[callsignrandom]

you, me, and a bed // Bob Floyd x F!Reader

Summary: 4.2k (21+) Basically PwP. Bob's wanted you for ages and you want him too, so you ask him to take you home. Warnings: Smut. PwP, Oral (male and female receiving), protected PnV, Bob has a big dick (as he should). I wrote this at 2am, so no edits. A/N: I had a thought and decided to execute it. Enjoy! ----------------------------------------------------------

It’s been awhile. That was the only thing running through Bob’s head as you both stepped through the door into his apartment, wasting no time in reattaching your lips to his as soon as the door was locked. If this was his one chance at getting to take you to bed, he didn’t want to waste it.

He kissed you. Hard. Almost bruisingly, but you didn’t seem to mind. His glasses were fogging up a bit from your shared breath as he pressed you against the wall. Bob swallowed your moans as he pressed one thigh between your legs, allowing you to rub against his jeans with just the right amount of pressure.

And he was hard. So hard. The pressure behind his zipper was almost enough to have him whining along with you. It had been so long since he was with someone. So long since he’d even pulled himself off, though he’d considered it so many times in the last few months. Ever since you’d joined the team as Halo’s backseater, he’d wanted you. But wanting someone on the same team just didn’t seem right. So he watched you in that quiet way of his, always observant and keen to learn anything he could.

He learned your likes and dislikes. He knew you could take Hangman and Rooster’s shit and give it right back to them. He learned your coffee order and your favorite energy drink. And he also knew that you watched him right back with that smirk of yours that made him want to run away or jump out of a plane. He wanted to avoid your piercing gaze or be put under your thumb. He hadn’t really decided how he felt, but he knew he wanted you.

Bob definitely hadn’t expected to get you in his bed. Not tonight. Not ever. Because you were coworkers and you could have anyone, but you chose him. He hadn’t even realized you’d chosen him until you were at the Hard Deck and you’d sidled up next to him as he watched Nat beat Hangman at pool yet again while Jake tried to maintain his honor. You’d just sat next to him quietly. Comfortably. Like you belonged there. Two WSOs just watching the team you’d made a family battle it out over the pool table like they did every weekend. Then you’d nudged his arm.

“You wanna get out of here?” you asked quietly, not even looking at him.

Bob whipped his head towards you so fast he almost got whiplash and nearly dropped his cup of peanuts. If he were sipping on the coke sweating beside him, he would’ve done a spit take. You just gave him that slow smirk. He glanced around the room and noticed no one was watching them, so he turned back to you.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked slowly, disbelief still coloring every bit of his face.

“Oh, y’know,” your voice was nonchalant and Bob couldn’t understand how when you finished, “you, me, a bed? Your place?” Then you were taking a slow sip of your drink like you hadn’t just short-circuited his brain. Like you hadn’t just altered his brain chemistry and caused him to start stiffening in his jeans. You asked like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You mean that?” Bob asked, tone careful.

“Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. Meet me outside in ten minutes?”

And Bob, helpless that he was when he was with you, nodded. You slipped away without anyone noticing in the direction of the bathrooms where Bob knew there was a side door and he counted down the minutes until he got up. He handed his glass back to Penny and threw his peanuts away and then he was ambling out the door. He knew no one would mind if he slipped away since he usually did pretty early, but he really wasn’t worried tonight.

He found you leaning against his car door, nonchalantly, just like when you’d asked him to bed. Your coolness was definitely affecting his ability to think straight. As soon as he was next to you, you reached up to catch the back of his head with your hand and leaned in to kiss him. And Bob fucking melted.

It was the type of kiss he imagined in a rom com. Where neither of you cared about anyone seeing you and your focus was on each other instead. You may have gotten your hand in the short hair on the back of his neck, but his hands were roaming respectfully up and down your back as you pressed your hips against the car door.

“Unlock the car, Floyd.” you laughed, breaking the kiss. He groaned, eyes fluttering back open. His glasses were askew, but he wasn’t sure he cared. However, he did as you asked and unlocked his beat up old truck. You slipped around the back and hopped in and he did as well, knuckles clenched against the steering wheel. But silence and sexual tension filled the air as he made the quick fifteen minute drive back to his apartment.

“Nice place,” you murmured when he parked in the lot. And really, Bob was pretty proud of the one bedroom apartment he’d somehow commandeered at a decent price. The building itself looked nice on the outside and he’d tried to make the inside as homey as possible. The elevator ride was torture as he struggled to keep his hands to himself, but he wanted you in his place first away from potentially wandering eyes.

But back to the present, Bob had his leg between your thighs and his mouth trailed away from your lips towards the soft skin of your throat. He was careful not to leave any marks, at least not yet and not where anyone would be able to see. He did have ideas about marking up your hip bone or maybe even your breasts. Somewhere he’d know it was there and so would you, but that no one else would see or know about. Something to prove he’d been there, especially if this was the only time he’d get to take you home.

You moaned, a little breathless, as Bob trailed a kiss at the juncture of your jaw and your neck, the skin sensitive and he smiled against your skin.

“Quit teasing, Floyd.” you groaned, hauled him back up for a kiss and giving a particularly solid press against his thigh. 

“Mhhmm,” he hummed against your lips. “I believe you said something about you, me, and a bed?”

“Correct, so take me to bed, Bob.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He was setting you back against the wall before you could even take another breath and tugging you along to his bedroom near the back of his apartment, not even giving you any time to look around. Bob had one goal and one goal only right now; taking you however you’d let him right here and now.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, letting Bob settle between your thighs. That was when he realized that your mouth was right at the same level as his cock and by your smirk, he knew you were thinking the same thing. He didn’t stop you as your fingers trailed up his thighs, sending shivers down his spine and up and down his arms. Your hands didn’t stop there either. You were nimbly undoing his belt and pushing it to the sides. Then you were popping the button at the top and your fingertips brushed over the zipper. Bob groaned at the pressure.

It felt like an eternity passed as you slowly unzipped his jeans, millimeter by millimeