tossed the phone away as if it were a live grenade.
The silence after was worse than before. The world went quiet, the hours stretching until evening blurred into night. You stalked around the apartment, restless and a little bit frantic, replaying your own boldness and the echoing lack of reaction on the other end. Maybe you’d overplayed. Maybe it was too much, and you’d scared him off.
You poured a glass of wine, downed it, then poured another. By midnight, you were loose limbed and melancholy, curled on the floor in a tangle of discarded blankets and half done laundry. You wanted him to answer. You wanted him to say anything.
The fourth photo the following week was almost an afterthought. You went to bed wearing nothing but his dog tags that were laying on his dresser, the cold metal a physical reminder that he was still real, still somewhere under the same sky just an ocean away. You took a selfie, bare shoulders and the tags nestled against your sternum, the rest of you artfully out of frame. You sent it without a caption, then immediately regretted it and nearly deleted it. But you didn’t.
This time, you stared at the phone until your eyes burned. Still nothing. Not a word, not a heart react, not even the three dot ellipsis to suggest he was typing a reply.
You caved. You typed out:
Wow, tough crowd.
You deleted it, then wrote:
Hope you’re not dead, would be super embarrassing for me if you are.
Deleted that too, settled on:
If you’re trying to play hard to get, you’re failing spectacularly.
That one, you sent. It was as close to defeat as you’d ever admit.
You lay back on the bed, phone balanced on your chest, the silence pressing down like a weighted blanket. You should have felt victorious, or at least smug. Instead, all you felt was empty. And tired. And a little bit exposed, like you’d stripped down more than just your clothes for him.
You closed your eyes and let yourself imagine him seeing it: the curve of your smile in his shirt, your hair spread across his sheets, the black lace and the bare skin, the dog tags cool against your collarbone. You pictured him cursing under his breath, maybe fighting a smile, maybe missing you as much as you missed him.
Maybe.
You fell asleep like that, clutching your phone, waiting for the next move.
* * * * * * * *
Jake’s P.O.V.
The first thing Jake did when he got word that they were headed home after four long weeks was ask for his goddamn phone. His home screen immediately detonated with alerts as he turned his phone on. Sixty-seven notifications from the squad’s group chat. Eleven missed calls from his mother. One photo from Coyote with his middle finger raised as he stood next to the dart board at the Hard Deck with a perfect bullseye and captioned it, “East shit, Hangman.”
Then there were the messages from you. Four unread messages waiting for him.
He felt the grin before he could stop it. He opened the first once, bracing for a joke or maybe a long text that was you rambling about your day. What he got instead was a photo. At first glance it was innocent. You in his t-shirt, hair a mess, eyes soft, and a little sleepy. But he saw the way you clutched the hem to pull it up just a little, the way your lips curled into the ghost of a dare.
He bit back a laugh and opened the next one, already knowing you were trying to get a rise out of him. And you succeeded. The second photo was you sprawled across his sheet, his button down open and hanging off your shoulders, skin luminous in the morning light.
His mouth went dry. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was looking and zoomed in to catch the faint outline of your nipples poking out beneath the thin fabric. God, you were shameless. And God, he loved you for it.
He scrolled down to the next one, half expecting you to chicken out and send a meme or a dumb TikTok video. Instead the third picture was you in lingerie. His favorite color, emerald green. Sheer and cut to reveal and conceal all at once. Black heels and red lips to round out the look. The pose was almost cruel. You looked like you’d been sculpted straight out of his dreams, made just for him.
He felt it then, a low pulse behind his ribs, the beginning of a burn that would only get hotter the longer he stared. His jaw set hard. He should have put the phone away. He should have walked it off or done literally anything but keep scrolling.
The fourth image was the coup de grâce. You wore nothing but his dog tags, pressed against your bare skin, hair wild and uncombed on his pillow, the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen staring at him through the camera. The tags rested just above your breasts, and you had managed to crop out anything that would make it totally indecent, but left enough to drive him crazy and let his imagination run wild.
Jake’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, heat pooling in places he didn’t dare acknowledge while still in uniform. He wanted to see you, to touch you, to tell you that you were his in every way a person could be.
He scrolled back and forth, unable to pick a favorite. He stared at the one with the dog tags the longest, though. The possessiveness it sparked in him was primal and a little bit terrifying. You’d worn those like a claim, like you were telling him that you were his.
He cleared his throat, and the guys around him glanced over. He pretended to check the weather app, and wiped a hand down his face to try and regain his composure. It didn’t work. Every photo replayed itself in his head, like a loop.
He typed a response. Then deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. There was nothing he could say that would match what you’d given him.
By the time Jake boarded the flight, he was running on nothing but adrenaline and the slow burning ache that settled in his gut every time he thought about you. The vinyl of the airport seat pressed against his thighs. His only comfort was the warmth of his phone in his hand. He held it like a talisman, thumb bruising the glass as he scrolled back through her messages until he was half-certain he’d hallucinated them.
But they were real. Every pixel, every perfect angle, every impossible detail. He flipped obsessively between the last two photos: the green mesh that clung to you like a secret and the way his dog tags hung against your skin, making you look claimed and claimed again. He couldn’t pick a favorite. He didn’t want to. He wanted it all at once: you in his bed, you in his shirt, you waiting for him, smiling like you knew you were driving him insane.
The plane was full. Jake had an aisle seat. Which meant no privacy. Nothing to hide the way his pulse hammered or the way his hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He closed his eyes, tried to sleep, but it was useless. All he saw was you: arched and perfect, mouth parted, eyes dark and bottomless. He imagined the sound you’d make if he pressed you into the mattress, the way you’d taste, the shiver that would run through you when he finally closed the distance.
He lasted an hour.
Then he got up, stumbled down the aisle like a man possessed, ignored the pitying look from the flight attendant, and barricaded himself in the cramped lavatory. He braced both hands on the sink, breathing through his nose, trying to calm the riot in his chest. But he was already hard, already desperate, already picturing you with so much clarity it made him sweat.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket so hard he nearly dropped it in the sink. The screen glared up at him. He scrolled back to the dog tags photo. Your bare shoulders. Your hair a mess on his pillow. His dog tags resting against your breasts. He zoomed in until the image blurred, then zoomed back out.
SERESIN, JACOBU. S. NAVY 92823652207.27.1988 . O POS
His name. You in nothing but his name. Like you were letting him claim you. He unlocked his belt with ease. The hiss of the zipper sounded loud as a gunshot in the tiny stall. Then he slipped his hand inside the waistband of his boxer briefs and found himself already hard and leaking, the ache so fierce it bordered on pain.
He started slow. Just the lightest pressure. Just enough to tease his tip. He closed his eyes and let the sound of your voice fill his head. The way you sounded when you moaned his name the night before he left. He thought of you in his shirt, his bed, and in nothing at all. He pictured you lying on your stomach, face buried in his pillow, the curve of your ass illuminated by the ceiling fan overhead. He imagined the things he’d do to you. Then the things he’d let you do to him. Every filthy promise he’d ever whispered into your ear.
He got bolder and faster with his movements. The sounds in the enclosed space got louder. The sound of his breathing getting louder and uneven. The wetness as he spread spit and the precum leaking from his tip and used it to stroke himself as lubricant with his hand.
He bent forward, forehead pressed against the wall and bit down on the meaty part of his lip to keep from making a sound.
He was a goddamn animal, especially when it came to you. He let the fantasies continue to run wild in his head. He let himself imagine your mouth, your hands, the way you’d look at him when you sucked him off.
He let himself imagine calling you right now, your sweet voice on the other line answering, thick with sleep since it’s the middle of the night where you are. He’d ask you to help him through it. He’d ask you what you were wearing, and in his mind you’d tell him nothing. That you were wearing nothing as you waited for him to come home. He pictured talking you through everything he wanted to do, slowly and in detail, until you both came apart.
The rush when he came was almost blinding. He barely got it angled towards the toilet before white sticky cum was splattering against the inside of the toilet, biting down harder on his lip to keep from making any noise as he pictured coming in you instead.
He cleaned himself up with the ridiculously tiny paper towels that were provided. He splashed some water on his face, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and then stared at his own reflection. His cheeks were flushed, and hair was sticking to his forehead. He looked like a man who’d just broke. Which, in a way, he had. He tried to smooth it over. He straightened his shirt and combed his hair with his fingers.
But the feeling he’d been fighting since first seeing those pictures only got worse. The hunger was still there. Gnawing at him. He realized that he could jerk off a hundred times on this plane and it wouldn’t touch the depth of his craving. It was you or nothing. Like an addict and you were his drug of choice.
He took a few more moments to collect himself. He leaned his head against the wall and let his head tilt back. He scrolled through the photos one more time. He wanted to call you. He wanted to hear your voice. To tell you what he’d done, and confess that he’d lost your little game before it had even started. His thumb hovered over the call button but then he remembered he was thirty thousand feet in the air and it was damn near four in the morning. He wasn’t going to bother you. He’d seen you tomorrow when he landed in San Diego.
He slid his phone back into his pocket and braced himself before unlocking the door. He half expected the flight attendant to be waiting with judgement painted on her face. But she was gone. He made his way back, careful this time, and collapsed into his seat.
He tilted his head again the cabin wall, and replayed it all again. How you’d taste when he buried his face between your thighs. How you’d sound as you made those perfect little sounds he loves. How he’d mark you with his hands and mouth, whispering that you were his.
When the plane touched down, Jake didn’t wait for the seatbelt sign to go off. He grabbed his bag, elbowed his way to the front, and texted you before he even hit the terminal.
* * * * * * * *
The bar was packed. It was a Friday night and the weather was beautiful. You’d gotten there early and would probably end up staying late so that Penny didn’t get completely drowned at the bar.
You saw him before you heard him: a ripple in the crowd, heads turning, a laugh that started at the door and worked its way through the air like the promise of a fight. He was in uniform, flight suit zipped to the sternum and sleeves rolled, dog tags glinting at his neck, as if he’d just dropped from the sky to fuck up your equilibrium on purpose.
He locked eyes with you, and that was it. He started moving straight through the noise, the press of bodies, the haze of spilled beer and neon. He looked like a man with a single purpose, and you were that purpose.
You barely had time to prepare before he was there, knuckles brushing your wrist, voice low so no one else could hear.
“C’mere.”
He led you down the hallway, through a door marked STAFF ONLY, and into the cramped fluorescent lit storage room. It smelled like bleach and limes and the wet rubber of bar mats. Shelves ran floor to ceiling, overloaded with boxes of vodka and sleeves of plastic cups and rows of dusty liquor bottles that never made it to the menu. There was nowhere to stand that wasn’t in someone else’s way, so Jake just crowded you up against the shelf against the back wall, his palm braced on the shelf above your head.
For a long second he just stood there, breathing hard, the thud of his pulse visible in the line of his throat. You felt it in your own body, the echo of it, like you were already tethered together by something invisible.
He looked you over, up and down, then tilted his head and grinned.
“Got your texts.”
You tried to smirk. It came out shaky, but you didn’t care. “Wasn’t sure you liked them since I never got a response.
”Didn’t have cell access until last night.”
He moved his hand from the wall to your hip. You could feel the heat of him even through your jeans, the pressure of his thumb digging in.
He leaned in, lips grazing the edge of your ear. “Looked real pretty for me in those pictures, darlin’.”
He edged even closer, now fully pressing you back against the shelf. The metal frame dug into your spine. Every inch of him was a dare. You could see his eyes now: dark, hungry, pupils blown wide.
You reached out, traced a line down his chest, stopped at the zipper of his flight suit.
“Miss me?” You said, keeping your voice light.
You watched the way he studied your mouth, felt the way his hands bracketed your hips like he was holding himself back from breaking you in half.
“Say it,” you whispered, not sure if you meant for him to say he missed you, or to say he needed you, or just to say anything at all.
He did.
“I’ve been thinking about you every goddamn minute,” he said. Each word ground out like it hurt him to admit it. “Didn’t even make it through customs before I was checking my phone.”
You suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“And then you sent those photos,” he continued, voice so low it made you shiver. “Jesus, baby, I couldn’t even look at ‘em without—” He cut himself off, teeth bared in a crooked grin. “Doesn’t matter.”
You felt reckless. You wanted to see him lose control. You moved your hand from his zipper to his dog tags, wrapping your fingers around the cold chain, tugging just enough to make him lean in.
“It matters to me,” you said. “What’d you do when you saw those pictures, Jake?”
He kissed you. Hard and bruising, the kind of kiss that left you gasping for air and clawing at him. You kissed back, all teeth and tongue and desperation. You pressed into him, feeling the hard line of his body against yours, the wild, unstoppable need radiating off him in waves.
“Fuck,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m gonna make a mess of you.”
You held the dog tags tighter, letting the edge of the metal dig into your palm. He slid both hands under your shirt, tracing your ribs with his thumbs. His hands moved from your waist to your ass, lifting you effortlessly onto the lowest shelf. You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him in until there was nothing left between you but the thin, desperate press of your clothes.
He rocked against you, slow at first, just enough to let you feel what you’d done to him. You grinned, triumphant.
“Missed me that much, huh?” You whispered.
His answer was to suck a bruise onto your neck, grinding against you until you gasped. The sound made him go tense, hands clenching tight. You could feel how close he was to snapping. You wanted him to. You whispered his name, and watched as every ounce of bravado dropped away.
He was just Jake now, shaking and hungry and yours.
“Yeah,” he finally said, barely audible. “I missed you. Been like this since the plane.”
He buried his face in your neck, teeth scraping the spot just below your ear.
“Fuck. I didn’t wanna do it like this. Wanted to take my time with you when I got back,” he admitted, and you could hear the apology woven in, all the control he was burning just to keep from wrecking you completely.
You ran your hands down his back, over the ridges of his spine, the taut muscle flexing under your touch. He shuddered, then pressed you even harder against the wall. You rocked together, bodies moving in sync, both of you gasping for air that never seemed to come.
The tension was electric, dangerous. You could feel it in your chest, your stomach, everywhere. You wanted to push him until he broke.
So you did.
You reached between you, palming the outline of his cock, squeezing just enough to make him choke on his next breath. He jerked, then bucked his hips, desperate.
You grinned. “C’mon, Jake. Show me.”
His answer was a curse, then a kiss, then another curse, more desperate this time. He grabbed your wrist, pinned it above your head, and ground into you with a force that left you seeing stars.
His whole body went tense, like a bowstring drawn too tight. You felt the shift before you heard it, the way his breathing stuttered, the way he suddenly froze, mouth open against your shoulder. He tried to cover it up with a groan, but you knew.
His whole body shivered, and then sudden, violent, and humiliatingly fast…he came. Right there, pressed up against you, flight suit still zipped, the thick heat of it soaking through the fabric, maybe even onto your jeans. It was so immediate, so raw, that for a second neither of you could process it.
He went slack, head dropping to your shoulder, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. You waited, counting the seconds until the shame or the panic or the jokes set in.
Instead, he started laughing. It was a wrecked sound, equal parts mortified and triumphant. He buried his face in your neck, still shaking, then looked up at you with eyes so dark they were almost black.
You kissed him again, softer this time, letting the heat cool just enough to remind you both that you were still here, still real, still tangled together in this impossible thing.
He tried to rally, pulling himself upright, hands fisting at the zipper of his suit as if he could tug the moment closed. But you stepped into his space, crowding him the way he’d crowded you, and slipped your fingers beneath the open V at his throat.
“Missed me that much, huh?” You murmured.
He looked away, bashful, almost, if you didn’t know him better. Then, with a half swallowed laugh, “You’re gonna hold that over me, aren’t you?”
You grinned, leaning in until your lips brushed his ear. “I don’t know. It was kinda hot.”
He made a strangled noise, half-laugh, half-sigh, and let his head thunk gently back against the door.
You pressed your palm to his sternum, stopping him mid-sentence, and let your hand drift down. Over his chest, past the zipper, to where the bulk of him still strained, damp and sticky, inside the suit. You cupped him through the fabric, feeling the shudder that rippled through his whole body.
He caught your wrist, but didn’t push you away. Just watched, eyes fixed on your mouth, as you unzipped him all the way.
“Jesus,” he whispered, and you liked the way it sounded.
You worked the suit off his hips, tugging the waistband of his boxers down enough to expose his cock, flushed and slick at the tip. He was still hard, impossibly, and the sight made your mouth go dry.
“What are you doing?” He asked, voice wrecked but teasing.
You shook your head. “Gonna clean you up.”
He groaned, low and helpless, and let you push him back until his shoulders hit the cold metal. You knelt and wrapped your lips around him, tongue swirling over the mess he’d left on himself. The salt and heat, the faint bitter edge, was perfect.
He hissed your name, one hand burying itself in your hair, the other fisting against the shelf at his side. You took him deep, letting your tongue tease the sensitive underside, then pulled back just enough to lick the tip, collecting every drop. He shuddered, hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.
You looked up, locking eyes, and watched him come apart. The tremor in his legs gave him away. He whispered something. Maybe “fuck.” Maybe your name. Maybe both.
Then he added, low and sultry, “Such a good girl for me,” and it sent a rush of heat through you, making you clench your thighs together.
He sagged against the door, head thrown back, throat working on a silent groan that never quite made it out. For a moment, you just watched the flush rise up his neck, the wildness in his breath, the way his fingers shook as they traced idle, senseless patterns across your scalp. He looked like a mess. You liked him this way. You wanted to keep him this way.
You kissed just beneath the head, lips wet, tongue flicking the slit, and he made a broken, please sounding noise that was all the permission you needed. You gave him no mercy, hands gentle but insistent, stroking him through the aftershocks even as he tried to twist away from the intensity. He was sensitive and raw, but he never told you to stop. He just gasped and cursed and held on, greedy for every touch.
He looked at you dazed, and you thought for a heartbeat that he might start to laugh again, but instead his jaw clenched and he shook his head in disbelief.
“You…you’re gonna kill me,” he managed, voice ragged.
“Lucky for you, I’m CPR certified,” you said, and then sucked him down again just to hear him choke on his own laugh.
You slowed, dragging out the sensation, wanting to see how much he could take before he broke for real. His thighs trembled, toes flexing hard against the concrete. You could feel how badly he wanted to let go, how close he was to falling apart, and you loved him more for holding on, for trying to last just a little longer.
You brought him right to the edge and then backed off, your mouth soft, hands softer, until you felt him start to plead with you, not in words but in the desperate arch of his hips, the whimper buried deep in his chest, the way he’d wound both hands into your hair as if anchoring himself to you.
Then, he was coming again, hot and frantic, spilling into your mouth like he’d been saving it all for you. You swallowed, not breaking eye contact, drinking in the moment, the praise, the raw need radiating between you.
He collapsed, panting, the sweat on his chest catching the stuttering light overhead. You dragged your mouth up his length, slow and deliberate, leaving a slick trail behind. You nipped gently at the inside of his thigh, and he whimpered, more from overload than pain. You liked that, too.
You knelt there and waited until he looked at you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slack with disbelief. You wiped your lips with the back of your hand and grinned.
“Good?”
He nodded, unable to speak, and slid down the door until he was half-sitting, half sprawled, legs open and inviting. You liked how ruined he looked: flight suit bunched up, boxers tangled at his knees, dog tags glinting against the sweat-slick hollow of his sternum.
You crawled up into his lap and straddled him, knees braced on either side, hands planted beside his head. You felt his heart beating through his skin, wild and animal, and for a second, you wondered if yours was just as frantic.
He looked at you with something like awe, or maybe terror. You kissed him, slow and deep and salty. He kissed you back, hand cradling the side of your face.
As much as you wanted to, you knew the two of you couldn’t stay in the closet forever. You climbed off his lap, watching him as he straightened himself out. He tugged his flight suit back into place, but the evidence of your time together was still glaringly apparent. A smirk played on your lips as you took in the sight of him, looking both disheveled and utterly wrecked.
“Ready?” You asked, stepping back and searching his eyes for a hint of mischief.
He nodded, though you could see the lingering hunger in his gaze.
With a deep breath, he pushed open the door, stepping out into the dimly lit bar. You followed, stepping lightly, your heart pounding with a mix of exhilaration and anticipation.
No sooner had you crossed the threshold than someone from the bar called out, a hint of confusion in their voice.
“Hey Seresin, why’s the front of your flight suit wet?”
Jake turned, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“It’s from your sister’s pussy. Fuck off,” he shot back, the playful bravado returning as he leaned against the bar, arms crossed, looking every bit the confident aviator you adored.
You stifled a laugh, warmth flooding through you as you watched the exchange. A small, knowing smile crept onto your face, a secret shared only between the two of you. You took your place behind the bar, pouring yourself a drink, reveling in the aftermath of the chaos and the undeniable chemistry that still crackled in the air.
As Jake leaned back, still bantering with friends, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. No matter where the night took you, you knew one thing for sure: this was just the beginning.
-
Tag List - if you'd like to be tagged please let me know. I did start a new tag list as my old one had a lot of inactive usernames and people that weren't interacting with my posts. If you were on the old one and would like to be added to the new one, please let me know with a comment
@crossskylinesandcontrails I @echoingbirdsofprey I @fanficmom94 I @simplypaisleyjane I @khouse712 I @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 I @football1921 I @literal-tv-menace I @elizabeth-holland24 I @mylifeisanoxymoron21 I @bellarkeselection I @auntiechele I @avengersfan25 I @dumbassusername I @jbennsquared I @calirindo I @fantasyfootballchampion I @pensfan5871 I @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87 I @lunatygerqueen I @hookslove1592 I @lulunothulu I @hunterthecharmer I @mrsevans90 I @lauraseresin I @x3zerochanx3 I @teacupsandtopgun I @queenslandlover-93 I @isabelstardis I @myglenpowellera I @idontwannabehere78 I @tylerscowboyhat
YOU WRITE WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT BABES 🫶🏻 ✨ how cool it is for us as readers that a great writer writes for many fandoms!
Also...there's only so many troupes and concepts. If we're going to say that using a similar concept is plagiarism/copying, then all the writers are copying each other 🫣🤷🏼♀️ YOU DO YOU BOO - WE LOVE YOU FOR IT! 😘
STOP you guys are too sweet to me 😭
And yes exactly!! There are only so many tropes and ways to write characters out there, it’s all about how each person brings their own spin to it. I’m just out here writing what I love and hoping a few people might like it too!
In contrast to that last anon- thank you for writing multi fandom! It’s nice when a writer you enjoy spans multiple fandoms you enjoy 💕
This is so sweet, thank you 🥺I just follow whatever characters or stories are inspiring me at the moment, so it means a lot that people enjoy the chaos of all my fandom hopping 💕
So you admit that you copy other people’s writing?? I mean I knew all of your writing wasn’t original and was just a bad copy but can’t believe you just admitted to it. Maybe try writing YOUR OWN story for once. Maybe you’d get more followers. And maybe pick one fandom. People don’t want to follow someone that writes for a bunch of fandoms. If you’re going to write Glen then don’t write for Marvel or the Pitt. It’s a shame cause I really liked your stuff when Twisters came out but think I might have to go find a new Glen writer. SMDH.
Not that I need to defend or explain myself but just to clarify, being inspired by someone’s writing (especially someone I consider a friend and talk to daily) isn’t the same thing as copying or plagiarism. I always make sure anything I write is my own take or interpretation. I’ve never directly copied anyone.
I write for multiple fandoms because I enjoy them, and that’s not something I’m planning to change. If that’s not your preference, I totally understand, but at the end of the day I’m going to write for characters and fandoms I enjoy.
Think Later
Summary: You never expected anything exciting to happen in your dusty little hometown, especially not on a Friday night at the only bar for twenty miles. You were just looking to blow off steam after a long week, maybe whatever the bar had on special tonight with your friends and forget the real world for a few hours. But then he walked in. Tyler Owens, the up and coming bull rider every rodeo fan is buzzing about, is in town for the weekend competition. He’s still buzzing with adrenaline, boots scuffed, belt buckle shining, that signature grin pulling every eye in the room. And the second he sees you sitting at the bar, he zeroes in like he’s already decided you’re the only thing worth paying attention to. He’s bold without being pushy, charming without trying, and close enough that you feel the warmth of him even before his hand grazes your thigh, an instinctive little touch that feels more like a claim than a flirt. One drink turns into two. Two turns into leaning close, laughing, teasing. You should go home. He should probably get some sleep before the big ride tomorrow. But neither of you are thinking straight. And honestly? Neither of you want to. So when Tyler murmurs, “Wanna get outta here, darlin’?” you already know the answer.
Song Inspo: Think Later - Tate McRae
Character/Pairing: Tyler Owens (Twisters) x Reader
Warnings: Reader discretion advised: this is a graphic work intended for mature audiences only (18+). This fic contains explicit sexual content. Strong language. Alcohol consumption.
Word Count: 8,438
Author's Note: I wrote this with a slightly younger Tyler (like late teens or early twenties when he was still in his rodeo days) rather than the version of him we saw in the movie so keep that in mind while reading! Also I wrote this over several months in several writing sessions. I think I caught all of the mistakes when it comes to continuity etc but there may be some I missed so if I did, I apologize. Hope you guys like this one! xx
The Lucky Spur isn’t much to look at: torn barstools, neon beer signs that flicker like they’re one bad night away from dying, and a jukebox that only plays early 2000s country. But in your hometown, it’s either this place or sitting at home scrolling mindlessly on TikTok.
Tonight you needed out. After the week you had? Work breathing down your neck, family drama simmering in the background, and your boss sending approximately eight hundred “quick follow up” emails. Yeah. You needed the kind of night where your brain could go blissfully quiet. Or at least be distracted.
“Absolutely not,” your best friend says, snatching your buzzing phone right out of your hand the second you check the screen. “No work tonight. You promised.”
“I was just making sure it wasn’t an emergency.”
“Girl, unless your boss is on fire, it can wait.” She stuffs your phone in her purse like she’s confiscating contraband. “Now drink.”
You obey, lifting your bright blue cocktail. Something sugary and neon that your friend swore was “dangerous in the best way.” You take a long sip. It’s strong. It’s almost too strong. Perfect.
Warmth spreads through your chest. Your shoulders drop for the first time in days. You laugh at something stupid Jess says, leaning into the music, the lights, the cheap perfume in the air. For a moment, the world feels light.
And then the door opens.
Tyler Owens walks in like he belongs under a spotlight: tall, sun kissed, a little dusty from the arena, ballcap backwards on his head. You’d seen him ride earlier at the rodeo with your friends, but seeing him here, in your dingy hometown bar, is different.
He’s laughing with a couple of guys from the circuit…until his gaze snags on you. He stops mid step. It’s not subtle. It’s not polite. You’d almost be flattered if you didn’t know his type.
Your fingers tighten around your glass. He shouldn’t look at you like that, like he already knows what flavor lip gloss you’re wearing, like he’s two seconds from crossing the room.
Your friend follows your stare and whispers. “Oh, he’s trouble.”
And you know it. You’ve heard the stories. Everybody has. Youngest rider on the circuit with scores that make the veterans nervous. Charming as the devil. Pretty as sin. And apparently with a trail of women who’d happily tattoo his name on their hip if he asked nicely.
There are rumors: whispered, exaggerated, maybe true, maybe not, about the motels he and the other riders stay in. About girls slipping into his room at midnight. About him slipping out at sunrise. About smiles, and winks, and how he never stays longer than one night because the rodeo moves on and so does he.
You’re not naïve. You know exactly who Tyler Owens is.
And you also know damn well you shouldn’t even be looking at him.
You’re not a one night stand kind of girl. Not anymore. Not after the last time your heart got stepped on by someone who treated you like a pit stop instead of a destination.
You want something real…eventually. Something that won’t leave you wondering what you did wrong when the morning comes.
Tyler? Tyler is not that.
He’s a wildfire with pretty eyes. A problem wrapped in denim and charm. A guaranteed morning of regret if you’re not careful.
You know all of this. And yet, when his eyes lock on yours across the bar, everything inside you tilts. He looks at you like he can hear your pulse from where he’s standing. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.
Your breath catches.
Your friend mutters, “Don’t even think about it.”
Too late. You’ve definitely thought about it.
Just one night. One stupid, bliss filled night. What’s the worst that could happen?
Tyler starts to make his way over to you, moving with a quiet deliberate certainty, like a man who’s used to eight seconds on the back of a thousand pound animal and therefore fears absolutely nothing.
Your pulse spikes, and your friend whispers, “Oh my God, he’s coming over.”
But it barely has time to register because Tyler stops in front of you, Ariat hat still perched on his head, and flashing you a smile that hits you right in the center of your chest.
“Mind if I sit, darlin’?” His voice is low and smooth. A little rasped from dust and adrenaline. You nod, maybe too fast, and your friend shoots you a look before she and the others you met up with migrate across the room.
Tyler slides onto the stool beside you. His friends, catching the shift, drift toward the pool tables where your friends just headed without another word to him.
He’s sitting closer than he needs to be. He smells like leather, sweat, and cologne.
“What’s your name?” He asks.
You tell him, and his smile deepens. “Pretty. Fits you.”
Heat creeps up your neck. You’re grateful for the dim lighting.
He taps your mostly empty glass with his finger. “What’re you drinkin’?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Tyler chuckles. He signals the bartender. “Another for her, on me.”
You should say no. You absolutely should say no. But when he’s giving you that look, you find yourself nodding.
The bartender pours. Tyler leans in to say something, and that’s when it happens: his hand brushes your thigh. Barely. Light as a whisper. Not intentional…but your whole body goes tight anyway.
“You okay?” He asks softly.
You nod again, trying to steady your smile. “Just wasn’t expecting a bull rider to have such…gentle hands.”
“Only when I want ’em to be,” he says, eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your eyes. The heat of it rolls straight through you.
You clear your throat, grasping for composure. “So…you’re kind of rodeo famous, huh?”
He snorts. “That what people say? Hell, I’m just tryin’ not to get thrown on my ass.” A beat. “But if you think I’m famous, I’ll take it.”
You laugh. He grins like he likes that, too.
“And you?” He says. “You here with friends, or were you just starin’ me down from across the bar?”
Your mouth drops open. “I was not staring.”
“Sure you weren’t.” He nudges your knee with his own under the bar. “’S’okay. I was starin’ right back.”
Your stomach flips. You tell him your best friend stole your phone, said you needed a break from work. And the way his face lights up at “phone off” is ridiculous.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Means you’re here with me now.”
Here with him. God help you.
The condensation starts to gather in a ring on the bar from the second drink Tyler bought for you.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, watching your reaction. “Me gettin’ you another drink and all.”
You take a slow sip, letting the flavor bloom on your tongue before nodding.
“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “You did good, Owens.”
His mouth turns up in a grin. “Darlin’, you keep sayin’ my name like that and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you like havin’ me this close.”
Your stomach dips deliciously, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re used to girls melting the second you smile at them, huh?”
“Depends.” He leans one elbow on the bar, turning toward you. The angle brings him just an inch closer. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “Are you meltin’?”
“Not even close.”
“Mm.” He hums from low in his chest, like he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. “Should’ve known you’d be trouble.”
You raise a brow. “Oh, I’m the trouble here?”
He nods. “Didn’t plan on anything happenin’ tonight. Just wanted a beer with a couple of the guys. Then I saw you sittin’ here, mindin’ your business, lookin’ like a girl who knows how to hurt a man without ever even touchin’ him.”
You choke a little on your drink. “What does that even mean?”
Tyler shrugs. “Means you’re the kinda pretty that gets under a man’s skin.”
“Wow. Do you rehearse these lines in the mirror before you use them?”
“Don’t need lines with you.” His voice dips warm, almost a little shy around the edges. But not quite. “You make it easy.”
You look away, suddenly desperate for something to do with your hands. He notices, and nudges his boot against yours under the bar, a quiet little knock to get your attention back.
“Relax.” He murmurs. “Not tryin’ to hurt ya.”
Tyler’s gaze drops to your lips for half a second. He clears his throat, sits back a little like he’s giving you room to breathe, and brings his beer to his lips before taking a pull.
“Some friends of mine are havin’ a little get together tonight,” you hear yourself say, the words slipping out before you fully think them through. “Nothing crazy. Just drinks, music. You should come.”
Tyler’s smile spreads slowly, like he’s savoring it.
“Yeah?” He asks. “You want me there?”
You swallow. “Yeah. I do.”
He nods once, decisive. “Then I’m yours for the night, darlin’.”
You’re halfway through the drink he bought you when your girls reappear through the crowd like a chaotic tidal wave.
“There you are!” One of them shouts over the music, grabbing your wrist. “We’re heading to Cody’s cousin’s place. Party’s already going.”
Another one gives Tyler a once over, eyebrows lifting. “And look at you making friends.”
You shoot her a glare.. She just winks. You tip back the rest of you drink in one go, and slide off the barstool. You smooth your hands over your jeans and then start to follow your friends.
Before your friends can yank you any further toward the door, you pause and glance over your shoulder. Tyler’s watching you with a slow, heated awareness that makes your knees feel questionable.
“Well,” you say, smirking up at him, “you coming?”
For a heartbeat, his expression softens into something you feel all the way in your chest. Then he nods once, sure and easy, already reaching for his wallet.
“Wouldn’t dream of lettin’ you walk out without me.”
He slides a couple bills onto the bar. It’s enough for his beer, your cocktail, and probably a larger tip than the bartender’s used to. Then he hops off his stool and moves to fall in behind you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Lead the way,” he says, no hesitation, no checking with his buddies.
His friends call after him, half laughing, half annoyed. “Dude, seriously?”
Tyler just throws them a lazy two-finger wave. “Y’all have fun. I’ll catch up with ya’ll tomorrow.”
And that’s that.
Outside, the cold bites at your cheeks, breath puffing white in the air. You pull your jacket tighter, and Tyler steps closer. You aren’t sure if he’s shielding you from the wind or if he just wants to be near you. Maybe both.
Your friends spill toward the cars parked along the dusty street, arguing about who’s sober enough to drive and who called shotgun first.
You’re halfway to your best friend’s hatchback when she calls over her shoulder:
“Babe, we’re full!”
“I can sit on someone’s lap.”
A chorus of “No you can’t!” echoes back at you.
You turn to Tyler, ready to send him off with a smile and a “maybe see you later”, but he’s already leaning one shoulder against an older looking red pickup a few spots down, keys twirling between his fingers like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
He lifts his chin at you. “Ridin’ with me?”
“I don’t even know you,” you tease.
He grins, that slow, lazy, devastating grin. “Guess you’ll just have to find out who I am.”
Your friends start screaming as you head towards his truck. You ignore them because you’re a grown adult with free will.
You walk toward him, hands shoved in your pockets like you’re not melting inside.
He holds the passenger door open with a small tilt of his head. “Hop in, darlin’.”
The cab smells like leather, dust, and a hint of cologne that should honestly be illegal. The door closes with a heavy thunk, sealing you inside a tiny, private world where it’s just him and you and your heartbeat in your throat.
He rounds the hood and climbs into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine, the low rumble vibrating through the seat and up your spine.
“Seatbelt,” he murmurs.
Right. Yes. Safety. Totally not something that you forgot because of his stupid face.
As he pulls onto the road, the radio hums low, some old country song that makes the moment feel like a cinematic cliché…except it’s happening to you. He glances over, eyes catching yours in the glow of passing streetlights. The town blurs by. Gas station. Dark fields. The occasional porch light.
In the cab of the truck? Everything is heat and the undeniable fact that this boy has you hooked, and doesn’t even know it.
Tyler pulls up to a squat, one story house sitting at the end of a gravel drive, porch light buzzing, music thumping through the thin walls, the front yard packed with trucks parked at sloppy angles. Classic small-town Friday-night chaos. You grin despite yourself.
“This it?” He asks, eyebrow raised.
“Yep. Cody’s cousin’s friend’s place,” you say. “So, very official.”
Tyler chuckles, low and rough. “Lead the way.”
You hop out of the truck, gravel crunching under your boots. The front door’s wide open, warm yellow light spilling out along with a wave of music and drunken whooping. The second you step inside, the smell of beer and cheap perfume hits.
Your friends spot you instantly and shriek your name over the noise. One of them thrusts a red Solo cup at you. Another wiggles her eyebrows at Tyler.
You feel your face heat. “Stop.”
Tyler, of course, seems unbothered. His smile is soft, almost shy despite the fact that he knows he’s the center of gravity in every room he enters.
“Beer?” You ask, lifting your cup.
He nods. “Whatever they got’s fine.”
You lead him into the kitchen, weaving through bodies and dodging a couple very enthusiastic dancers. Someone’s yelling out the chorus to a Toby Keith song like their life depends on it.
Tyler takes a beer from the cooler, and pops the cap off against the counter. There’s a beat, a soft charged one, where he looks at you and it steals your breath for half a second.
You break eye contact first, taking a sip from your cup. “Come on. Let’s find the others.”
But when you walk back into the living room, you realize your friends have vanished into the crowd, swallowed by dancing bodies and dim lamplight.
Tyler steps closer, shoulder brushing yours. “Looks like they ditched you.”
You look up at him. “Looks like that means you’re stuck with me.”
His answering smile is slow and warm. “Lucky me.”
The music shifts to something bass heavy, something with a beat that grabs your hips before your brain catches up. People are dancing all around you, messy and loud and unselfconscious.
Tyler’s eyes drop to your lips, then lower.
“Dance with me?” He asks.
You hesitate for a heartbeat, long enough to feel the weight of the choice, but your body already knows the answer. You nod.
He sets his beer on a side table and steps closer, hands hovering near your waist like he’s asking permission. When you slide toward him, closing the last inch between you, his breath catches just slightly.
You start slow, swaying to the beat, but the crowd presses in, the music gets under your skin, and suddenly you’re moving closer. Closer than you meant to. Closer than you probably should. Tyler’s hand finds your hip. Warm. Steady. Dangerous.
Then it slips lower…and lower…until his fingers hook into the back pocket of your jeans.
“This alright?” He murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
You nod, and his hand stays there. The music pulses. Your hips align with his. Your bodies move together so naturally it feels like muscle memory. You lean back into him, and it’s so easy to close your eyes and let your head fall lightly against his shoulder. You can feel his breath on your neck, hot and unsteady.
You shouldn’t do this. Not with him. Not with his reputation.
But God the way he holds you…the way he touches you like he’s memorizing you…the way you feel tethered to him by something you can’t explain, it’s enough to drown out every rational thought.
He spins you gently so you’re facing him, your hands landing on his chest. His heart beats strong under your palms.
He leans in, forehead nearly touching yours.
“You smell good,” he says, voice low.
You snort. “I smell like cheap vodka and bar smoke.”
“Still good,” he says, and that does something to you.
Your arms slide around his shoulders, pulling him a little closer. He wraps both hands around your waist, drawing you in until your stomach brushes his. Bodies pressed. Breath shared. Heat everywhere. He’s not rushing. Not grinding. Just letting the moment pull tight and tighter between you.
You look up at him, and in that low light, he doesn’t look like the cocky bull rider with a tabloid reputation. He looks young. Honest. A little undone.
You swallow. “You’re dangerous.”
He chuckles, thumb brushing your hip.
“Nah,” he says. “Tonight I’m just a guy at a party wonderin’ how he got lucky enough to have you in his arms.”
You open your mouth to reply, but someone bumps into you, jostling you closer to him. Tyler steadies you instantly, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding right back into your back pocket.
You look up at him. He’s already looking at you. The music shifts to something with a slightly slower tempo. It’s the kind of beat that drags bodies together. The lights are dim, colors strobing from a cheap party bulb someone taped to the ceiling.
If you had any sense left, you’d put at least a few inches between you.
Tyler’s hands slide from your waist down to your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, absent circles through the denim. You angle your body toward his without realizing it, your knee brushing his leg. Heat sparks along your skin. He exhales like he felt it just as sharply.
You start moving to the music. Small shifts of your hips, a roll of your stomach, a sway that invites but doesn’t beg. Tyler follows your rhythm like he was built for it, his grip tightening just enough to pull you closer.
Your chest meets his. Then your thighs. Then every inch that matters.
His breath grazes your cheek, hot from beer and whatever this chemistry is doing to him. He leans down, nose brushing the shell of your ear.
“That drink’s hittin’ you now, huh?” he murmurs.
You shiver. “Maybe a little.”
You shift, pressing your hips back into him as you move. It’s a small motion. But the effect is instant. Tyler’s inhale is sharp. His fingers flex against your hips, tightening just enough to hold you in place.
“Careful,” he whispers. “You keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna forget we’re surrounded by people.”
Your pulse stutters, pleasure blooming low in your stomach. “Maybe I don’t care.”
That gets a low, rough chuckle out of him, the kind that slides heat right under your skin. His hand leaves your hip long enough to brush your hair aside. Then his lips find the curve of your neck.
You practically melt into him.
He presses another right where your pulse flutters. Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt to stay upright.
“Tyler…” you breathe, half a warning, half a plea.
He lifts his head just enough to speak against your jaw. “Yeah, baby?”
You tip your head, giving him more access, more permission than you probably should. He rewards you with another slow kiss to your neck, one that lingers a beat too long. The room blurs around you.
His hand finds that back pocket again, slipping his fingers inside like he’s been doing it your whole life. The other rests on your lower back, guiding you into him, controlling the pace of your movements until your bodies grind together in perfect, dangerous rhythm.
He leans forward, lips brushing your ear.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the music.
You bite your bottom lip, fighting a sound you absolutely shouldn’t make.
His smile ghosts against your skin. “And you’re makin’ me forget I’ve got any sense.”
Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling behind his neck. He dips his head, forehead nearly touching yours, eyes dropping to your mouth like he’s trying to memorize it.
“Darlin’…” he whispers, voice cracking on the word.
You swallow. “Yeah?”
His thumb brushes your hipbone, slow, reverent, and hungry. “I don’t think I can dance with you much longer without doin’ somethin’ stupid.”
“Like what?” you ask, breathless.
Tyler’s grin flickers, quick and devastating. “Like kissin’ you.”
His breath fans across your lips. Warm. Hungry. His fingers tighten in your back pocket.
“Tyler…” you whisper, barely audible over the song thumping through the room.
He swallows, eyes fixed on your mouth like it might ruin him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waitin’ on me to kiss you.”
You’re about to laugh, but then his hand slides up your spine, and settles in the curve of your neck. His thumb strokes your jaw once, gentle as a question.
You whisper, “Maybe I am.”
That tiny spark of permission is all he needs.
Tyler leans in and kisses you. It’s just heat and hunger. Like he’s been fighting the impulse to do it since the second he saw you. Your hands fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. He groans softly into your mouth, the sound low and rough, and it sends a sharp, dizzy thrill through your stomach.
You open for him, and Tyler kisses you harder. He backs you up until your shoulder hits the hallway wall, the only semi-quiet corner of the house, and he brackets your hips with his, one hand cupping your jaw, the other gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.
Your fingers skim up the back of his neck, and for a second you hesitate, the brim of his Ariat cap still shadowing his eyes. It’s in the way. And God, you want your hands in his hair.
So you reach up, slow but sure, and slide the hat right off his head. Tyler freezes as you settle it on your head instead. It’s way too big, slipping low over your brow, but you tip your chin up all smug and playful anyway. Your fingers dive into his hair, and he lets out a quiet groan, head tipping forward to lean in and let his lips brush your ear.
“Darlin’…you know there’s a rule ’round where I’m from.” His hand slips back to your waist, thumb hooking into a belt loop. “You take a man’s hat…” His teeth graze the shell of your ear, just enough to make your stomach drop. “You ride the cowboy.”
Your breath catches. His words slide right down your spine, molten and shameless. His hands pull you closer, his hair soft between your fingers, his mouth moving against yours like you’re something he’s hungry for. The hat sits crooked on your head, his scent clinging to it, and the way he keeps glancing up at it between kisses tells you he’s absolutely losing his mind over it.
“In that case, I sure hope you can last longer than eight seconds.” You murmur.
Tyler’s smirk is instant. He leans in to bring his lips to your ear again. “Oh, sweetheart…don’t you worry.” His thumb drags low over your bottom lip. “I’m sure as hell no minute man.”
His promise hangs between you, and you feel it low in your stomach. Tyler must see the way it hits you because his smirk fades into something hungrier. His hands settle on your hips like they were made for it, like he’s already decided you’re not leaving this party without his fingerprints on your skin.
The music throbs through the floorboards, but all you can really feel is him. His mouth drifts to your ear, breath warm, lips barely brushing the shell of it like he’s testing how close he can get before you break.
“Y’know…” he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl that curls right down your spine. “I could show you.”
You don’t even have time to ask show you what? The meaning is there in the way he presses you in tighter, in the slow grind of his hips against yours, in the way he watches your mouth like he’s counting the seconds until he gets another taste.
Your heartbeat is a damn stampede.
Before you can overthink it, he lowers his head, lips brushing your jaw, drifting toward your neck like he’s drawn to it. You tilt your chin up without even realizing you’re doing it. His smile ghosts against your skin.
You swear your knees go loose.
When he finally pulls back enough to meet your eyes, his hand slides into your back pocket. It’s possessive, casual, and intimate all at once. Your breath stutters.
Then, just for you, soft enough that it gets swallowed by the bass, “wanna get outta here? Just us?”
You were never supposed to leave with him. That was the rule. The girl code subclause written in glitter pen and blood: don’t. Don’t leave the party unless your best friend is passed out, unless you’re the last ones standing, unless you’re sober enough to recite every dumb reason you shouldn’t want him.
You glance over his shoulder, just for a second, and your friends are watching from across the room. Any hopes you had of them saving you immediately disappeared. They were watching the scene between you and Tyler unfold wide-eyed, mouths open, silently screaming do it, bitch.
You look back at him, and he’s already wearing that look, like he knows your answer before you say a word.
You nod.
His fingers tighten in your pocket, tugging you flush against him. The move is deliberate. Territorial. Like he wants everyone in this house to understand exactly who you’re leaving with.
“Attagirl,” he breathes, barely audible, and damn near ruinous.
Then he takes your hand, and threads your fingers together as he starts guiding you through the living room. The crowd shifts around him like he owns the place, and maybe he does, because no one tries to stop him. Not with the way he keeps glancing back at you, making sure you’re right behind him.
The gravel crunches under your boots as you head toward his truck, a low, dark shape waiting under the streetlight. He reaches it first, pauses, then glances back at you with that same crooked grin that’s been wrecking your focus all night.
“Hold up,” he says, and opens the passenger door for you.
You arch a brow. “Chivalry? In this economy?”
He chuckles, dipping his head. “Only for you.”
As you climb in, he leans closer instead of stepping back. One hand braces against the doorframe, boxing you in just enough to make your pulse jump.
“Just one more kiss,” he murmurs, like it’s an afterthought.
You snort softly. “You already said that inside.”
“And yet,” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth, “here we are.”
His lips find yours before you can answer. Slow at first. Unrushed but teasing. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise instead of a question. Your hands slide into his jacket, fingers curling in fabric as he deepens it, smiling into your mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
One more kiss turns into another. And another. Somewhere between the third and fourth, his thumb brushes your jaw, gentle and grounding, like he’s memorizing you.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. Both of you are breathing a little heavier now.
“So,” he says quietly, “your place or mine?”
You laugh, soft and a little breathless. “Is that how this works?”
He shrugs. “I’ve got a motel room. Clean sheets. Questionable art. Or I can follow you home.”
You pretend to think about it, dragging it out just to watch his jaw tighten a fraction. “You always this patient?”
“With the right motivation,” he says, eyes dark, smiling slow, “I can be.”
Your heart does a stupid little flip. “Drive,” you tell him. “I’ll decide on the way.”
Tyler walked around the front of the truck and slid into the driver’s seat. He turned the key, and the truck’s heater exhaled a fog of warmth.
“Buckle up,” he said, low and easy.
You did. Your hands shook, just a little, when you pulled the strap across your chest, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“What?” he asked, glancing over, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking at the radio.
You shrugged. “Nothing. Just—” The words tripped over themselves. “This is weird, right?”
“Weird’s good.” He looked over, the porchlight orange carving out his cheekbone. “Means you’re alive.”
You scoffed, but there was a bubble in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.
“So your place or mine?” He asked.
Tyler’s hand finds yours on the center console like it belongs there. His thumb drags lazily over your knuckles, back and forth, intentional enough to make your pulse trip every time.
You watch it for a second. Then you glance over at him. Streetlights pass in brief flashes, catching the edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He looks calmer now, but there’s still something simmering under the surface. Waiting.
“For the record,” he says, eyes still on the road, voice low, “I’m good either way.”
You hum, pretending to think about it longer than you need to. “You always let the girl decide?”
“Only when I know she’s gonna pick what she really wants.”
You smile a little at that, turning your head to look out the window, buying yourself one last second before you say it.
“Mine.”
Tyler’s grip tightens just slightly around your hand. When you glance back at him, that slow, satisfied smile is back.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs.
The rest of the drive feels shorter somehow. Or maybe it’s just that every second is stretched thin with anticipation. His hand never leaves yours. Neither of you rush the moment, but neither of you pull away from it either.
When he finally turns onto your street, everything goes quieter. Familiar houses. Dark windows. Porch lights flickering.
He slows in front of your place, truck idling as he takes it in.
“This you?” He asks, though he already knows.
“Yeah.”
He cuts the engine, and finally look at you.
“You sure?” He asks, softer now. Not teasing. Not cocky. Just real.
Your heart kicks, but you hold his gaze.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m sure.”
He’s out of the truck in seconds, rounding the front before you even have time to reach for the handle. He opens your door, hand already there for you. Your fingers slip into his, and you know this night isn’t slowing down anytime tonight.
The walk up your front path feels longer than it should. Maybe it’s the way your fingers are laced with his, tugging him along a little faster than necessary. Maybe it’s the way he lets you, like he’s enjoying the view of you getting just a little too eager.
Behind you, Tyler huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone’s in a hurry.”
You glance back over your shoulder, the porch light catching the brim of his hat still sitting crooked on your head. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, but he’s smiling.
You reach the door, fumbling slightly with your keys. Your hands aren’t shaking exactly, but they’re definitely not steady either. You can feel him step in behind you, close enough that the heat of him presses into your back.
His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting for it all night. His thumbs brush slow absent circles through the fabric of your shirt, and your breath catches as you try to get the key into the lock.
“Easy,” he murmurs, lips just barely brushing your ear. “Door’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“You don’t know that,” you shoot back, but it comes out softer than intended.
He chuckles low behind you, and it vibrates straight through your spine.
The lock finally clicks. You barely have time to push the door open before he’s guiding you inside, one hand still on your waist, the other reaching past you to shut the door. It closes with a solid click and something shifts.
The second it latches, Tyler’s on you. He turns you fast, backing you up against the door, one hand braced beside your head, the other tightening at your waist like he’s done pretending he’s patient.
“Darlin’…” he starts, but whatever he was gonna say dies the second your hands fist in the collar of his shirt and yank him down to you.
You kiss him hard. Tyler makes a low, surprised sound against your mouth before he’s kissing you back just as hard, just as desperate.
His hand slides from your waist to your jaw, thumb pressing lightly under your chin as he tilts your face up, deepening the kiss like he’s trying to take his time and failing miserably.
You let your hands wander, mapping the V of his back under cotton, fingers slipping under the hem and feeling the heat of his skin.
He fisted your shirt, slid his hands under, slow enough to give you a chance to object. You didn’t. You wanted his hands everywhere, wanted them marking you up. You wanted to leave fingerprints on his ribs, his collarbones, his spine.
You staggered up the stairs together, slamming off the banister, laughing into each other’s mouths, neither willing to break contact for even a second. At your door, he pressed you to the frame and kissed your neck, your jaw, the soft skin just under your ear. You didn’t know you could even make those sounds. It thrilled you to hear him echo it, voice low and just barely in control.
He backed off a few inches and whispered, “Been thinkin’ about this since the second I saw you.”
You believed him, mostly because you’d been thinking about it too.
You led him into your room. It was pitch black except the soft glow from the streetlight out front. But you weren’t worried. You didn’t need to see. You knew the lay of the room by heart from every tangle of blanket to every pile of laundry. He landed on the edge of your bed and pulled you onto his lap, hands steady at your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles through your shirt.
You ground your hips against him and felt the way he arched up, couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide the way he needed you. He groaned and laughed against your shoulder.
“You’re gonna kill me, woman,” he said.
You replied by pulling his shirt up and over his head. He wasn’t sculpted, not like the boys from TV and movies, but every inch of him was mapped to the work he did, the hours he spent outside. Scars, sunburn, the trace of a tan line. You ran your hands down his chest and he let you, head tipped back, mouth parted in open invitation.
You yanked your own shirt over your head, the fabric twisting awkwardly at your wrists. It hit the floor somewhere near the pile of pajamas you forgot to pick up this morning, and you barely registered the chill on your skin because he was already reaching for you.
Tyler’s hands found your ribs, his thumbs spanning across your stomach. He leaned in, pausing just enough to search your eyes, and when you didn’t flinch or look away, he kissed you again. Softer this time, almost careful, as if the last round had been the fever dream and this was the part that mattered.
He pulled back a millimeter, breath skimming your cheek, and you watched him fumble for the right next move. He cupped your jaw, and really looked at you. You’d spent your entire life deflecting this kind of attention, and now it was here, unblinking, and you didn’t know what to do with it except let it happen.
The air in your room was still, thick with the heat of summer and breath and memory. The humming outside streetlight, the muffled whirr of your ceiling fan, and the creak of the old bed frame.
He kissed your collarbone, your shoulder, the spot where your bra had left a groove in your skin, and everywhere he touched, you felt a pulse like a fresh bruise. He laid you back, one hand beneath your head, the other splayed across your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight, and you arched up to meet him, mouth hungry for him.
You mapped his back with your palms, traced the line of his spine, learned the shape of him in a way that felt both foreign and destined. He shivered when you grazed your nails up his side, and you did it again, just to watch the ripple of sensation. You felt his pulse everywhere your skin met his, a drumming insistence that was making you dizzy.
His hand slid up, knuckles rough against your sternum, and hovered at the band of your bra. He caught your eye, waiting for a nod, a word, any sign. You grinned, and reached back to unhook it yourself, letting it fall between you. For a second, you were sure you’d ruined everything. Your body now partially on display for him, knowing he had probably been with skinnier and prettier girls before. But he just looked at you with that same reverence as earlier.
His hands splayed, and he pressed his lips to the hollow between your breasts, the soft curve above your heart, the sloping edge of your ribcage. He was learning you.
You laughed, suddenly, at the absurdity of it, and he did too, burying his face in your shoulder. The noise cut the tension, and you both shook with it, relief twined with want. Then you were kissing again, harder, deeper, and his hands were at your hips, pulling you closer, until you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.
You let your own hands wander, trailing down his back, over the waistband of his jeans. You hesitated because you wanted to savor the moment: the anticipation, the not knowing, the way your heart tried to claw its way out of your chest. You could feel him trembling, just a bit, and it thrilled you, how you could make him unravel with a single touch.
You unsnapped the button of his jeans, and he let you, lips never leaving yours. You slid your palm against the heat of his stomach, fingers dipping lower, mapping the V that pointed you toward where he wanted you most. His breath stuttered, and he broke the kiss to watch you, eyes wide and dark.
You traced the waistband of his underwear, teasing him. He braced himself on his elbows, head back, pulse pounding in his throat. You then hooked your fingers into the elastic of his underwear, pulling it just enough to fit your hand inside. He was hot and hard.
“Fuck,” he said, voice high and breaking.
You started slow, teasing him with just a little pressure. The rhythm built itself, slower at first, but then he met you, hips flexing up into your hand, until it was a fever you both caught and couldn’t shake loose. His hands tightened at your sides.
He never broke eye contact. Even when his pupils went wide with want, or when he gasped and bit down on the sound, he kept watching you. It made you reckless. It made you want to see what else you could get out of him: what sounds, what words, what surrender.
Then he moved, deliberate, pulling you onto his lap so your thighs bracketed his. You could feel him pressing into you, but he didn’t rush it. He slid his hands up, mapping the backs of your legs, thumbs painting circles toward the edge of your shorts.
He hooked his fingers into your waistband, drew them down slowly, and you lifted your hips to help. The air was cold but his hands were not, and when he touched you, it was with a confidence that came from the way he clearly needed to make you come apart. He didn’t ask if it was okay. He asked with his hands, and you answered with yours, catching at his wrists, guiding him harder, closer, exactly where you wanted.
You bit down on his shoulder, muffling the gasp that wanted to rip out of you, and his whole body jerked in response, an electric arc that traveled from his skin to yours. He whispered your name into your neck, almost a prayer, and then he was kissing you again, the kind of kiss that threatened to undo you entirely.
He ran his hands down your back, slow, then gripped your ass with both palms, holding you in place as he pushed up into you, letting you feel just how much he wanted it.
When you finally got him out of his jeans, you both laughed at the awkwardness. Like the way the denim caught on his knees and boots.. It broke the tension, made you both human again, less like a wet dream and more like a thing that could actually happen to people like you.
He laid you back on the bed, and kissed down your chest, leaving little marks.
“You’re perfect,” he said, a little awed, and you wanted to argue, but he was already kissing down your chest, over your ribs, stopping at the scar on your hip and tracing it with his tongue like it was holy.
You arched your back, spine pushing into the mattress as he thrust inside you, and for a heartbeat it was the only thing in the universe: him, the friction, the sweat-slick tangle of limbs, the heat pulsing in your veins.
You raked your hands through his hair, felt it damp and wild between your fingers, pulled him in and bit his lip. He gasped into your mouth, the sound turning into a laugh, and then he bit you back, not quite gentle, like he was trying to leave evidence.
He kissed your throat, your clavicle, the inside of your elbow, mapping you with lips and teeth. You rose to meet him, greedy for it, and he found a rhythm with his hips that was less a pattern and more a negotiation. Slowing to savor, then speeding up when you begged, then stopping altogether to just stare at you, as if he needed to see the look on your face when you took him deep.
You tried to keep your eyes open too, but every time you did, he looked at you like you were the last stretch of daylight, like he was afraid to blink and miss it. No one had ever watched you this way before. No one had ever seemed so intent on memorizing your every sound and motion, as if the story of his life depended on getting you exactly right. It made you want to show him everything, to strip yourself of any pretense or shame, to let him see the parts of you you’d always hidden or denied.
When you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, you felt him tremble, the last shred of his composure dissolving. He braced himself up on his elbows, nose brushing yours, sweat dotting his forehead, and he muttered something into your cheek. You couldn’t quite make it out, but you heard the word “perfect”.
He slowed again, and the tension in you built so sharp you thought you’d snap. You clawed at his back, heels digging into the small of him, and he nearly sobbed when you clenched. The friction was raw and close to pain, but you wanted more, wanted to see how far you could pull him, how much you could take, how much he could give. He shifted, angling his hips, and you let out a sound that was half curse, half surrender. You felt him smile against your neck, felt the way his whole body shuddered with the knowledge that he could do this to you.
He hooked your knee up, opened you wider, went deeper, and you saw fireworks behind your clenched eyelids. He picked up the rhythm again, and you met him every inch, every thrust, every gasp, the bedframe knocking into the wall with every movement. You didn’t care. You wanted to leave marks, to fill the whole house with a record of this moment, to make it impossible for either of you to pretend it hadn’t happened.
He kissed your ear, your hair, your jaw, like he couldn’t get enough of you. You felt his hand slip between your bodies, find your clit, and stroke it in time with the motion.
You let go so hard you almost blacked out, clutching at his shoulders. Your nails left little crescent indents in his skin. Your body seized around him, every nerve lit up so bright you. You arched up, neck straining, jaw open.
He came with a stifled gasp, clinging to you like he might fracture otherwise, every muscle in his body gone rigid and desperate. You felt it as a shudder that ran through his spine, out through his arms and into your skin, his heart pounding so fast you could feel it at every point where your bodies met. His breath caught and then came out in a soft, half choked moan that landed hot against your neck.
He collapsed onto you, all his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close while your pulse thundered in your ears. You could feel every beat of his heart, every ragged breath, the sweat slicking his back and your chest, the reality of him so overwhelming you almost laughed. He nuzzled your neck, mouth open and panting, his hair damp with sweat.
Your legs were trembling, your body humming with aftershocks, and you couldn’t let go of him. You wanted him to stay inside you to keep the illusion that there was nothing in the world but the tangle of limbs, the heat of skin, the shared silence so thick it felt like its own dimension. You had never been so exposed, so unguarded, and it should have scared the hell out of you, but it didn’t. The fear was gone, replaced by something steadier and deeper, something that told you that this was the safest place you’d ever been.
When he finally rolled off to the side, he took you with him, arm locked around your waist, face buried in your shoulder. He pulled you close, tangled your legs together, held you so tight you thought you’d bruise. You let him, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in, the smell of sweat and sex and summer rain filtering in from the open window. The air was electric, charged with what you’d done, with the storm outside and the storm inside your chest, both of them refusing to dissipate.
Eventually, he moved just enough to break the spell. He shifted his weight, stretched, then brought his hand up to brush the hair from your forehead. His knuckles were gentle, almost reverent. He pressed a kiss to your temple, and his mouth lingered there. He grinned, and for a moment his usual swagger tried to reclaim the space between you, but the attempt collapsed under the weight of what you’d just done to each other.
There was something different in his smile now. It was softer, almost fragile. The bravado you’d seen at the bar had been stripped away, and in its place was a kind of naked awe.
You curled your fingers into his hair, bringing him down to rest his head on your chest. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the kind that told you he’d been holding his breath for longer than either of you would admit. His arms found you again, wrapping around your waist and pulling you in until you were tangled, skin to skin, every edge and angle lined up so nothing could slip between. He stayed like that, refusing to let go, as if giving even an inch would mean losing everything that had just happened.
The air in the room was thick with heat and sweat and the scent of him, the taste of salt still lingering on your tongue. There were probably things you should have done. Found a blanket. Cleaned up. At least checked the clock to see how much of the night you’d burned through. But you didn’t move.
He shifted once more, just enough to meet your eyes. “You good?”
You nodded. For the first time in ages, you felt held, not just physically but in the way he looked at you. You wondered what he saw, what story he was telling himself about the kind of person you were, and the kind of person you might become if you let this keep happening.
It was tempting to deflect with sarcasm or push him off the bed like you’d done a thousand times before. But you didn’t. You let yourself be held.
At some point, you must have drifted, because you woke to find him tracing absentminded shapes along your arm. He was still awake, eyelids heavy, watching you. He smiled, but it was a quieter smile, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything.
You both fell asleep without ever bothering to clean up. Sheets tangled around your legs, his arm a weight across your stomach, your heartbeat slow and steady against his chest. He held you the whole time, even as he snored quietly, but enough that you could feel the vibration through his ribs. Neither of you stirred until the light outside the window shifted, the storm finally breaking, the thunder giving way to the soft drum of rain against the glass.
-
Tag List - if you'd like to be tagged please let me know. I did start a new tag list as my old one had a lot of inactive usernames and people that weren't interacting with my posts. If you were on the old one and would like to be added to the new one, please let me know with a comment
@crossskylinesandcontrails I @echoingbirdsofprey I @fanficmom94 I @simplypaisleyjane I @khouse712 I @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 I @football1921 I @literal-tv-menace I @elizabeth-holland24 I @mylifeisanoxymoron21 I @bellarkeselection I @auntiechele I @avengersfan25 I @dumbassusername I @jbennsquared I @calirindo I @fantasyfootballchampion I @pensfan5871 I @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87 I @lunatygerqueen I @hookslove1592 I @lulunothulu I @hunterthecharmer I @mrsevans90 I @lauraseresin I @x3zerochanx3 I @teacupsandtopgun I @queenslandlover-93 I @isabelstardis I @myglenpowellera I @idontwannabehere78 I @tylerscowboyhat
I see you 🤣 nailed this as usual! 🥰🥰🥰
Definitely may have been a little inspired by your version of Tyler in Lightning 🙈
Thanks so much for reading and reblogging 🥰
Think Later
Summary: You never expected anything exciting to happen in your dusty little hometown, especially not on a Friday night at the only bar for twenty miles. You were just looking to blow off steam after a long week, maybe whatever the bar had on special tonight with your friends and forget the real world for a few hours. But then he walked in. Tyler Owens, the up and coming bull rider every rodeo fan is buzzing about, is in town for the weekend competition. He’s still buzzing with adrenaline, boots scuffed, belt buckle shining, that signature grin pulling every eye in the room. And the second he sees you sitting at the bar, he zeroes in like he’s already decided you’re the only thing worth paying attention to. He’s bold without being pushy, charming without trying, and close enough that you feel the warmth of him even before his hand grazes your thigh, an instinctive little touch that feels more like a claim than a flirt. One drink turns into two. Two turns into leaning close, laughing, teasing. You should go home. He should probably get some sleep before the big ride tomorrow. But neither of you are thinking straight. And honestly? Neither of you want to. So when Tyler murmurs, “Wanna get outta here, darlin’?” you already know the answer.
Song Inspo: Think Later - Tate McRae
Character/Pairing: Tyler Owens (Twisters) x Reader
Warnings: Reader discretion advised: this is a graphic work intended for mature audiences only (18+). This fic contains explicit sexual content. Strong language. Alcohol consumption.
Word Count: 8,438
Author's Note: I wrote this with a slightly younger Tyler (like late teens or early twenties when he was still in his rodeo days) rather than the version of him we saw in the movie so keep that in mind while reading! Also I wrote this over several months in several writing sessions. I think I caught all of the mistakes when it comes to continuity etc but there may be some I missed so if I did, I apologize. Hope you guys like this one! xx
The Lucky Spur isn’t much to look at: torn barstools, neon beer signs that flicker like they’re one bad night away from dying, and a jukebox that only plays early 2000s country. But in your hometown, it’s either this place or sitting at home scrolling mindlessly on TikTok.
Tonight you needed out. After the week you had? Work breathing down your neck, family drama simmering in the background, and your boss sending approximately eight hundred “quick follow up” emails. Yeah. You needed the kind of night where your brain could go blissfully quiet. Or at least be distracted.
“Absolutely not,” your best friend says, snatching your buzzing phone right out of your hand the second you check the screen. “No work tonight. You promised.”
“I was just making sure it wasn’t an emergency.”
“Girl, unless your boss is on fire, it can wait.” She stuffs your phone in her purse like she’s confiscating contraband. “Now drink.”
You obey, lifting your bright blue cocktail. Something sugary and neon that your friend swore was “dangerous in the best way.” You take a long sip. It’s strong. It’s almost too strong. Perfect.
Warmth spreads through your chest. Your shoulders drop for the first time in days. You laugh at something stupid Jess says, leaning into the music, the lights, the cheap perfume in the air. For a moment, the world feels light.
And then the door opens.
Tyler Owens walks in like he belongs under a spotlight: tall, sun kissed, a little dusty from the arena, ballcap backwards on his head. You’d seen him ride earlier at the rodeo with your friends, but seeing him here, in your dingy hometown bar, is different.
He’s laughing with a couple of guys from the circuit…until his gaze snags on you. He stops mid step. It’s not subtle. It’s not polite. You’d almost be flattered if you didn’t know his type.
Your fingers tighten around your glass. He shouldn’t look at you like that, like he already knows what flavor lip gloss you’re wearing, like he’s two seconds from crossing the room.
Your friend follows your stare and whispers. “Oh, he’s trouble.”
And you know it. You’ve heard the stories. Everybody has. Youngest rider on the circuit with scores that make the veterans nervous. Charming as the devil. Pretty as sin. And apparently with a trail of women who’d happily tattoo his name on their hip if he asked nicely.
There are rumors: whispered, exaggerated, maybe true, maybe not, about the motels he and the other riders stay in. About girls slipping into his room at midnight. About him slipping out at sunrise. About smiles, and winks, and how he never stays longer than one night because the rodeo moves on and so does he.
You’re not naïve. You know exactly who Tyler Owens is.
And you also know damn well you shouldn’t even be looking at him.
You’re not a one night stand kind of girl. Not anymore. Not after the last time your heart got stepped on by someone who treated you like a pit stop instead of a destination.
You want something real…eventually. Something that won’t leave you wondering what you did wrong when the morning comes.
Tyler? Tyler is not that.
He’s a wildfire with pretty eyes. A problem wrapped in denim and charm. A guaranteed morning of regret if you’re not careful.
You know all of this. And yet, when his eyes lock on yours across the bar, everything inside you tilts. He looks at you like he can hear your pulse from where he’s standing. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.
Your breath catches.
Your friend mutters, “Don’t even think about it.”
Too late. You’ve definitely thought about it.
Just one night. One stupid, bliss filled night. What’s the worst that could happen?
Tyler starts to make his way over to you, moving with a quiet deliberate certainty, like a man who’s used to eight seconds on the back of a thousand pound animal and therefore fears absolutely nothing.
Your pulse spikes, and your friend whispers, “Oh my God, he’s coming over.”
But it barely has time to register because Tyler stops in front of you, Ariat hat still perched on his head, and flashing you a smile that hits you right in the center of your chest.
“Mind if I sit, darlin’?” His voice is low and smooth. A little rasped from dust and adrenaline. You nod, maybe too fast, and your friend shoots you a look before she and the others you met up with migrate across the room.
Tyler slides onto the stool beside you. His friends, catching the shift, drift toward the pool tables where your friends just headed without another word to him.
He’s sitting closer than he needs to be. He smells like leather, sweat, and cologne.
“What’s your name?” He asks.
You tell him, and his smile deepens. “Pretty. Fits you.”
Heat creeps up your neck. You’re grateful for the dim lighting.
He taps your mostly empty glass with his finger. “What’re you drinkin’?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Tyler chuckles. He signals the bartender. “Another for her, on me.”
You should say no. You absolutely should say no. But when he’s giving you that look, you find yourself nodding.
The bartender pours. Tyler leans in to say something, and that’s when it happens: his hand brushes your thigh. Barely. Light as a whisper. Not intentional…but your whole body goes tight anyway.
“You okay?” He asks softly.
You nod again, trying to steady your smile. “Just wasn’t expecting a bull rider to have such…gentle hands.”
“Only when I want ’em to be,” he says, eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your eyes. The heat of it rolls straight through you.
You clear your throat, grasping for composure. “So…you’re kind of rodeo famous, huh?”
He snorts. “That what people say? Hell, I’m just tryin’ not to get thrown on my ass.” A beat. “But if you think I’m famous, I’ll take it.”
You laugh. He grins like he likes that, too.
“And you?” He says. “You here with friends, or were you just starin’ me down from across the bar?”
Your mouth drops open. “I was not staring.”
“Sure you weren’t.” He nudges your knee with his own under the bar. “’S’okay. I was starin’ right back.”
Your stomach flips. You tell him your best friend stole your phone, said you needed a break from work. And the way his face lights up at “phone off” is ridiculous.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Means you’re here with me now.”
Here with him. God help you.
The condensation starts to gather in a ring on the bar from the second drink Tyler bought for you.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, watching your reaction. “Me gettin’ you another drink and all.”
You take a slow sip, letting the flavor bloom on your tongue before nodding.
“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “You did good, Owens.”
His mouth turns up in a grin. “Darlin’, you keep sayin’ my name like that and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you like havin’ me this close.”
Your stomach dips deliciously, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re used to girls melting the second you smile at them, huh?”
“Depends.” He leans one elbow on the bar, turning toward you. The angle brings him just an inch closer. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “Are you meltin’?”
“Not even close.”
“Mm.” He hums from low in his chest, like he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying. “Should’ve known you’d be trouble.”
You raise a brow. “Oh, I’m the trouble here?”
He nods. “Didn’t plan on anything happenin’ tonight. Just wanted a beer with a couple of the guys. Then I saw you sittin’ here, mindin’ your business, lookin’ like a girl who knows how to hurt a man without ever even touchin’ him.”
You choke a little on your drink. “What does that even mean?”
Tyler shrugs. “Means you’re the kinda pretty that gets under a man’s skin.”
“Wow. Do you rehearse these lines in the mirror before you use them?”
“Don’t need lines with you.” His voice dips warm, almost a little shy around the edges. But not quite. “You make it easy.”
You look away, suddenly desperate for something to do with your hands. He notices, and nudges his boot against yours under the bar, a quiet little knock to get your attention back.
“Relax.” He murmurs. “Not tryin’ to hurt ya.”
Tyler’s gaze drops to your lips for half a second. He clears his throat, sits back a little like he’s giving you room to breathe, and brings his beer to his lips before taking a pull.
“Some friends of mine are havin’ a little get together tonight,” you hear yourself say, the words slipping out before you fully think them through. “Nothing crazy. Just drinks, music. You should come.”
Tyler’s smile spreads slowly, like he’s savoring it.
“Yeah?” He asks. “You want me there?”
You swallow. “Yeah. I do.”
He nods once, decisive. “Then I’m yours for the night, darlin’.”
You’re halfway through the drink he bought you when your girls reappear through the crowd like a chaotic tidal wave.
“There you are!” One of them shouts over the music, grabbing your wrist. “We’re heading to Cody’s cousin’s place. Party’s already going.”
Another one gives Tyler a once over, eyebrows lifting. “And look at you making friends.”
You shoot her a glare.. She just winks. You tip back the rest of you drink in one go, and slide off the barstool. You smooth your hands over your jeans and then start to follow your friends.
Before your friends can yank you any further toward the door, you pause and glance over your shoulder. Tyler’s watching you with a slow, heated awareness that makes your knees feel questionable.
“Well,” you say, smirking up at him, “you coming?”
For a heartbeat, his expression softens into something you feel all the way in your chest. Then he nods once, sure and easy, already reaching for his wallet.
“Wouldn’t dream of lettin’ you walk out without me.”
He slides a couple bills onto the bar. It’s enough for his beer, your cocktail, and probably a larger tip than the bartender’s used to. Then he hops off his stool and moves to fall in behind you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Lead the way,” he says, no hesitation, no checking with his buddies.
His friends call after him, half laughing, half annoyed. “Dude, seriously?”
Tyler just throws them a lazy two-finger wave. “Y’all have fun. I’ll catch up with ya’ll tomorrow.”
And that’s that.
Outside, the cold bites at your cheeks, breath puffing white in the air. You pull your jacket tighter, and Tyler steps closer. You aren’t sure if he’s shielding you from the wind or if he just wants to be near you. Maybe both.
Your friends spill toward the cars parked along the dusty street, arguing about who’s sober enough to drive and who called shotgun first.
You’re halfway to your best friend’s hatchback when she calls over her shoulder:
“Babe, we’re full!”
“I can sit on someone’s lap.”
A chorus of “No you can’t!” echoes back at you.
You turn to Tyler, ready to send him off with a smile and a “maybe see you later”, but he’s already leaning one shoulder against an older looking red pickup a few spots down, keys twirling between his fingers like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
He lifts his chin at you. “Ridin’ with me?”
“I don’t even know you,” you tease.
He grins, that slow, lazy, devastating grin. “Guess you’ll just have to find out who I am.”
Your friends start screaming as you head towards his truck. You ignore them because you’re a grown adult with free will.
You walk toward him, hands shoved in your pockets like you’re not melting inside.
He holds the passenger door open with a small tilt of his head. “Hop in, darlin’.”
The cab smells like leather, dust, and a hint of cologne that should honestly be illegal. The door closes with a heavy thunk, sealing you inside a tiny, private world where it’s just him and you and your heartbeat in your throat.
He rounds the hood and climbs into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine, the low rumble vibrating through the seat and up your spine.
“Seatbelt,” he murmurs.
Right. Yes. Safety. Totally not something that you forgot because of his stupid face.
As he pulls onto the road, the radio hums low, some old country song that makes the moment feel like a cinematic cliché…except it’s happening to you. He glances over, eyes catching yours in the glow of passing streetlights. The town blurs by. Gas station. Dark fields. The occasional porch light.
In the cab of the truck? Everything is heat and the undeniable fact that this boy has you hooked, and doesn’t even know it.
Tyler pulls up to a squat, one story house sitting at the end of a gravel drive, porch light buzzing, music thumping through the thin walls, the front yard packed with trucks parked at sloppy angles. Classic small-town Friday-night chaos. You grin despite yourself.
“This it?” He asks, eyebrow raised.
“Yep. Cody’s cousin’s friend’s place,” you say. “So, very official.”
Tyler chuckles, low and rough. “Lead the way.”
You hop out of the truck, gravel crunching under your boots. The front door’s wide open, warm yellow light spilling out along with a wave of music and drunken whooping. The second you step inside, the smell of beer and cheap perfume hits.
Your friends spot you instantly and shriek your name over the noise. One of them thrusts a red Solo cup at you. Another wiggles her eyebrows at Tyler.
You feel your face heat. “Stop.”
Tyler, of course, seems unbothered. His smile is soft, almost shy despite the fact that he knows he’s the center of gravity in every room he enters.
“Beer?” You ask, lifting your cup.
He nods. “Whatever they got’s fine.”
You lead him into the kitchen, weaving through bodies and dodging a couple very enthusiastic dancers. Someone’s yelling out the chorus to a Toby Keith song like their life depends on it.
Tyler takes a beer from the cooler, and pops the cap off against the counter. There’s a beat, a soft charged one, where he looks at you and it steals your breath for half a second.
You break eye contact first, taking a sip from your cup. “Come on. Let’s find the others.”
But when you walk back into the living room, you realize your friends have vanished into the crowd, swallowed by dancing bodies and dim lamplight.
Tyler steps closer, shoulder brushing yours. “Looks like they ditched you.”
You look up at him. “Looks like that means you’re stuck with me.”
His answering smile is slow and warm. “Lucky me.”
The music shifts to something bass heavy, something with a beat that grabs your hips before your brain catches up. People are dancing all around you, messy and loud and unselfconscious.
Tyler’s eyes drop to your lips, then lower.
“Dance with me?” He asks.
You hesitate for a heartbeat, long enough to feel the weight of the choice, but your body already knows the answer. You nod.
He sets his beer on a side table and steps closer, hands hovering near your waist like he’s asking permission. When you slide toward him, closing the last inch between you, his breath catches just slightly.
You start slow, swaying to the beat, but the crowd presses in, the music gets under your skin, and suddenly you’re moving closer. Closer than you meant to. Closer than you probably should. Tyler’s hand finds your hip. Warm. Steady. Dangerous.
Then it slips lower…and lower…until his fingers hook into the back pocket of your jeans.
“This alright?” He murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
You nod, and his hand stays there. The music pulses. Your hips align with his. Your bodies move together so naturally it feels like muscle memory. You lean back into him, and it’s so easy to close your eyes and let your head fall lightly against his shoulder. You can feel his breath on your neck, hot and unsteady.
You shouldn’t do this. Not with him. Not with his reputation.
But God the way he holds you…the way he touches you like he’s memorizing you…the way you feel tethered to him by something you can’t explain, it’s enough to drown out every rational thought.
He spins you gently so you’re facing him, your hands landing on his chest. His heart beats strong under your palms.
He leans in, forehead nearly touching yours.
“You smell good,” he says, voice low.
You snort. “I smell like cheap vodka and bar smoke.”
“Still good,” he says, and that does something to you.
Your arms slide around his shoulders, pulling him a little closer. He wraps both hands around your waist, drawing you in until your stomach brushes his. Bodies pressed. Breath shared. Heat everywhere. He’s not rushing. Not grinding. Just letting the moment pull tight and tighter between you.
You look up at him, and in that low light, he doesn’t look like the cocky bull rider with a tabloid reputation. He looks young. Honest. A little undone.
You swallow. “You’re dangerous.”
He chuckles, thumb brushing your hip.
“Nah,” he says. “Tonight I’m just a guy at a party wonderin’ how he got lucky enough to have you in his arms.”
You open your mouth to reply, but someone bumps into you, jostling you closer to him. Tyler steadies you instantly, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding right back into your back pocket.
You look up at him. He’s already looking at you. The music shifts to something with a slightly slower tempo. It’s the kind of beat that drags bodies together. The lights are dim, colors strobing from a cheap party bulb someone taped to the ceiling.
If you had any sense left, you’d put at least a few inches between you.
Tyler’s hands slide from your waist down to your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, absent circles through the denim. You angle your body toward his without realizing it, your knee brushing his leg. Heat sparks along your skin. He exhales like he felt it just as sharply.
You start moving to the music. Small shifts of your hips, a roll of your stomach, a sway that invites but doesn’t beg. Tyler follows your rhythm like he was built for it, his grip tightening just enough to pull you closer.
Your chest meets his. Then your thighs. Then every inch that matters.
His breath grazes your cheek, hot from beer and whatever this chemistry is doing to him. He leans down, nose brushing the shell of your ear.
“That drink’s hittin’ you now, huh?” he murmurs.
You shiver. “Maybe a little.”
You shift, pressing your hips back into him as you move. It’s a small motion. But the effect is instant. Tyler’s inhale is sharp. His fingers flex against your hips, tightening just enough to hold you in place.
“Careful,” he whispers. “You keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna forget we’re surrounded by people.”
Your pulse stutters, pleasure blooming low in your stomach. “Maybe I don’t care.”
That gets a low, rough chuckle out of him, the kind that slides heat right under your skin. His hand leaves your hip long enough to brush your hair aside. Then his lips find the curve of your neck.
You practically melt into him.
He presses another right where your pulse flutters. Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt to stay upright.
“Tyler…” you breathe, half a warning, half a plea.
He lifts his head just enough to speak against your jaw. “Yeah, baby?”
You tip your head, giving him more access, more permission than you probably should. He rewards you with another slow kiss to your neck, one that lingers a beat too long. The room blurs around you.
His hand finds that back pocket again, slipping his fingers inside like he’s been doing it your whole life. The other rests on your lower back, guiding you into him, controlling the pace of your movements until your bodies grind together in perfect, dangerous rhythm.
He leans forward, lips brushing your ear.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the music.
You bite your bottom lip, fighting a sound you absolutely shouldn’t make.
His smile ghosts against your skin. “And you’re makin’ me forget I’ve got any sense.”
Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling behind his neck. He dips his head, forehead nearly touching yours, eyes dropping to your mouth like he’s trying to memorize it.
“Darlin’…” he whispers, voice cracking on the word.
You swallow. “Yeah?”
His thumb brushes your hipbone, slow, reverent, and hungry. “I don’t think I can dance with you much longer without doin’ somethin’ stupid.”
“Like what?” you ask, breathless.
Tyler’s grin flickers, quick and devastating. “Like kissin’ you.”
His breath fans across your lips. Warm. Hungry. His fingers tighten in your back pocket.
“Tyler…” you whisper, barely audible over the song thumping through the room.
He swallows, eyes fixed on your mouth like it might ruin him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waitin’ on me to kiss you.”
You’re about to laugh, but then his hand slides up your spine, and settles in the curve of your neck. His thumb strokes your jaw once, gentle as a question.
You whisper, “Maybe I am.”
That tiny spark of permission is all he needs.
Tyler leans in and kisses you. It’s just heat and hunger. Like he’s been fighting the impulse to do it since the second he saw you. Your hands fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. He groans softly into your mouth, the sound low and rough, and it sends a sharp, dizzy thrill through your stomach.
You open for him, and Tyler kisses you harder. He backs you up until your shoulder hits the hallway wall, the only semi-quiet corner of the house, and he brackets your hips with his, one hand cupping your jaw, the other gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.
Your fingers skim up the back of his neck, and for a second you hesitate, the brim of his Ariat cap still shadowing his eyes. It’s in the way. And God, you want your hands in his hair.
So you reach up, slow but sure, and slide the hat right off his head. Tyler freezes as you settle it on your head instead. It’s way too big, slipping low over your brow, but you tip your chin up all smug and playful anyway. Your fingers dive into his hair, and he lets out a quiet groan, head tipping forward to lean in and let his lips brush your ear.
“Darlin’…you know there’s a rule ’round where I’m from.” His hand slips back to your waist, thumb hooking into a belt loop. “You take a man’s hat…” His teeth graze the shell of your ear, just enough to make your stomach drop. “You ride the cowboy.”
Your breath catches. His words slide right down your spine, molten and shameless. His hands pull you closer, his hair soft between your fingers, his mouth moving against yours like you’re something he’s hungry for. The hat sits crooked on your head, his scent clinging to it, and the way he keeps glancing up at it between kisses tells you he’s absolutely losing his mind over it.
“In that case, I sure hope you can last longer than eight seconds.” You murmur.
Tyler’s smirk is instant. He leans in to bring his lips to your ear again. “Oh, sweetheart…don’t you worry.” His thumb drags low over your bottom lip. “I’m sure as hell no minute man.”
His promise hangs between you, and you feel it low in your stomach. Tyler must see the way it hits you because his smirk fades into something hungrier. His hands settle on your hips like they were made for it, like he’s already decided you’re not leaving this party without his fingerprints on your skin.
The music throbs through the floorboards, but all you can really feel is him. His mouth drifts to your ear, breath warm, lips barely brushing the shell of it like he’s testing how close he can get before you break.
“Y’know…” he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl that curls right down your spine. “I could show you.”
You don’t even have time to ask show you what? The meaning is there in the way he presses you in tighter, in the slow grind of his hips against yours, in the way he watches your mouth like he’s counting the seconds until he gets another taste.
Your heartbeat is a damn stampede.
Before you can overthink it, he lowers his head, lips brushing your jaw, drifting toward your neck like he’s drawn to it. You tilt your chin up without even realizing you’re doing it. His smile ghosts against your skin.
You swear your knees go loose.
When he finally pulls back enough to meet your eyes, his hand slides into your back pocket. It’s possessive, casual, and intimate all at once. Your breath stutters.
Then, just for you, soft enough that it gets swallowed by the bass, “wanna get outta here? Just us?”
You were never supposed to leave with him. That was the rule. The girl code subclause written in glitter pen and blood: don’t. Don’t leave the party unless your best friend is passed out, unless you’re the last ones standing, unless you’re sober enough to recite every dumb reason you shouldn’t want him.
You glance over his shoulder, just for a second, and your friends are watching from across the room. Any hopes you had of them saving you immediately disappeared. They were watching the scene between you and Tyler unfold wide-eyed, mouths open, silently screaming do it, bitch.
You look back at him, and he’s already wearing that look, like he knows your answer before you say a word.
You nod.
His fingers tighten in your pocket, tugging you flush against him. The move is deliberate. Territorial. Like he wants everyone in this house to understand exactly who you’re leaving with.
“Attagirl,” he breathes, barely audible, and damn near ruinous.
Then he takes your hand, and threads your fingers together as he starts guiding you through the living room. The crowd shifts around him like he owns the place, and maybe he does, because no one tries to stop him. Not with the way he keeps glancing back at you, making sure you’re right behind him.
The gravel crunches under your boots as you head toward his truck, a low, dark shape waiting under the streetlight. He reaches it first, pauses, then glances back at you with that same crooked grin that’s been wrecking your focus all night.
“Hold up,” he says, and opens the passenger door for you.
You arch a brow. “Chivalry? In this economy?”
He chuckles, dipping his head. “Only for you.”
As you climb in, he leans closer instead of stepping back. One hand braces against the doorframe, boxing you in just enough to make your pulse jump.
“Just one more kiss,” he murmurs, like it’s an afterthought.
You snort softly. “You already said that inside.”
“And yet,” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth, “here we are.”
His lips find yours before you can answer. Slow at first. Unrushed but teasing. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise instead of a question. Your hands slide into his jacket, fingers curling in fabric as he deepens it, smiling into your mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
One more kiss turns into another. And another. Somewhere between the third and fourth, his thumb brushes your jaw, gentle and grounding, like he’s memorizing you.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. Both of you are breathing a little heavier now.
“So,” he says quietly, “your place or mine?”
You laugh, soft and a little breathless. “Is that how this works?”
He shrugs. “I’ve got a motel room. Clean sheets. Questionable art. Or I can follow you home.”
You pretend to think about it, dragging it out just to watch his jaw tighten a fraction. “You always this patient?”
“With the right motivation,” he says, eyes dark, smiling slow, “I can be.”
Your heart does a stupid little flip. “Drive,” you tell him. “I’ll decide on the way.”
Tyler walked around the front of the truck and slid into the driver’s seat. He turned the key, and the truck’s heater exhaled a fog of warmth.
“Buckle up,” he said, low and easy.
You did. Your hands shook, just a little, when you pulled the strap across your chest, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“What?” he asked, glancing over, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking at the radio.
You shrugged. “Nothing. Just—” The words tripped over themselves. “This is weird, right?”
“Weird’s good.” He looked over, the porchlight orange carving out his cheekbone. “Means you’re alive.”
You scoffed, but there was a bubble in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.
“So your place or mine?” He asked.
Tyler’s hand finds yours on the center console like it belongs there. His thumb drags lazily over your knuckles, back and forth, intentional enough to make your pulse trip every time.
You watch it for a second. Then you glance over at him. Streetlights pass in brief flashes, catching the edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He looks calmer now, but there’s still something simmering under the surface. Waiting.
“For the record,” he says, eyes still on the road, voice low, “I’m good either way.”
You hum, pretending to think about it longer than you need to. “You always let the girl decide?”
“Only when I know she’s gonna pick what she really wants.”
You smile a little at that, turning your head to look out the window, buying yourself one last second before you say it.
“Mine.”
Tyler’s grip tightens just slightly around your hand. When you glance back at him, that slow, satisfied smile is back.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs.
The rest of the drive feels shorter somehow. Or maybe it’s just that every second is stretched thin with anticipation. His hand never leaves yours. Neither of you rush the moment, but neither of you pull away from it either.
When he finally turns onto your street, everything goes quieter. Familiar houses. Dark windows. Porch lights flickering.
He slows in front of your place, truck idling as he takes it in.
“This you?” He asks, though he already knows.
“Yeah.”
He cuts the engine, and finally look at you.
“You sure?” He asks, softer now. Not teasing. Not cocky. Just real.
Your heart kicks, but you hold his gaze.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m sure.”
He’s out of the truck in seconds, rounding the front before you even have time to reach for the handle. He opens your door, hand already there for you. Your fingers slip into his, and you know this night isn’t slowing down anytime tonight.
The walk up your front path feels longer than it should. Maybe it’s the way your fingers are laced with his, tugging him along a little faster than necessary. Maybe it’s the way he lets you, like he’s enjoying the view of you getting just a little too eager.
Behind you, Tyler huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone’s in a hurry.”
You glance back over your shoulder, the porch light catching the brim of his hat still sitting crooked on your head. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, but he’s smiling.
You reach the door, fumbling slightly with your keys. Your hands aren’t shaking exactly, but they’re definitely not steady either. You can feel him step in behind you, close enough that the heat of him presses into your back.
His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting for it all night. His thumbs brush slow absent circles through the fabric of your shirt, and your breath catches as you try to get the key into the lock.
“Easy,” he murmurs, lips just barely brushing your ear. “Door’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“You don’t know that,” you shoot back, but it comes out softer than intended.
He chuckles low behind you, and it vibrates straight through your spine.
The lock finally clicks. You barely have time to push the door open before he’s guiding you inside, one hand still on your waist, the other reaching past you to shut the door. It closes with a solid click and something shifts.
The second it latches, Tyler’s on you. He turns you fast, backing you up against the door, one hand braced beside your head, the other tightening at your waist like he’s done pretending he’s patient.
“Darlin’…” he starts, but whatever he was gonna say dies the second your hands fist in the collar of his shirt and yank him down to you.
You kiss him hard. Tyler makes a low, surprised sound against your mouth before he’s kissing you back just as hard, just as desperate.
His hand slides from your waist to your jaw, thumb pressing lightly under your chin as he tilts your face up, deepening the kiss like he’s trying to take his time and failing miserably.
You let your hands wander, mapping the V of his back under cotton, fingers slipping under the hem and feeling the heat of his skin.
He fisted your shirt, slid his hands under, slow enough to give you a chance to object. You didn’t. You wanted his hands everywhere, wanted them marking you up. You wanted to leave fingerprints on his ribs, his collarbones, his spine.
You staggered up the stairs together, slamming off the banister, laughing into each other’s mouths, neither willing to break contact for even a second. At your door, he pressed you to the frame and kissed your neck, your jaw, the soft skin just under your ear. You didn’t know you could even make those sounds. It thrilled you to hear him echo it, voice low and just barely in control.
He backed off a few inches and whispered, “Been thinkin’ about this since the second I saw you.”
You believed him, mostly because you’d been thinking about it too.
You led him into your room. It was pitch black except the soft glow from the streetlight out front. But you weren’t worried. You didn’t need to see. You knew the lay of the room by heart from every tangle of blanket to every pile of laundry. He landed on the edge of your bed and pulled you onto his lap, hands steady at your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles through your shirt.
You ground your hips against him and felt the way he arched up, couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide the way he needed you. He groaned and laughed against your shoulder.
“You’re gonna kill me, woman,” he said.
You replied by pulling his shirt up and over his head. He wasn’t sculpted, not like the boys from TV and movies, but every inch of him was mapped to the work he did, the hours he spent outside. Scars, sunburn, the trace of a tan line. You ran your hands down his chest and he let you, head tipped back, mouth parted in open invitation.
You yanked your own shirt over your head, the fabric twisting awkwardly at your wrists. It hit the floor somewhere near the pile of pajamas you forgot to pick up this morning, and you barely registered the chill on your skin because he was already reaching for you.
Tyler’s hands found your ribs, his thumbs spanning across your stomach. He leaned in, pausing just enough to search your eyes, and when you didn’t flinch or look away, he kissed you again. Softer this time, almost careful, as if the last round had been the fever dream and this was the part that mattered.
He pulled back a millimeter, breath skimming your cheek, and you watched him fumble for the right next move. He cupped your jaw, and really looked at you. You’d spent your entire life deflecting this kind of attention, and now it was here, unblinking, and you didn’t know what to do with it except let it happen.
The air in your room was still, thick with the heat of summer and breath and memory. The humming outside streetlight, the muffled whirr of your ceiling fan, and the creak of the old bed frame.
He kissed your collarbone, your shoulder, the spot where your bra had left a groove in your skin, and everywhere he touched, you felt a pulse like a fresh bruise. He laid you back, one hand beneath your head, the other splayed across your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight, and you arched up to meet him, mouth hungry for him.
You mapped his back with your palms, traced the line of his spine, learned the shape of him in a way that felt both foreign and destined. He shivered when you grazed your nails up his side, and you did it again, just to watch the ripple of sensation. You felt his pulse everywhere your skin met his, a drumming insistence that was making you dizzy.
His hand slid up, knuckles rough against your sternum, and hovered at the band of your bra. He caught your eye, waiting for a nod, a word, any sign. You grinned, and reached back to unhook it yourself, letting it fall between you. For a second, you were sure you’d ruined everything. Your body now partially on display for him, knowing he had probably been with skinnier and prettier girls before. But he just looked at you with that same reverence as earlier.
His hands splayed, and he pressed his lips to the hollow between your breasts, the soft curve above your heart, the sloping edge of your ribcage. He was learning you.
You laughed, suddenly, at the absurdity of it, and he did too, burying his face in your shoulder. The noise cut the tension, and you both shook with it, relief twined with want. Then you were kissing again, harder, deeper, and his hands were at your hips, pulling you closer, until you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.
You let your own hands wander, trailing down his back, over the waistband of his jeans. You hesitated because you wanted to savor the moment: the anticipation, the not knowing, the way your heart tried to claw its way out of your chest. You could feel him trembling, just a bit, and it thrilled you, how you could make him unravel with a single touch.
You unsnapped the button of his jeans, and he let you, lips never leaving yours. You slid your palm against the heat of his stomach, fingers dipping lower, mapping the V that pointed you toward where he wanted you most. His breath stuttered, and he broke the kiss to watch you, eyes wide and dark.
You traced the waistband of his underwear, teasing him. He braced himself on his elbows, head back, pulse pounding in his throat. You then hooked your fingers into the elastic of his underwear, pulling it just enough to fit your hand inside. He was hot and hard.
“Fuck,” he said, voice high and breaking.
You started slow, teasing him with just a little pressure. The rhythm built itself, slower at first, but then he met you, hips flexing up into your hand, until it was a fever you both caught and couldn’t shake loose. His hands tightened at your sides.
He never broke eye contact. Even when his pupils went wide with want, or when he gasped and bit down on the sound, he kept watching you. It made you reckless. It made you want to see what else you could get out of him: what sounds, what words, what surrender.
Then he moved, deliberate, pulling you onto his lap so your thighs bracketed his. You could feel him pressing into you, but he didn’t rush it. He slid his hands up, mapping the backs of your legs, thumbs painting circles toward the edge of your shorts.
He hooked his fingers into your waistband, drew them down slowly, and you lifted your hips to help. The air was cold but his hands were not, and when he touched you, it was with a confidence that came from the way he clearly needed to make you come apart. He didn’t ask if it was okay. He asked with his hands, and you answered with yours, catching at his wrists, guiding him harder, closer, exactly where you wanted.
You bit down on his shoulder, muffling the gasp that wanted to rip out of you, and his whole body jerked in response, an electric arc that traveled from his skin to yours. He whispered your name into your neck, almost a prayer, and then he was kissing you again, the kind of kiss that threatened to undo you entirely.
He ran his hands down your back, slow, then gripped your ass with both palms, holding you in place as he pushed up into you, letting you feel just how much he wanted it.
When you finally got him out of his jeans, you both laughed at the awkwardness. Like the way the denim caught on his knees and boots.. It broke the tension, made you both human again, less like a wet dream and more like a thing that could actually happen to people like you.
He laid you back on the bed, and kissed down your chest, leaving little marks.
“You’re perfect,” he said, a little awed, and you wanted to argue, but he was already kissing down your chest, over your ribs, stopping at the scar on your hip and tracing it with his tongue like it was holy.
You arched your back, spine pushing into the mattress as he thrust inside you, and for a heartbeat it was the only thing in the universe: him, the friction, the sweat-slick tangle of limbs, the heat pulsing in your veins.
You raked your hands through his hair, felt it damp and wild between your fingers, pulled him in and bit his lip. He gasped into your mouth, the sound turning into a laugh, and then he bit you back, not quite gentle, like he was trying to leave evidence.
He kissed your throat, your clavicle, the inside of your elbow, mapping you with lips and teeth. You rose to meet him, greedy for it, and he found a rhythm with his hips that was less a pattern and more a negotiation. Slowing to savor, then speeding up when you begged, then stopping altogether to just stare at you, as if he needed to see the look on your face when you took him deep.
You tried to keep your eyes open too, but every time you did, he looked at you like you were the last stretch of daylight, like he was afraid to blink and miss it. No one had ever watched you this way before. No one had ever seemed so intent on memorizing your every sound and motion, as if the story of his life depended on getting you exactly right. It made you want to show him everything, to strip yourself of any pretense or shame, to let him see the parts of you you’d always hidden or denied.
When you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, you felt him tremble, the last shred of his composure dissolving. He braced himself up on his elbows, nose brushing yours, sweat dotting his forehead, and he muttered something into your cheek. You couldn’t quite make it out, but you heard the word “perfect”.
He slowed again, and the tension in you built so sharp you thought you’d snap. You clawed at his back, heels digging into the small of him, and he nearly sobbed when you clenched. The friction was raw and close to pain, but you wanted more, wanted to see how far you could pull him, how much you could take, how much he could give. He shifted, angling his hips, and you let out a sound that was half curse, half surrender. You felt him smile against your neck, felt the way his whole body shuddered with the knowledge that he could do this to you.
He hooked your knee up, opened you wider, went deeper, and you saw fireworks behind your clenched eyelids. He picked up the rhythm again, and you met him every inch, every thrust, every gasp, the bedframe knocking into the wall with every movement. You didn’t care. You wanted to leave marks, to fill the whole house with a record of this moment, to make it impossible for either of you to pretend it hadn’t happened.
He kissed your ear, your hair, your jaw, like he couldn’t get enough of you. You felt his hand slip between your bodies, find your clit, and stroke it in time with the motion.
You let go so hard you almost blacked out, clutching at his shoulders. Your nails left little crescent indents in his skin. Your body seized around him, every nerve lit up so bright you. You arched up, neck straining, jaw open.
He came with a stifled gasp, clinging to you like he might fracture otherwise, every muscle in his body gone rigid and desperate. You felt it as a shudder that ran through his spine, out through his arms and into your skin, his heart pounding so fast you could feel it at every point where your bodies met. His breath caught and then came out in a soft, half choked moan that landed hot against your neck.
He collapsed onto you, all his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close while your pulse thundered in your ears. You could feel every beat of his heart, every ragged breath, the sweat slicking his back and your chest, the reality of him so overwhelming you almost laughed. He nuzzled your neck, mouth open and panting, his hair damp with sweat.
Your legs were trembling, your body humming with aftershocks, and you couldn’t let go of him. You wanted him to stay inside you to keep the illusion that there was nothing in the world but the tangle of limbs, the heat of skin, the shared silence so thick it felt like its own dimension. You had never been so exposed, so unguarded, and it should have scared the hell out of you, but it didn’t. The fear was gone, replaced by something steadier and deeper, something that told you that this was the safest place you’d ever been.
When he finally rolled off to the side, he took you with him, arm locked around your waist, face buried in your shoulder. He pulled you close, tangled your legs together, held you so tight you thought you’d bruise. You let him, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in, the smell of sweat and sex and summer rain filtering in from the open window. The air was electric, charged with what you’d done, with the storm outside and the storm inside your chest, both of them refusing to dissipate.
Eventually, he moved just enough to break the spell. He shifted his weight, stretched, then brought his hand up to brush the hair from your forehead. His knuckles were gentle, almost reverent. He pressed a kiss to your temple, and his mouth lingered there. He grinned, and for a moment his usual swagger tried to reclaim the space between you, but the attempt collapsed under the weight of what you’d just done to each other.
There was something different in his smile now. It was softer, almost fragile. The bravado you’d seen at the bar had been stripped away, and in its place was a kind of naked awe.
You curled your fingers into his hair, bringing him down to rest his head on your chest. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the kind that told you he’d been holding his breath for longer than either of you would admit. His arms found you again, wrapping around your waist and pulling you in until you were tangled, skin to skin, every edge and angle lined up so nothing could slip between. He stayed like that, refusing to let go, as if giving even an inch would mean losing everything that had just happened.
The air in the room was thick with heat and sweat and the scent of him, the taste of salt still lingering on your tongue. There were probably things you should have done. Found a blanket. Cleaned up. At least checked the clock to see how much of the night you’d burned through. But you didn’t move.
He shifted once more, just enough to meet your eyes. “You good?”
You nodded. For the first time in ages, you felt held, not just physically but in the way he looked at you. You wondered what he saw, what story he was telling himself about the kind of person you were, and the kind of person you might become if you let this keep happening.
It was tempting to deflect with sarcasm or push him off the bed like you’d done a thousand times before. But you didn’t. You let yourself be held.
At some point, you must have drifted, because you woke to find him tracing absentminded shapes along your arm. He was still awake, eyelids heavy, watching you. He smiled, but it was a quieter smile, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything.
You both fell asleep without ever bothering to clean up. Sheets tangled around your legs, his arm a weight across your stomach, your heartbeat slow and steady against his chest. He held you the whole time, even as he snored quietly, but enough that you could feel the vibration through his ribs. Neither of you stirred until the light outside the window shifted, the storm finally breaking, the thunder giving way to the soft drum of rain against the glass.
-
Tag List - if you'd like to be tagged please let me know. I did start a new tag list as my old one had a lot of inactive usernames and people that weren't interacting with my posts. If you were on the old one and would like to be added to the new one, please let me know with a comment
@crossskylinesandcontrails I @echoingbirdsofprey I @fanficmom94 I @simplypaisleyjane I @khouse712 I @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 I @football1921 I @literal-tv-menace I @elizabeth-holland24 I @mylifeisanoxymoron21 I @bellarkeselection I @auntiechele I @avengersfan25 I @dumbassusername I @jbennsquared I @calirindo I @fantasyfootballchampion I @pensfan5871 I @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87 I @lunatygerqueen I @hookslove1592 I @lulunothulu I @hunterthecharmer I @mrsevans90 I @lauraseresin I @x3zerochanx3 I @teacupsandtopgun I @queenslandlover-93 I @isabelstardis I @myglenpowellera I @idontwannabehere78 I @tylerscowboyhat
The Shape of You
Summary: After a messy breakup, you escape to Pittsburgh for a weekend with your best friend, Dennis Whitaker, the one person who’s always felt like home. Between late night conversations and the kind of closeness that’s always blurred the line between friendship and something more, it becomes harder to ignore what’s been right in front of you all along.
Tropes: Friends to Lovers. Idiots in Love. Miscommunication.
Warnings: Mentions of past toxic/unstable relationships. Mentions of emotional manipulation by an ex. Miscommunication between characters. Jealousy between characters. Explicit sexual content (nudity, mentions of biting and leaving marks, protected p in v sex, aftercare). Santos being a meddling menace but in a good way.
Word Count: ~10,100
Author’s Note: Hi!! this is my first time writing for Dennis Whitaker (and The Pitt in general), so please be gentle with me. I’d love to know what you think 🫶 I’ve been a little obsessed with his character, and this story kind of grew out of that. This is very much a soft, emotional, friends-to-lovers moment with some messy feelings mixed in. I hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it 💛
The first thing you notice is how loud Pittsburgh International Airport is. Wheels of rolling suitcases rattling against the terrazzo flooring. An announcement overhead lets passengers know that the flight to Cleveland is now delayed, which then causes a sea of groans from frustrated passengers. Then there’s the low hum of people moving in every direction around you.
You shift your bag higher on your shoulder, scanning the crowd again, your phone still loosely in your hand. You consider texting him for a second to see where he’s at.
Then you see him. Your eyes land on him standing a little off to the side, hands shoved into his jacket pocket. He’s looking around, probably trying to find you in the crowd.
“Dennis.”
His head turns, and his eyes find you immediately. There’s a split second where something in his expression shifts into something softer.
You rush over to him, not stopping until your arms are around him, your face pressing into his shoulder. He’s warm and familiar in a way that hits you harder than you expected it to. His arms come around you a second later as he pulls you in.
“You made it,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair.
Neither of you pulls away right away. You both hang on an extra second. Maybe two. Longer than you probably should, but he’s not complaining so you savor it. Then you pull back, and look up at him.
“Hi,” you say, like you didn’t just bury your face in his shoulder in the middle of an airport.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Hi.”
Up close, he looks the same. And also not. His hair’s a little longer than the last time you saw him, slightly messy like he’s still got the bad habit of running his hands through it when he’s stressed. There’s a faint crease between his brows that you don’t remember being there.
He’s also…attractive now? Not in a knock your socks off kind of way. Just…different. It’s been almost a year since you’ve seen him in person, and somewhere along the way he seems to have grown into himself a little more.
The dorky, slightly awkward Dennis you remember is still there, but now it’s balanced out. He’s filled out just a little more. Your eyes linger half a second too long before you catch yourself, something unexpected settling in your chest as you push any of those thoughts away immediately. He glances down at your bag.
“You just have one?” He asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “I packed light.”
He gives you a look. “You never pack light.”
“Wow,” you scoff lightly. “Okay, rude.
He shrugs, reaching for the strap to take it from you.
“Hey–” you start, but he’s already slid the bag off your shoulder.
Your fingers loosen around the strap without thinking. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He nods once, like it’s nothing. Then he turns and starts toward the exit, glancing back just enough to make sure you’re following. “Your flight okay?”
“Yeah. Just long,” you say. “And the guy next to me would not stop trying to talk to me.”
He huffs out a laugh as his lips curve into a little grin that makes his dimples show, and it makes you feel a little warm inside. You forgot how much you missed Dennis until now.
The air outside the airport is cooler than you expected. You breathe it in automatically, the shift from the airplane and airport air to something real makes your shoulders drop a fraction. Dennis heads toward the parking lot, adjusting your bag on his shoulder.
You watch him for a second, taking in that there’s something different. He moves with more certainty than you remember. Like he’s less unsure of himself. Less tentative, even. Like he’s settled into himself in a way that didn’t exist before.
“You okay?” He asks, glancing at you again.
“Yeah,” you say quickly, slightly caught off guard by his question. “Just tired.”
He studies you for a second longer than necessary.
“You look it,” he says.
You huff a small laugh. “Wow, already insulting me.”
“I mean it,” he says, a little softer this time. “You okay?”
The tone he uses makes it really hard to lie. You consider it, just for a second. Then you shrug.
“I’m fine,” you say. “Just…everything, you know?”
He nods, like that’s a good enough answer for you. Or at the very least like he doesn’t need you to explain it all right now.
“Yeah,” he says. “I get it.”
The car ride is easy. Music playing low in the background. It’s something familiar but not distracting or overpowering. The kind of quiet that’s comfortable. You lean your head back against the seat, watching the city pass by through the window.
“You hungry?” He asks after a minute.
“Always.” you say with a smirk.
“Figured.”
You smile to yourself. There’s something about being here, next to him, with nothing expected of you, that makes your chest feel lighter than it has in weeks. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to explain yourself. You can just…be.
“I can make you something if you want to crash when we get back,” he adds. “Or we can grab food first. Whatever you’re up for.”
You glance over at him. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the gear shift of his 2012 Corolla.
“We can just head to your place,” you say. “I think I just want to relax for a bit.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
You find yourself studying him once again, his profile more defined, jawline dusted with the day’s shadow. His hair is longer than before, a mess of curls that looks like he’s been too busy to get it cut. He’s still shorter than you, but the years have given him a lean, careful strength. You realize, unbidden, that he’s handsome. Not in the movie sense, but in a way that sneaks up on you, makes you wonder what else you’ve been missing.
You must have been staring, because he grins. “What?”
You shake your head. “Nothing. Just…it’s good to see you.”
His ears flush, a subtle pink you remember from high school. “Yeah, you too. Been too long.”
You let your eyes drift to the window again. Dennis taps his fingers on the steering wheel.
“So. You wanna talk about it now, or later?”
“About what?”
He gives you a skeptical look. “Come on.”
You sigh, sink a little deeper into the seat.
“Later,” you say.
The rest of the drive is spent in companionable silence, the kind you only get with someone who’s seen you at your most unguarded.
He kills the engine, then just sits, hands on the keys, looking straight ahead.
You nudge his arm. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says. But his voice is quieter, the word stretched thin. He turns to you, finally. “I’m just glad you’re here. Really.”
“Me too,” you say.
Dennis’s apartment is on the second floor, just past the odor threshold where the stairwell shifts from institutional cleanser to a blend of dinners and incense and a humidity particular to old radiators.
Dennis pushes the door open, stepping aside slightly to let you in first, your bag still slung over his shoulder.
“This is it,” he says, like it’s nothing.
You step in slowly, taking it in. The living room opens up right away. Clean lines, neutral colors, everything sitting exactly where it’s supposed to be. The couch is neat, a blanket folded over the arm like it was placed there on purpose instead of tossed. There’s a plant by the window that’s not just alive, but thriving, leaves catching the light like someone actually takes care of it.
Your brows lift slightly. “This is…nice.”
Dennis huffs quietly behind you, like he already knows what you’re thinking. “Yeah.”
It doesn’t feel like him. It’s a little too polished and structured. Then your eyes catch on something small. A hoodie draped over the back of one of the chairs, looking slightly out of place compared to everything else around it.
That feels like the Dennis you remember.
He moves past you then, heading toward what you assume is the kitchen, setting your bag down carefully near the counter instead of just dropping it.
“You want water or something?” He asks.
“Yeah,” you say, still looking around. “Water’s good.”
The kitchen is just as put together. Clean counters. Organized without looking obsessive. Everything in its place, but still clearly used. You lean lightly against the counter, watching him as he grabs a glass.
“Okay,” you say slowly, “I’m kind of impressed.”
He glances at you, handing you the glass. “With?”
“The apartment.” You say as you take a sip. “It’s nice. Feels…calm.”
Dennis leans back against the counter across from you, arms crossing loosely.
“Yeah,” he says. “It is. I really appreciate Santos offering me her spare room.”
“Santos?”
“My roommate.”
The knot in your stomach tightens, just a little. You’re still not used to him having a life you haven’t seen, let alone other people who occupy the same space he does.
“She’s cool. We don’t really overlap much, except when we work the same shifts.” He rubs a hand through his hair, making it stand even wilder. “It’s not weird. I think you’ll like her.”
Before you can ask any of the questions crowding your tongue How did you meet? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you sleeping together? the door swings open and in breezes Santos herself.
She’s wearing black scrubs and has her hair pulled back in a pony tail. She pauses when she sees you, scans you up and down in one efficient sweep, then grins like you’re a surprise she’s been hoping for.
“Ah, the guest,” she says.
Her voice is warm and low, a little hoarse like she’s been up for hours, which if she’s leaving the hospital, she probably has been. She drops her bag on the floor, toes off her shoes, and comes over with an outstretched hand. “Santos. Don’t believe half of what Huckleberry here tells you about me.”
“Huckleberry?” You repeat, glancing at Dennis.
He groans immediately, dragging a hand down his face. “Please don’t–”
“—he loves it,” Santos cuts in smoothly, not even looking at him as she shakes your hand. Her grip is firm, confident. “Won’t admit it, but he does.”
You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “I can tell.”
“I don’t,” Dennis mutters, pushing off the counter. “I really don’t.”
“Mm,” Santos hums, unconvinced, already moving past you toward the fridge like she’s done this exact routine a hundred times. “Sure.”
She grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, twists the cap open, and takes a long sip before leaning back against the counter across from you. Her eyes flick to you again, taking you in.
“So,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “You’re the Nebraska friend?”
You nod. “That’s me.”
“Huh.” She glances briefly at Dennis, then back to you, something almost amused flickering in her expression.
Santos pushes off the counter, grabbing her bag again.
“I’m gonna shower and pretend this shift didn’t happen,” she says, already halfway to the hall. Then she pauses, glancing back at you.
“Make yourself at home,” she adds. “Seriously.”
Her gaze flicks to Dennis for half a second, something subtle and unreadable passing between them, before she looks back at you.
“Try not to let him hover too much.”
“I don’t hover,” Dennis says immediately.
“You absolutely hover.”
“I don’t—”
“You made her take the inside of the sidewalk, didn’t you?”
Dennis stops. You blink.
“…Yes,” you say slowly.
Santos nods like she just proved a point. “Case closed.”
“I was being polite,” he mutters.
“You were hovering.”
She gives you one last look then disappears down the hall. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Dennis sits across from you and leans in, elbows on the table.
“Sorry. She’s kind of a lot,” he says, but his voice is soft, almost fond.
You swirl the water in your glass. “You didn’t tell me you had a roommate.”
He shrugs. “Never came up.”
Something needles at you. The ease between them, the way Santos seems at home in every square inch of the place. The way Dennis only seems to occupy the negative space. You want to ask more about their relationship, but you don’t.
Instead, you follow him to the couch, where he queues up a movie you’ve seen a thousand times but never gets tired of. He hands you a pillow and sits at the far end, legs curled under him, one eye on you and one on his phone, waiting for the food delivery he ordered.
“So,” he says, “you want to tell me about the breakup with frat boy number 3?”
It’s not an ambush, but it sure feels like one.
“Not much to tell. We wanted different things.”
Dennis nods, like he’s turning the information over in his head. “You holding up okay?”
You want to say yes. Instead, you say, “It’s weird. I miss him, but I also miss missing him, if that makes sense.”
Dennis’s eyes linger on you a beat too long. You feel yourself flush, suddenly seventeen again, like he’s the only person in the world who gets you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t keep in better touch. I kept meaning to, but–” he waves a hand, as if to dismiss the world’s entire weight.
You lean in, chin propped on your hand. “Well I’m here now. Can’t avoid me now.”
He looks at you, really looks, and his brow furrows the way it always has when he’s about to say something serious.
“Why’d you really come?” He asks, soft.
“I just missed you. Wanted to see you.” You admit.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches over, and rests his hand over yours.
After dinner is delivered and you’ve both eaten far too much, you stretch out next to him, socks brushing his calves, both of you half reclined.
For a while you make fun of the movie, trading sarcastic remarks. But eventually the dialogue fades, replaced by the soft, regular sound of his breathing and the even softer rhythm of his heart somewhere nearby.
It’s only when your head drifts to his shoulder and stays there that you notice the tension in his frame, the slight way he stiffens as if weighing the possibilities: pull away and risk hurting you, or stay and risk something else. The calculation doesn’t take long as he relaxes, lets you settle, then brings his arm up and around your back.
You don’t remember closing your eyes, but the world around you begins to soften, blurring at the edges. The low hum of the movie fades into the background, a gentle white noise that lulls you deeper into comfort. Each breath Dennis takes creates a rhythm beneath your cheek, steady and reassuring, like a heartbeat that syncs with your own.
You shift slightly, nestling closer, letting the warmth of his arm envelop you completely. It feels like a cocoon. The subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath you becomes your anchor, grounding you.
As the scenes on the screen flicker, they seem to mirror the gentle sway of your thoughts, drifting further away from the weight of the world and the worries that lingered at the surface. You find solace in the simplicity of the way his fingers rest against your waist, casual yet protective, as if he knows you need this safety.
Soft shadows play across his features, and you allow yourself to trace the outline of his face with your half-closed eyes. You breathe in the familiar scent of him and let it fill your lungs, a mixture of comfort and calmness. In that moment, you surrender to the gentle pull of sleep, letting it wash over you like a tide, knowing that here, in his presence, you are exactly where you belong.
* * * * * * * *
You wake up to quiet. You open your eyes and see a thin stripe of morning sun crawling across the unfamiliar carpet. The couch is warm beneath you, and you realize you’re pressed against Dennis, his back resting against the cushions.
His arms are wrapped securely around you, holding you close, and for a moment, you feel cocooned in the softness of the morning light. It’s disorienting but pleasant, like forgetting you dyed your hair and seeing yourself in the mirror the next morning.
You don’t remember falling asleep, but the last thing you recall is being curled up into Dennis. Now, you’re nestled against him.
Carefully, you start to shift, inching your way out of his embrace without waking him. You tiptoe from the couch, the soft floor beneath your feet barely making a sound.
When you make your way into the kitchen, Santos lowers her phone in her hand and eyes you.
“Morning,” she says, already sounding amused. “Sleep okay?”
The way she says it makes you instantly aware of yourself. Your messy hair, Dennis’ borrowed sweatshirt on you, and the fact that she more than likely saw you and Dennis cuddled up on the couch.
“Yeah,” you say. “Didn’t expect to crash so hard.”
“Big travel day,” she says, like she’s doing you a favor by filling in your excuse for you. She takes a sip from her mug. “You want coffee, or are you one of those people who drinks hot water and calls it ‘tea’?”
“She’ll have coffee,” Dennis says from behind you, voice lower than usual. “Milk and sugar are in the fridge.”
The coffee is stronger than you’re used to, and it burns a line down your throat. You focus on the heat, the way it wakes up the back of your mouth. Dennis pours himself a mug and stands across the island from you, arms crossed, trying to look anywhere but directly at you. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of his hands, the faint nick on his right knuckle, the way he taps his fingers when he’s thinking.
Santos finishes her coffee and tosses the mug in the sink, then pivots to face you. “Well you two have fun, I’ll be at the Pitt for the next twelveish hours if you need me.”
Once she’s gone, the air shifts. It isn’t exactly tense, but there’s an echo of something that lingers. Dennis finally looks at you, the concern from earlier now softened into something more careful.
“Sorry about Santos,” he says. “She likes to poke at things.”
You set your mug down. “She’s fine. I like her.”
He seems relieved, but only a little. He leans on the counter, eyes tracing the rim of his mug. “If you want to talk about last night—”
You cut him off. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.
Outside, the street is starting to fill with cars. You watch as a jogger sprints past the window, led by a blur of yellow labs. Everything feels very normal, but it makes the strangeness of your own situation even more stark. You’re still in your borrowed clothes, still in this apartment, still not sure what you’re supposed to do next.
You take another sip, let the bitterness settle, and look around the kitchen. It’s too calm. Everything is exactly where it should be. Clean counters. Sunlight catching the edge of the sink. The quiet hum of the fridge filling the space between you. It makes it easier to pretend nothing’s changed.
You shift your weight slightly, arms folding loosely around yourself.
“Did I, uh–” you start, then hesitate. “Did I snore or anything?”
“No,” he says, a small huff of a laugh in his voice. “You were out.”
“Good,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now.
There’s something under that. Something you don’t quite look at directly. You tap your fingers lightly against your mug, watching the way the coffee ripples.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” you add after a second, aiming for casual. “Jet lag and all that.”
Dennis finally looks up at you then.
“It’s fine,” he says.
He shifts slightly, pushing off the counter just enough to move, then stopping like he’s not sure where to go.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, like he’s explaining something you didn’t ask.
Your chest tightens, just a little.
“You could’ve,” you say, though it comes out softer than you intend.
He shakes his head.
“You looked like you needed the sleep.”
There it is again. That way he has of knowing. Of seeing things you don’t say out loud. You swallow, fingers tightening slightly around your mug.
“Right,” you say. “Yeah.”
“I can make breakfast,” he offers, a little too quickly. “Or we could go out. There’s a place down the street—”
“Dennis.”
He stops, and finally looks at you again. You hesitate, just for a second, then let out a small breath.
“I’m okay,” you say. “Really.”
“Okay,” he says.
He believes you. Or at least he’s choosing to. You nod once, more to yourself than to him, then glance toward the living room. The couch is still slightly rumpled, the blanket half-slipped off the side.
“So,” you say, forcing a lighter tone, “what’s the plan for today?”
“I figured we could keep it low-key,” he says. “Walk around a bit, grab food. Nothing crazy.”
“Low-key sounds good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Another small pause. But this one is easier. More familiar. You take one last sip of your coffee, setting the mug down with a soft clink.
“Okay,” you say, pushing off the counter. “Give me, like, ten minutes to look like a person again?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You look fine.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Be serious.”
“I am.”
There’s no teasing in it. Just quiet honesty. It catches you off guard in a way you don’t let show.
“Ten minutes,” you repeat, already turning toward the hallway.
“Take your time,” he says.
You nod, heading toward the guest room, the soft hum of the apartment settling around you again.
Behind you, Dennis stays where he is for a second longer. Then he exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. His gaze flicks toward the the couch, the blanket, the place you’d been curled into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like it meant nothing. Or…like it meant everything.
His jaw tightens slightly. Then he looks away, reaching for his mug again like that’ll ground him.
You don’t end up taking ten minutes. It’s closer to fifteen or twenty. You spend most of that time just standing in front of the mirror trying to shake off the strange, lingering feeling you’ve had since you woke up wrapped up by Dennis.
By the time you step back into the hallway, the apartment smells faintly like fresh coffee and something toasted.
Dennis is by the door, tying his shoes, a jacket already thrown on like he’s been waiting a minute but didn’t want to rush you.
He glances up when he hears you. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you say.
You linger for half a second, suddenly aware of yourself all over again. Your hair is pulled back now, his sweatshirt swapped for one of your own.
“You ready?” He asks.
“Yeah,” you say, grabbing your shoes by the door and slipping them on. “Lead the way.”
There’s a brief moment where you both reach for the door at the same time. Your hands brush. You both pause. Then pull back just as quickly.
“You got it,” he says, stepping aside.
You push the door open, stepping out into the hallway, the cool air hitting you just enough to clear your head. He follows close behind, locking the door with a quiet click.
There’s a steady flow of people moving along the sidewalk, cars passing in the street, the low hum of everything already in motion. You take a slow breath, letting it settle in your lungs.
“So,” you say, glancing over at him, “where are you taking me?”
“There’s a coffee place down the street,” he says. “And a park a little further out. Figured we could just walk.”
You smile faintly. “Walk sounds good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He nods, falling into step beside you. You don’t notice it right away. The way he shifts slightly so he’s walking on the outside of the sidewalk. But when you do, you glance at him.
“Wow,” you say lightly.
He glances over. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Just…very gentlemanly of you.”
He frowns slightly. “What are you talking about?”
You nod toward the street. “You switching sides.”
He looks confused for half a second. Then it clicks.
“Oh.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Habit, I guess.”
“Mm,” you hum, looking ahead again.
Habit. Right.
You tuck your hands into your pockets, the breeze catching slightly at your sleeves.
“You’ve changed,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He glances at you again, brow furrowing. “How?”
“You just—” you start, then shake your head slightly. “I don’t know. You seem…different.”
He’s quiet for a second.
Then asks, “Good different or bad different?”
You look at him. Really look. At the way he carries himself now, the quiet steadiness in him that wasn’t quite there before.
“Good,” you say softly.
Something in his expression eases at that. He continues walking, and you follow. You’re vaguely aware you should be looking around you. You came out here with the excuse to see Pittsburgh. You’re supposed to be paying attention to bridges, or Primanti sandwiches, or whatever it is that makes this place special, but mostly you just pay attention to Dennis.
You keep up with the banter, the shared glances, the pauses when he tells a story and you can tell he’s leaving out some details for your benefit. There’s a nice little loop to the day: over the bridge, down to the Point, sitting on the cold cement while a group of teenagers do tricks on skateboards and look embarrassed when they wipe out. You watch them for a while, Dennis narrating until the smallest one sticks a landing and they all erupt like they just won gold.
You find a secondhand shop, mostly junk, but Dennis drags you inside on the promise of “the best/worst records in the tristate area.”
By noon, you’re both a little sunburned and a lot overdressed for the muggy heat. You duck into a bookstore to cool off. Dennis heads straight for the medical section while you wander over to the romance section.
You walk some more, the city flattening out as you move toward the river. Dennis stops at a hotdog stand, buys you both “the most questionable lunch in North America.” You eat on a bench, and when the mustard slips onto your shirt, he dabs at it with a napkin, which is mortifying, but you let him.
At some point, he asks you if you’re okay. The words are quiet, not meant for anyone else, and he’s looking out at the water, not at you.
“I’m good,” you say. “Why?”
He shrugs. “You get this look sometimes.”
You think about that. You think about how much your last relationship took out of you. You think about how easy it would be to tell Dennis about that, about all the mess you left behind, but you don’t want to. Not yet.
Instead, you say, “Maybe I’m just hungry again. Is that allowed?”
He grins, all soft edges. “You’re among friends. It’s encouraged.”
The day wears on. You pass murals and fire escapes, children’s parks with bright plastic slides, old men playing chess with pieces that don’t match. You watch Dennis as much as you watch the city. His eyes always scanning, noting, and remembering
You imagine yourself living here. Moving from Nebraska and being out here closer to him. The idea isn’t as outlandish as you would expect. You imagine waking up in a little apartment like Dennis and Santos have. You imagine fitting yourself into the shape of this life.
You wonder, then, about Santos. If she has always fit into his life, or if Dennis just makes room for everyone like he does for you.
You ask, as you cross a side street where the traffic slows just enough, “How long have you and Santos lived together?”
Dennis looks surprised by the question. He stops walking, runs a hand through his hair in a way that’s almost performative.
“Oh,” he says. “A year or so? I don’t know. I moved in when I started at the hospital.”
He waits, as if you’re supposed to have a follow-up question. You don’t, but he offers more anyway.
“She had a spare room. Didn’t want to pay the whole lease herself. We got along.”
“Were you friends before?”
“Not really. Met through rotations. But you know how it is, you work a twelve-hour shift with someone, you either bond or you never speak again.”
Dennis glances over, gives you a look like he’s trying to figure out what you’re really asking.
“Santos is great,” he says, carefully.
You keep walking. The conversation shifts. You talk about books, about how you both failed driver’s ed the first time because the instructor was a hard ass, about your mutual suspicion of people who say they love the taste of licorice.
The sky goes from gray to pink. You both stop on the bridge, hands on the railing, looking out at the city lights waking up.
“Thanks for showing me around,” you say, because it feels like the right thing to do.
Dennis doesn’t look at you, just grins into the distance.
“Of course,” he says. “Anytime.”
You walk the rest of the way home in a comfortable silence, matching strides. It’s almost like you belong here. Almost. You wonder if Dennis feels the same, but you don’t ask. Some things are better left unsaid, at least for now.
* * * * * * * *
When you get back to the apartment, your feet ache from walking. You sink down onto the couch, exhaling as your body finally catches up with you. Your phone is still in your pocket because you hadn’t checked it all afternoon.
You pull it out. Big mistake. A text. From him. Your stomach drops before you even open it.
Dennis joins you on the couch just as you’re staring at the screen, unread message glowing a little too brightly in the dim light.
“You good?” He asks, setting a glass down on the table in front of you.
“Yeah,” you say too quickly.
You can feel him watching you. You sigh, unlocking your phone.
“It’s just…” you start, then shake your head. “My ex.”
Dennis’s jaw tightens slightly. “What does he want?”
You shrug, trying to make it look like it doesn’t matter. “I don’t know. Probably nothing important.”
“Did you read it?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
You glance up at him, something defensive already creeping in.
“Because I don’t feel like it,” you say. “It’s not a big deal.”
He studies you for a second longer than you’re comfortable with.
“Okay,” he says slowly.
You hate the tone he uses. That careful, measured tone like he’s trying not to push too hard. IT’s one you rarely hear come from Dennis. You look back down at your phone anyway, like you can prove it doesn’t matter.
You open the message. Can we talk?
Your chest tightens. Of course. Of course that’s what it is. You let out a quiet breath, locking your phone again before you can think too much about it.
“What?” Dennis asks.
“Nothing,” you say, setting your phone face down on the table. “He just wants to talk.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” you repeat. “It’s whatever.”
Dennis doesn’t respond right away, but you can feel his response building before he even says anything.
“That doesn’t sound like ‘whatever,’” he says finally.
You roll your eyes slightly. “It is. It’s just…he does this. It’s not new.”
“He does what?”
You hesitate. Then shrug again. “Comes back. Says things. Doesn’t mean them.”
Dennis’s expression shifts, something sharper slipping through. “And you’re just…okay with that?”
You look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, a little more firmly now, “you deserve better than that.”
Something in your chest tightens immediately. “I’m fine, Dennis.”
“You’re not,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “You just said he–”
“I said it’s not a big deal.” You stand up then, suddenly needing space. “It doesn’t have to be a whole thing. Not everything needs to be analyzed to death.”
“I’m not analyzing anything,” he says, pushing off the counter slightly. “I’m just pointing out what’s already there.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t need you to do that.”
The words land harder than you expect. He stills. And for a second, you almost take it back. Almost. But then he speaks again, quieter this time.
“I’m not trying to make it worse,” he says. “I just–”
“Just what?” You cut in, frustration bubbling over now. “Just trying to fix it? Just tell me what I should be doing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The room feels smaller all of a sudden. He runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to not make things worse.
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t have to settle for someone who treats you like that.”
The word settle hits something raw.
“Wow,” you let out a sharp laugh. “Okay.”
“What?”
“Just think you trying to give me dating advice is funny. At least I don’t live with someone I’m pretending not to be with.”
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. The shift. Dennis freezes.
“...What?”
You cross your arms, suddenly feeling exposed but too far in to back down now. “You heard me.”
“No, I–” he shakes his head slightly, brows pulling together. “What are you talking about?”
You gesture vaguely toward the apartment. “You and Santos. It’s not exactly subtle.”
His expression goes from confusion to…something else. “…You think me and Santos are together?”
Your stomach twists. You shrug, trying to look unaffected. “I mean, you live together. You work together. She knows everything about you. It’s not exactly a secret, Dennis.”
He lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “That’s what you think this is?”
You feel your defenses snap into place. “Well what am I supposed to think?”
“That I needed a place to stay,” he says, frustration creeping into his voice now. “That’s what.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
You shake your head not fully believing it, or maybe not wanting to. “Come on.”
“I’m serious,” he says, sharper now. “We’re coworkers. She had a spare room. That’s it.”
“People don’t just…move in with coworkers for no reason.”
“I didn’t have another option,” he says, and then stops.
But it’s too late. You catch it immediately.
Your brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
He exhales, like he didn’t want to go here.
“I mean,” he says, more controlled now, “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
You stare at him. “…What?”
“I was staying at the hospital,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“There’s an old wing,” he continues, voice quieter now, like he’s forcing himself through it. “No one really uses it. It’s basically abandoned.”
Your chest tightens. “Dennis…”
“I was living there,” he says. “Before Santos found out.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t.
“She offered me the room,” he finishes. “That’s it. No weird secret relationship. No anything.”
The room goes quiet. Heavy. All the fight drains out of you at once, replaced by something else entirely.
“…Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask softly.
He lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “Because I didn’t want you to worry.”
That lands worse than anything else. You swallow. “I wouldn’t have—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in gently. “You would have.”
And he’s right. You both know it. You would have worried. Or tried to help him out somehow. The thought of Dennis being homeless and sleeping in a hospital makes you nauseous. Silence stretches between you again. But this time, it’s different. Not sharp. Just heavy. You glance down, your arms loosening slightly where they’re crossed.
“I didn’t know,” you say quietly.
“I know.” He pauses before adding. “I’m not with Santos. I never was.”
You nod slowly, not trusting yourself to say anything else just yet. Because the truth is you’re not sure what feels worse. Being wrong about them. Or realizing just how much you cared about the possibility that they were together.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care if you think I’m a loser living with my coworker. I just—” He breaks off, wipes a hand down his face. “I wish you’d talk to me instead of just assuming.
You bite the inside of your cheek, hating the taste of your own defensiveness. “I didn’t mean to—”
He interrupts, voice steady but raw. “You did.”
You want to explain, to fill the room with reasons and justifications, but all the words taste stale before they even hit the air.
He stands, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, eyes on the carpet.
“You can have my bed tonight,” he says. “I’ll take the couch. Just let me go change and it’ll be all yours.”
You want to stop him, but the only thing that comes out is, “Dennis—”
He pauses at the door, waiting.
You swallow hard. “I’m really sorry.”
He nods, once, and disappears down the hall. He comes back out with a pillow and blanket. You get up without a word and make your way down the hall to his room.
The silence that follows is worse than any fight. You curl up on the bed, knees to chest, and stare at your phone until the light blurs. The text from your ex is still there, but you don’t open it.
Instead, you let the hurt spread through you, bitter and electric, and wish you were braver, or at least better at not ruining good things.
You hear the quiet squeak of the couch as Dennis settles in, the rustle of a blanket. You want to go out there, to tell him everything you’re feeling and thinking, but the fear is bigger than your own shadow.
You stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds until morning, hoping the daylight will wash away the mess you made.
* * * * * * * *
You wake before the sun, the sky bruised and sullen. For a while you lie perfectly still, trying to figure out what part of you hurts most. Your chest is tight, like your heart’s been shrink-wrapped, but the sharp edge of shame in your gut is the thing that keeps you anchored to the bed.
You replay every word from last night, the way you spat your jealousy, the way Dennis’s face closed up when you accused him of something he’d never done. It’s a hangover without any of the good memories, just a sticky film of regret. You curl the blanket tighter around yourself, hide under it like a child.
But the apartment is already waking up. You hear the distant sound of the shower, Santos’s off-key singing as she gets ready for another shift. You count the seconds between the pipes rattling and the thump of her music through the wall. You picture Dennis down the hall, eating dry cereal out of the box, reading the back label for nutritional information.
But when you tiptoe out of Dennis’s room and make your way to the kitchen a while later Dennis is gone. The pillow and blanket he slept with last night folded neatly on the couch. Just Santos is in the kitchen, fresh out of the shower and dressed for her shift.
“Morning,” she says, not looking up.
You mumble a greeting and reach for a mug. Your hands shake, just a little. Santos eyes you, eyebrow cocked.
“You and Huckleberry fight?” she asks.
You stare at her, startled. “No. Yes. I mean…yeah, I guess.”
She gives you a questioning look as if she’s saying that she needs more information than that without just saying it.
You try to laugh, but it comes out wrong. “I didn’t mean to…”
“He likes you, you know.” She says it like it’s obvious, like you’ve just been missing what’s right in front of your face.
You look down at the table. “I don’t think I deserve that after last night.”
Santos grabs her messenger bag and slings it over her shoulder. “Maybe let him decide that. Just…don’t push him out.”
Then she leaves through the door and heads to the hospital, leaving you alone, staring at the steam from your coffee.
Eventually you hear Dennis in the hallway followed by the jingle of his keys as he unlocks the door. He steps into the apartment, avoiding your eyes. The silence is so thick you feel like you just might choke on it.
“I’m sorry,” you say, the words too big for your mouth.
He turns, a carton of eggs in hand. “You don’t have to—”
“I do.” You force yourself to meet his gaze, even though it’s like looking into a headlight. “I was upset, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have. You didn’t deserve that.”
He finally looks up at you, searching your face for something.
“Why?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You think about your ex, about all the times you were left guessing, all the times you couldn’t trust the ground under your feet. How that made you question your best friend of all people.
“Because I thought you were hiding something from me. And because…I was jealous, I think. Of Santos. Of how you have this life here.”
“Why?” He asks.
Your stomach drops. You look away, fingers tightening slightly against your arm.
“I don’t know,” you say. “It just…caught me off guard, I guess.”
“You don’t usually get like that,” he says.
“I just…I thought you were–” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” he says.
You let out a frustrated breath, pushing off the counter like you need the space again.
“No, it doesn’t. I was wrong, okay? End of story.”
“Why?” He presses.
“Because it made sense,” you say. “You live together, you work together, she knows everything about you—”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“…Then what did you ask?” you say carefully.
He turns full toward you.
“I was asking why it bothered you,” he says.
“It didn’t–” you start to say, but then he just looks at you and you stop.
Because there’s no point. You both know anything you say outside of the truth would be a lie. You swallow, your gaze dropping for a second.
“I thought you were with her,” you say finally, quieter now. “And you didn’t tell me.”
“And that bothered you,” he says.
“…Yeah,” you admit.
“Why?”
You shake your head slightly, already backing up a step. “I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“I don’t,” you insist, even though your voice isn’t as steady anymore.
He takes a step closer. “You were jealous.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he repeats, still calm. “You said it.”
You shake your head, but you don’t move away. “Dennis–”
“Why?” He asks one last time.
There’s no deflecting it. You shake your head, but you don’t move away. You just look at him and the way he’s standing there, steady, waiting, not letting you hide behind half answers.
You think about the way he’s always been there. You think about the way the first night felt. And how last night after the fight felt. And the way this morning felt waking up. And you think about the way the idea of him with someone else sat wrong in your chest in a way you couldn’t ignore.
Your voice is quieter when you finally answer. “…Because I didn’t like it.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Didn’t like what?”
“The idea of you with her,” you say.
“You should’ve told me,” he says.
You let out a small, almost disbelieving breath. “I didn’t know how.”
“You could’ve just said it.”
“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I’m not exactly great at that, remember?”
A faint, almost-smile touches his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”
Your eyes flick to his mouth for half a second. Then back up. You don’t mean to. You don’t even realize you are doing it until his gaze drops too.
“Dennis–”
His eyes search yours and then he bridges the small gap of space between you, his lips just barely grazing against yours. Then he deepens the kiss, his lips molding against yours like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have.
His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, grounding you in the reality of what’s happening. You melt into him, the world outside the room fading away, leaving just the two of you wrapped in this tender moment.
Time stretches and bends around you, and all the fear and uncertainty that once loomed in the background dissolve. It feels natural, as if you were always meant to find your way to this place, and when you finally pull back, breathless and smiling, the connection between you feels electric.
Dennis puts his hands on your waist, drawing you closer to him. The initial sweetness transforms as the kiss deepens, igniting something that was just waiting for a spark. You feel the heat between you grow, and his lips move against yours with more urgency now, as if he’s finally letting go of all the hesitations that once held him back. You respond instinctively, your fingers threading through his hair, drawing him in tighter, wanting to close the spaces.
His mouth is warm, and tastes like the trace of coffee from earlier. The sensation washes over you, intoxicating, and you lose yourself in it, heart racing as you both explore this new intimacy.
You pull back for just a breath, gazing into his eyes, searching for a sign, and all you see is the same fire mirrored in his gaze. Without hesitation, you lean back in, this third kiss more passionate, a dance of lips and tongues that feels exhilarating. The world outside fades entirely, leaving just the two of you wrapped in an embrace that encompasses all the warmth and excitement you’ve been yearning for.
Time slips away as you kiss him, feeling the way he responds to you. The way his hands roam up your back, and pull you in even closer.
As you finally break apart, both breathless and smiling, the warmth of the moment lingers in the air. Dennis looks at you, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and something deeper as if he’s ready to chase the momentum of what just happened.
“Come on,” he murmurs, gently guiding you by the hand down the hallway.
You follow, heart racing, anticipation thrumming through your veins. The space between you feels charged, electric, and you can hardly believe how easy this feels.
You don’t even make it a few feet into the hallway before it becomes too much. You turn, leaning in again, capturing his lips with yours in a kiss.
In an instant, he presses you against the wall, the cool surface contrasting sharply with the warmth of his body. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing across your cheeks as if to ground you in this heady moment, while your fingers weave into his hair, holding on tightly. The kiss deepens, a symphony of shared breaths and unspoken promises, and you both lose yourself in the thrill of it.
Dennis’s hand is at your waist, thumb tracing small, nervous circles through the fabric of your shirt. You find yourself smiling against his mouth, both of you stifling laughter.
He pulls away, just enough to look at you.
“We don’t have to—” he starts.
You cut him off with another kiss, firmer this time, your hands moving to the back of his neck, fingers weaving into the messy hair there. He groans softly, the sound vibrating between you. You don’t let go.
Dennis leans down, his lips grazing your collarbone before finding their way back to your neck. There’s something about the way he kisses you, hungry yet tender, that sends a thrill coursing through your veins.
He starts with soft pecks, but soon enough, the kisses deepen. You feel his smile against your skin as he moves lower, trailing his lips along your neck
The sensation makes you gasp, and you find yourself tilting your head to give him more access, encouraging him to explore.
As he kisses, he begins to suck gently, his mouth leaving little warmth in its wake. You can feel the rush of heat spreading through you, and you can’t help but let out a soft whimper. Encouraged by your response, he moves with more urgency, a gentle bite here and there, teeth grazing your skin, igniting a spark of pleasure that leaves you breathless.
You lose track of time as his lips dance across your skin, leaving a trail of warmth and desire. The pleasure builds, and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him on, wanting more of this intoxicating connection. He seems insatiable, his need to mark you, to claim you, growing with each passing moment.
You lean in again, the kiss reigniting with a spark of urgency as you press your body against the cool wall. Dennis responds instantly, his hands finding your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer. The world around you fades away, and all that exists is the taste of him and the heat building between you.
The kiss deepens, and you lose yourself in the way his lips mold against yours, soft yet insistent. You can feel the way he breathes against you, a quiet urgency that sends shivers of anticipation racing through your body. You tug him closer, reveling in the intoxicating mix of desire and warmth, the sensation of being just on the edge of something beautiful.
“God, I can’t get enough of you,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and inviting. That statement, combined with the way his hands roam along your sides, only fuels the fire igniting in your chest.
“Then don’t stop,” you whisper back, your words almost lost between kisses, urging him to take the lead.
With a sudden burst of determination, he pulls back just enough to intertwine his fingers with yours, guiding you down the hallway.
You reach his room with the awkward, stumbling urgency of people who have waited too long for what’s about to happen. He nudges the door closed with his foot, never breaking contact with you.
The moment it clicks closed, the atmosphere shifts, the playful energy morphing into something raw and electric. You’re suddenly pressed against the door, his body shielding you from the world outside. His mouth finds yours again, kisses growing more urgent, more fervent. You can feel the weight of his need, and it mirrors your own longing, deepening the connection between you.
You’re aware, in a distant way, of how easily this could tip into something frantic, but he slows it down. Every movement is deliberate, a careful untucking of your shirt, a gentle slide of his palm up your ribcage, a pause every time your breath catches.
You laugh when you try to unbutton his shirt and the button sticks. He laughs, too, head dropping to your shoulder, and you both dissolve for a moment into a heap of nerves and relief.
“I swear I’m usually better at this,” you whisper, nudging his chin up with your thumb.
He kisses you again, open mouthed and honest, his hands steadying you.
You work your way to the bed, shedding layers until it’s just skin on skin, the covers cool and crisp beneath you. He lays you down and hovers over you, studying your face for signs of second thoughts.
You shake your head, assuring him there is not a single doubt, and then pull him down to you. His lips find the hollow of your throat, trailing soft kisses along your skin, sending shivers of warmth cascading down your spine. He carefully explores the contours of your collarbone, and his kisses linger in the places you’ve always felt self conscious about.
Each brush of his lips is deliberate, like a painter applying strokes to a canvas, and you find yourself arching closer, craving more of his touch.
It’s intoxicating, the way he seems to memorize your body with each kiss, allowing you to feel both exposed and completely safe in his embrace.
Once he has a condom on and he finally slides into you, his movements are slow. There’s no rush. You clutch at his shoulders, bury your face in his neck. He never looks away, his eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to memorize this look on you forever.
At some point you realize you’re crying. It starts as a subtle pressure behind your eyes. A stinging welling up that you ignore and blink away. But then the tears breach, and roll down your face and onto the pillow.
Dennis pauses immediately, his weight shifting off you, the concern on his face so immediate it makes the tears come faster.
You try to hide it, swiping at your cheeks with the heel of your hand. But he catches your wrist gently.
“Hey. Hey.” He murmurs, wiping the wetness from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You okay?”
His voice falters on the last syllable. You go to laugh and reassure him, but it comes out as a half hiccup half sob that turns into a smile.
You nod feeling foolish. “Yeah. Yeah, I promise. I’m…really okay. Really.”
Dennis exhales in relief, and dips his head to rest his forehead against yours. For a long time he stays there, breathing in sync with you, thumb tracing circles on your jaw. You realize suddenly that no one has ever handled you like this.
All your previous lovers, when met with your occasional emotional overflow, had responded with confusion or withdrawal, or worse, resentment. Dennis just holds on tighter, grounding you in the moment.
The sting in your chest softens, and with it so does the rest of your body. You let your hands wander, tracing the line of his shoulders, the ridges of his spine. He shifts, kissing you again.
You feel the change in him too. The way his hands steady, and he lets himself relax against you, no longer worried what he’s doing wrong.
You reach up and thread your finger through his curls again, tugging him closer, and he smiles into your mouth. He kisses you again, softer, and you feel it everywhere. The feeling of being known and wanted for the first time in months.
His hands glide along your ribs, and up into the tangled mess of hair at the back of your neck, his fingers splaying through the strands.
His lips barely brush your temple as he whispers, “still okay?”
You nod. He smiles back. And then he picks up the tempo of his movements, causing your back to arch up against his chest. He continues to hold you, as you both get closer. The room fills with a mix of your soft moans and his breathy grunts.
When you come, it’s different than every other orgasm you’ve ever had. It’s like a slow tidal pull that gathers you up and leaves you trembling and feeling weightless, like you’re boneless in his arms. He comes a few seconds after you do, his thrusts halting and your name leaving his lips with a mix of “Oh God’ and “fuck” in between.
Dennis wraps himself around you, his leg hooked over yours, his palm covering the center of your chest. Neither of you speak, instead he presses a long, reassuring kiss to your temple. You realize that until this moment you forgot how nice it felt to be comforted after sex.
You lie together, tangled in the mess of sheets and each other, neither of you eager to move. Dennis strokes your hair, your back, his touch feather light.
You close your eyes and listen to his heartbeat, slow and sure under your ear. For a while, you say nothing. You don’t need to.
After a few minutes, Dennis says, “You know, I’ve wanted this for a long time.”
You laugh, wiping your face. “You could have said something.”
He shrugs, a shy smile on his lips. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”
You trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip. “Not possible.”
He hugs you tighter, the two of you fitting together like you were carved out of the same day. You lie there, letting the outside world shrink to nothing.
Eventually, you drift into a half-sleep, his breath steady against your hair. You wake several hours later with Dennis’s arm heavy around your waist, his chest a furnace at your back. There’s a new quiet in the house, less like a silence and more like a hush, a blanket thrown over the noise of the world. For a long time you just lie there, listening to the soft sound of his breathing, your hand tangled with his on your stomach.
Every inch of you aches, but in a good way. You shift, and he stirs, tightening his hold.
“Hey,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
You turn to face him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “Hey.”
He blinks at you, slow and disbelieving, like he’s checking to see if you’re real. His hand slides up your spine, thumb tracing a lazy pattern along your skin.
“You okay?” He asks, brow furrowed in concern.
You nod, suddenly shy. “Yeah. Are you?”
He laughs, low and scratchy. “Never better.”
For a few minutes, you just lie like that, skin pressed to skin, memorizing every detail. The way his lips quirk up at the corners, the constellation of freckles across his shoulders, the faint line of an old scar on his wrist. You kiss the spot just above his heart, and he breathes in, like you’ve startled him.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
He smiles, nuzzles your neck, and the quiet settles between you again, gentle and safe. Eventually you have to move. You pull on his shirt, and it falls halfway to your knees.
Dennis watches you, chin propped on his hand, a dumb grin on his face.
“What?” you ask, grinning back.
He shrugs. “Just…happy.”
You roll your eyes but you can’t stop smiling. “You look like a dork.”
He tackles you back onto the bed, tickling your sides until you shriek and thrash. The sound is so full and bright you almost don’t recognize it as your own.
When you finally escape, you stagger to the kitchen, hair wild, heart still racing. Santos is there, back from her shift, perched on her usual spot on counter, mug in hand. She gives you a once over, taking in the borrowed shirt, the bare feet, the bruises on your neck. Her smirk could split the world in half.
“Well, well, well,” she says, raising her mug in salute.
You try for nonchalance but it’s a lost cause. “Um…hi.”
She sips her coffee, then sets it down. “Took you two long enough.”
You laugh, hiding your face in your hands. Santos hops down from the counter, pats your shoulder on the way to the sink.
“Welcome to the weirdest roommate dynamic ever,” she says, voice almost fond.
You watch her go, feeling the warmth of her words bloom in your chest.
Dennis appears in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stands behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder.
You lean back into him, eyes closed, and for the first time in a long time, you feel completely at home.
Santos calls from the other room, “If you two are gonna make out in the kitchen, at least make me some food.”
“You heard the boss,” you say to Dennis.
He grins, and together the two of you start making dinner for the three of you. The sun creeps in through the window, and you watch the dust motes dance in the golden light, amazed that something so simple could feel so perfect.
You wonder if this is what happiness is supposed to feel like. You hope it lasts. But for now, you just let yourself enjoy it.
Hi friends. Just wanted to pop in with a small update about Oil & Honor!
As you know, this story has been a co-writing project with my lovely friend Kaitlyn. Due to some unexpected things going on in her personal life, she’s going to be taking a step back from writing for a bit to focus on herself, and I am sending her all the love and support right now 💛
In the meantime, I’ll be continuing Oil & Honor solo for the foreseeable future! Because of that, I’m going to shift the posting schedule a little from 2 updates a week to 1 update a week. If I’m able to get two per week written, I’ll absolutely share extra, but for now I want to set a pace that I can stick to consistently.
Thank you all so much for your patience and support🫶
I wanna hear about this glen powell rpf toothbrush fic! ☺️☺️🤞🏻
So the simplest answer is this is a one shot inspired/based on the song Toothbrush by DNCE (I'll link it below). It was a fic I was going to include in my Kinktober event back in October and then I never finished the last couple fics I had planned for that event and this is one of the ones leftover from it.
Here's the summary for it as well:
Summary: Spending the night at Glen Powell’s place after your dates was never supposed to turn into a routine. But somewhere between late-night movies, shared coffee in the mornings, and a drawer that’s slowly filling with your things, it already has.
Rainfall
Summary: On the anniversary of his father’s death, Bradley sits alone in his Bronco during a steady rainstorm outside the house he shares with you. The rain gives him space to think about Goose, about the life he never got to have with his dad, and about the things his father will never see: the man Bradley became…and the person he loves.
Warnings: Grief. Parental loss. A little bit of self loathing.
Word Count: 810
Prompt: Rainfall
Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader, but this is sort of more character study than true pairing.
Author's Note: This is my entry for the March Writing Challenge from The Written Brain Discord.
Rain came down in steady, unrelenting sheets, turning the world beyond the windshield into something blurred and distant. The streetlights smeared into long streaks of gold, distorted by water and glass, and every few seconds the slow sweep of the wipers dragged everything back into focus only for it to disappear again just as quickly.
Bradley wasn’t paying attention to it anymore. The Bronco idled quietly beneath him. He sat there, hands loose on the wheel, eyes fixed somewhere ahead that didn’t really exist.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out here. Long enough that the coffee he’d stopped for on the way home from base that sat in the cup holder had gone cold. Long enough that the porch light had flicked off automatically.
Today’s date had a way of doing that. He exhaled slowly, the sound quiet in the enclosed space, and let his head fall back against the seat.
Rain tapped against the roof in a steady rhythm. It was soft, constant, almost like static, and for a second, if he let himself drift just enough, it almost sounded like something else. Something older. Familiar in a way that settled deep in his chest before he could stop it. A cockpit. Wind rushing past. The crackle of a radio. His dad’s voice.
Bradley’s fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel. It wasn’t a clear memory. Not really. More like pieces. A few fragments he’d held onto from memories of his dad. A laugh he could never quite replicate right. The way Goose used to clap a hand on someone’s shoulder, solid and grounding. The sound of him singing in the kitchen with his mom. Little things. The kind that stuck. The kind that never quite left.
He swallowed, gaze flicking up as the wipers dragged across the glass again. He looked in the rearview mirror at the outline of the house, the glow from the kitchen window, and the shape of the life he’d built.
His life.
Bradley let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh but without any real humor behind it.
He’d done okay, all things considered. Better than okay, if he was being honest.
He’d made it through flight school. Earned his place. Found his way into a squadron, into a life that, for a long time, had felt just out of reach. Most days he could look around and feel something close to pride.
He wondered, not for the first time, if that would’ve been enough. If his dad would’ve looked at him now and seen something worth being proud of. Or if he would’ve just seen all the ways Bradley had taken too long to get here.
His jaw shifted slightly, a quiet tension settling in as he stared out at the storm. It was a useless line of thinking. He knew that. He’d known it for years. There was no answer waiting at the end of it, no version of reality where Goose could lean back in the passenger seat and tell him ‘you’d done good, kid.’
Still…some days it came back anyway. Today, especially.
The rain picked up again, heavier now, drumming harder against the roof and hood. It filled the silence in a way that felt almost intentional, like the world was giving him space to sit in it.
Bradley’s gaze drifted to the house in the rearview mirror again. Warm light spilling from the windows. Movement, maybe. Or maybe that was just his imagination.
You were in there. He could picture it without even turning around, the way you’d probably be moving through the kitchen, absentminded, comfortable. The sound of something playing softly in the background. The kind of life he used to think wasn’t really meant for him.
A life his dad had never gotten to see. Bradley’s throat tightened, just a fraction.
He wondered, not for the first time, what that would’ve looked like. Goose standing in that kitchen. Laughing too loud at something that wasn’t even that funny. Talking over everyone else like he always did. Probably pulling you into some story you didn’t ask for, just because he could. God, he wished his dad could’ve met you.
The image came easy. Too easy. And that was the problem. Because it wasn’t real. It never would be.
His eyes closed briefly, a slow breath pulling in through his nose before he let it out again, measured and controlled.
“I think you would’ve liked her,” he murmured, the words barely audible over the rain.
They hung there for a second, fragile in the quiet. Then the wipers dragged across the windshield again, and the moment passed. Bradley shifted slightly in his seat, gaze dropping to his hands before lifting once more to the storm ahead.
The house was there. You were there. Probably waiting for him. He just…wasn’t ready to go inside yet.
hi hi 🩷 oh I’m so intrigued about Never Left Me with Tyler Owens and All Too Well with Jake Seresin 💞 I wanted to ask for more but didn’t want to annoy you 😗
I’d love to know more about those two!! 🫶🏼
— @elixirfromthestars ✨
Hi! I'm so excited that you're excited for what I have in the works! I'll share a little bit about both stories below the cut!
Never Left Me - Tyler Owens
This is a fic I've had in the works since fall of 2024 shortly after Twisters came out. I actually started writing it at one point but then decided I wanted to rework it a little bit and then it just kind of kept getting pushed to the back. BUT recently I've been back on my Tyler Owens kick and I've been putting some work in on it the last few weeks 🩷
Lauren Allen thought she had her life figured out. Eight years ago, she left behind the rolling hills of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and the boy she loved, to chase a future that stretched far beyond small town expectations. Now, she’s built a life in Chicago that looks exactly the way it’s supposed to: a prestigious legal career, a fiancé from a powerful legal family, and a future mapped out in certainty and success.
It’s everything she once dreamed of. So why does it feel like something’s missing?
When her parents’ declining health calls her back home, Lauren expects a temporary visit, just long enough to help steady the farm and return to the life she’s carefully constructed.
What she doesn’t expect is Tyler Owens. Still grounded in the life she walked away from, Tyler has spent the last eight years chasing storms and working the land, carrying the quiet weight of a love he never let go of. Seeing Lauren again cracks open old wounds, and stirs something neither of them has ever truly buried.
What begins as cautious reconnection quickly turns into something deeper, messier, and impossible to ignore. The spark between them hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s stronger than ever.
But Lauren isn’t the same girl who left, and Tyler isn’t the same boy who once begged her to stay.
As the lines between past and present blur, Lauren finds herself caught between two futures: one built on stability and expectation…and one rooted in love, risk, and the life she once left behind.
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
All Too Well - Jake Seresin
This one is far less refined than the Tyler one, and I'm still kind of working out some of the details. But I will say it's based off of the Taylor Swift song, All Too Well (the 10 Minute version of course). And here's a little blurb I came up with for it that kind of covers the beginning part of it:
When Magnolia “Maggie” Adams leaves her small Louisiana hometown for California, she’s chasing more than sunshine and salt air, she’s chasing freedom. Sharing a cramped apartment with her childhood best friend, she takes a job slinging drinks at The Hard Deck. She doesn’t expect much…just a paycheck, a few tips, and maybe a chance to figure out what she wants from life.
Then Lieutenant Jake “Hangman” Seresin walks through the door.
Fresh off a month-long deployment, Jake is every bit the confident, cocky pilot his reputation promises, but when the new bartender shuts down his charm with a single look, something shifts. He’s met plenty of women who swoon for his swagger. Maggie isn’t one of them. And that’s exactly why he can’t stay away.
What starts as late-night banter and harmless teasing soon deepens into something neither of them expected. Beneath Jake’s easy grin is a man still learning what home means after years of living in the sky, and beneath Maggie’s guarded smile is a girl learning what it means to be seen, truly seen, for the first time.
But Maggie’s independence and Jake’s career don’t leave much room for anything easy. Between his demanding life in the Navy and her uncertainty about her future, they’ll have to navigate what it means to fall for someone who could fly away at any moment. Because sometimes, home isn’t a place. It’s a person you never saw coming.
Kaley, I’m curious about the Jake Seresin that is untitled but based of a gif 🤔 can we see the gif before you post it (, ifyou post it ) or is that something you want to keep secret until it’s posted 😂😂
The gif in question is:
(Want to make sure I give credit to the person who made the gif. Gif came from @kaizsche - link to original post I found it from is HERE )
I can give you a little bit of context on this one. This one will be very heavy on the flirting and spiciness and will more than likely end in smut. 😂
I also fully blame @elliekayfiction as she is a TERRIBLE influence and has only been a devil on my shoulder when it comes to this fic 😂
✨💤 Friday Night Sleepover 💤✨
Thank you to my lovely friend for tagging me @elixirfromthestars 💗
Okay sooo I'm going to turn this into a lil Friday night / weekend sleepover vibe 💤✨
This is my current collection of wips living in my Google Drive (and by “living” I mean…some are thriving, some are on life support, and some have been in a coma for like a year 💀)
Fair Warning: a few of these may never see the light of day…but who knows, maybe y’all will revive them 👀
Send me one (or a few!) that you’re curious about and i’ll tell you more whether it's a snippet, vibes, backstory, or whatever you want if there's something specific you'd like to know about it 💗
Let’s have some fun!! I know a lot of my mutual writers have been tagged and playing so I am going to tag @elliekayfiction @fanficmom94 @bellarkeselection @theghostinthelibrary . And if you would like to participate and share, please tag me! I'd love to see what everyone has in the works!
Oil & Honor - Chapter 14: The Nightmare
Summary: In the dead of night, Vivienne is pulled back into a traumatic memory through a vivid nightmare, leaving her gasping and disoriented. Jake is immediately alert, guiding her through her panic with quiet, commanding reassurance that grounds her physically and emotionally.
Warnings: References to past trauma. Waking from a nightmare. Panic response. Panic attack.
Word Count: 2,587
Author’s Note: As with every chapter of this story, this was co-written together by myself, Kaley (rootedinrevisions) and Kaitlyn (@bykaitlynann).
All other chapters can be found at the series Masterlist at the link HERE
-
There is no air. Only water. It forces its way into her mouth. Her nose. Cold and thick and endless. It fills her lungs no matter how hard she tries to cough it out. Her chest burns. Her ears ring with the pressure of it, the deep, crushing weight dragging her down.
Down.
The surface is somewhere above her, a distorted shimmer of light she can’t quite reach. Her arms feel slow and heavy. Like they don’t belong to her.
She kicks.
Her fingers latch onto something or someone. A wrist. Warm and solid in the dark. For one desperate second she thinks she’s safe.
Then the grip slips. The current pulls her harder. Her lungs convulse. Her throat opens on a scream that turns into a rush of water flooding in.
Vivienne jerks upright with a violent gasp. Air slams into her lungs so fast it hurts. She’s coughing before she understands why. Sharp, choking sounds rip out of her as her hands fly to her throat, clawing, as if she can physically tear the water back out.
There is no water. There are sheets. Twisted around her legs. The room is dark but not black. But dim enough that the room around her looks unfamiliar and warped.
She can’t orient. Her heart is still drowning. Her lungs are still burning.
She bends forward, coughing again, dragging in air that doesn’t feel real. Her pulse thunders in her ears, too loud and too fast, and for a disorienting second she doesn’t know where she is.
“Vivienne.”
Jake’s voice is calm. Steady. But it carries enough authority that it cuts through the frantic rhythm of her breathing.
She doesn’t respond. Her gaze is somewhere past him, distant, like she’s looking through him instead of at him.
Jake leans forward slightly. “Vivienne. Look at me.”
Slowly, her eyes flicker. For a second they slide away again, but he doesn’t let the moment slip. His hand comes up, settling flat against the center of her chest, right over her sternum. The contact is deliberate, meant to pull her from her panic. Her breath stutters beneath his palm, shallow and uneven.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”
His other hand rises to cup her jaw, thumb brushing lightly along her cheek as he angles her face toward him. Just enough pressure that she has to meet his eyes.
For a brief second her gaze locks onto his. Wide. Frightened. Overwhelmed. Jake keeps his voice low.
“You’re okay,” he tells her quietly. “You’re safe.”
Her breathing spikes again, quick and shaky. So Jake slows himself down. He draws in a deep breath through his nose, exaggerating the movement of his chest under her hands.
“In,” he says softly.
He waits a few seconds. Then lets the air out slowly.
“Out.”
Vivienne’s body still trembles under his touch, breaths catching too high in her lungs. Jake doesn’t rush her. He simply keeps breathing the same slow rhythm, his palm steady against her sternum, his other hand warm along her jaw.
“In.”
Another deep inhale.
“Out.”
Her shoulders begin to drop a fraction instead of curling tighter. Jake keeps his thumb moving gently along her cheekbone, a small, repetitive motion meant to anchor her.
“You’re doing good,” he tells her softly. “Keep going for me, okay?
Another breath.
“In.”
Her inhale comes deeper this time, though it still trembles.
“Out.”
The shaking hasn’t fully stopped, but it’s slowing. Her grip on his shirt loosens slightly, fingers uncurling from the tight fists they’d formed.
Jake watches her eyes carefully the entire time. Looking for focus. For recognition. For the moment she comes back to him.
They breathe together again. In. Out. In. Out. Over and over for several minutes.
Gradually, the frantic edge disappears from her breathing. The rhythm steadies. Her chest rises and falls more evenly beneath his palm. The tension in her shoulders eases.
Then she blinks. Once. Twice. Like someone surfacing from deep water. Her gaze sharpens just enough to actually land on him this time.
“Hey,” he says gently.
He holds her eyes. Vivienne swallows. Her fingers tighten weakly in his shirt again.
“In,” he murmured softly, matching the breath he’d already been guiding her through.
Her inhale came slower this time. Deeper.
“There you go,” he said quietly.
For a few seconds, neither of them moved. The room was dim, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains, and Vivienne felt like she’d just surfaced from deep water.
Her fingers were still knotted in the front of his shirt. She hadn’t even realized. The moment that awareness hit, her hands loosened quickly, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
Jake noticed. Vivienne blinked a few times, her eyes focusing properly for the first time since she’d woken up. Her pulse still thudded in her ears, but the panic had faded into something else now.
Embarrassment. Heat crept into her face as the memory of the last few minutes settled in. Jake kneeling in front of her. Holding her. Telling her to breathe like she’d forgotten how.
God. She can’t imagine how she looked to him right now. Her gaze dropped immediately.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered.
She rubbed a hand across her face, pushing her hair back as she tried to shake off the lingering fog of sleep. Her eyes stayed fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of his face.
“You probably should’ve just left me alone in here,” she added, quieter now. “Would’ve saved you the trouble and you would have got a full night of sleep.”
She tried to shrug like it was nothing. Like waking up shaking and panicking in bed next to him was just some mildly awkward inconvenience. Like it wasn’t the same thing she’d always done. Minimize it. Brush it off. Make it small before anyone else could.
Jake went still in front of her. He studied her for a long second, his hand still resting lightly against her sternum, feeling the way her breathing had started to speed up again. Not from panic this time, but nerves. She was retreating. Pulling back inside herself. Vivienne shifted slightly on the mattress, suddenly aware of how close he was kneeling between her knees.
“I’m fine now,” she said quickly, like she needed to prove it. “It was just a stupid dream.”
Jake didn’t answer. The quiet stretched just long enough that she finally glanced up. His expression hadn’t changed much. But there was something sharper in his eyes now. Not anger. Something more focused. Like he’d just spotted a pattern he didn’t like. Vivienne’s stomach tightened.
“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she added, softer. “I know you have work in the morning.”
She tried another small smile. The kind that was supposed to smooth everything over. Jake didn’t smile back. His hand finally moved from her chest, but it didn’t go far. Instead, his fingers slid lightly under her chin, tilting her face up before she could look away again.
“Vivienne.”
Her eyes lifted to his, caught there before she could duck away again. For a moment neither of them spoke. Jake held her gaze steadily, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe deciding what to say next.
And suddenly Vivienne had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t going to let her brush this off quite as easily as she wanted to. Her fingers twisted together in her lap again.
“I really am fine,” she said, softer this time. “It was just—”
“Vivienne.”
Jake’s thumb brushed once along the curve of her jaw where he was still holding her face, a small movement that felt more thoughtful than controlling.
“I just didn’t want to wake you up,” she tried again, offering a weak shrug. “You already—”
“You scare me when you do that.”
His hand finally slipped away from her chin, but only so he could push a loose strand of hair back from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear.
“You stop breathing like that and I—”
He stopped. The rest of the sentence hung in the air between them. Unfinished. Vivienne’s stomach tightened. Jake looked away for the first time since she’d woken up, his jaw flexing slightly like he’d said more than he intended.
For a moment he just sat there on the mattress in front of her, shoulders rising with a slow breath he seemed to force himself to take. He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t explain it. He didn’t need to.
The implication settled heavily in the quiet room. You stop breathing like that and I don’t know what I’d do. You stop breathing like that and I can’t fix it. You stop breathing like that and…Vivienne’s chest softened.
She hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected him to admit something like that so plainly.
Slowly, she leaned forward. Her forehead came to rest lightly against his shoulder. His hand came up automatically, settling against her upper back. His hand came up automatically, settling against her upper back
“Sorry,” she murmured softly, the word quieter this time. Less defensive.
Jake didn’t correct her. Or tell her to stop apologizing, even though he wanted to. But his hand slid slowly up her back, fingers spreading gently between her shoulder blades in a comforting sweep. He exhaled again, the sound deeper this time, like something he’d been holding onto for far longer than the last few minutes.
Vivienne stayed there for a moment, her forehead resting against Jake’s shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Her pulse had finally begun to settle, the last of the panic fading from her limbs.
She could feel the solid line of his shoulder beneath her temple. The heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. His hand still resting against her back, broad and steady between her shoulder blades.
Jake just stayed there, letting her lean into him as long as she needed. Eventually she lifted her head. It was meant to be a small movement, just enough to pull away and give them both some space.
Instead, she found herself much closer to him than she expected. Her face was only inches from his. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath brush faintly across her lips.
His hand had shifted back to her jaw at some point without her noticing, thumb resting lightly along the curve of her cheek.
Her gaze flickered briefly to his mouth. Then back to his eyes. Before she could think too hard about it, before the nervous part of her brain could talk her out of it, she leaned forward. She softly brushed her lips against his. The contact was less than a second. But it was enough.
His eyes searched her face. Like he was asking a silent question, checking to make sure she was sure.
Slowly, she leaned in again. This time there was no mistaking it. Her hand slid lightly against his shoulder for balance as she closed the distance, her lips meeting his with quiet, deliberate certainty.
Vivienne’s second kiss was steadier. Jake felt it the moment her lips met his again, no hesitation this time, no mistaking the choice behind it.
For a heartbeat he didn’t move, letting her set the pace, giving her every chance to pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t.
Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder, grounding herself there as she leaned closer. Jake’s hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, warm and steady as he returned the kiss. There was nothing rushed about it. No urgency, no hunger, just a quiet certainty in the way his mouth moved against hers.
The realization sent a strange, soft warmth through her chest, something that had nothing to do with the fading panic of the nightmare and everything to do with the man in front of her.
Jake’s thumb brushed lightly along the base of her hair, a grounding motion that made the moment feel strangely calm instead of overwhelming.
When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t abrupt. Just a slow easing back, their faces still close enough that their breaths mingled between them.
Jake rested his forehead lightly against hers. Vivienne could still feel the ghost of his lips against her own, the quiet steadiness of him only inches away. Her pulse had settled into something slower now, something calmer.
After a moment she shifted slightly, her gaze dropping toward the space between them as something vulnerable crept up her spine.
Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
“Will you hold me?”
The words were so quiet they almost disappeared in the room. Like she wasn’t entirely sure she was allowed to ask.
Jake didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
He shifted on the bed first, moving with easy efficiency rather than anything dramatic. His hand slipped briefly to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion before tossing it somewhere near the edge of the mattress.
The gesture wasn’t showy. Just practical. He’d noticed something earlier in the night, when she’d finally calmed down enough to sleep, how her breathing had steadied the moment she’d tucked herself close enough to hear his heartbeat. So he removed anything that would stand in between his heart and her being able to hear it.
Jake slid back against the pillows and reached for her.
“C’mere.”
Vivienne didn’t argue. She turned toward him, letting him guide her down onto the mattress. Jake shifted behind her, settling onto his side so they were facing the same direction.
One arm slipped beneath her pillow. The other curved around her waist, drawing her gently back against him. Not tight. Just secure. A protective circle of warmth around her.
Vivienne let herself sink into it with a quiet breath. Her cheek found the bare skin of his chest almost immediately, like her body remembered the spot before her mind caught up. The steady thump of his heartbeat pressed softly beneath her ear.
Jake adjusted slightly, angling himself so the sound carried clearly to her. Vivienne’s shoulders relaxed another inch within thirty seconds.
For a while neither of them spoke. Their breathing slowly fell into the same rhythm again, the quiet rise and fall of it filling the dark room.
The last of the tension left her body in pieces. Jake felt it happen. The way the muscles along her back loosened under his arm. The way her fingers, which had been curled lightly against his side, gradually went slack.
Her breaths grew slower. Deeper. Within minutes, she was asleep.
Her cheek rested against his chest, right over his heart, the warmth of her breath spreading softly across his skin with every exhale. One of her hands had curled against his side at some point, fingers tangled lightly in the fabric of the sheet and the edge of his skin.
Even asleep, she held on.
Jake’s arm stayed around her waist, the weight of it protective without thinking about it. His thumb moved slowly along her shoulder, back and forth in a quiet, absent rhythm.
He could feel each breath she took. In. Out. In. Out.
The room had gone completely still again, the faint light from the window barely touching the edges of the bed. Somewhere in the distance a car passed, tires whispering along wet pavement, but it faded quickly into the quiet.
Vivienne slept through it.
Her breathing had evened out fully now, slow and deep, the earlier panic gone from it entirely.
Jake listened anyway. His gaze rested on the gentle rise and fall of her back beneath the thin blanket. The steady rhythm of it anchored him the same way his heartbeat had anchored her.
His thumb kept moving against her shoulder without him realizing it.
Counting the breaths. Just…making sure they kept coming. In. Out. In. Out. Making sure they never stopped again.
-
Tags:
@crossskylinesandcontrails I @echoingbirdsofprey I @fanficmom94 I @simplypaisleyjane I @khouse712 I @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 I @football1921 I @literal-tv-menace I @elizabeth-holland24 I @mylifeisanoxymoron21 I @bellarkeselection I @auntiechele I @avengersfan25 I @dumbassusername I @jbennsquared I @calirindo I @fantasyfootballchampion I @pensfan5871 I @omgbrianab I @shanimallina87 I @lunatygerqueen I @hookslove1592 I @lulunothulu I @hunterthecharmer I @mrsevans90 I @lauraseresin I @x3zerochanx3 I @teacupsandtopgun I @queenslandlover-93 I @isabelstardis I @myglenpowellera I @idontwannabehere78 I @tylerscowboyhat I @smoothdogsgirl I @djs8891 I @saucy-sassy-sparkly I @alipap3 I @dudinhastuff I @glenpowellluver I @missmarveledsblog I @fore45fore I @starkleila I @stinkerbelle007 I @cardi-bre91 I @lonelsoul50 I @love2write2626 I @gamingwolfcharlie I @alwayshave-faith I @midnightmagpiemama I @lynnevanss I @hidazinie
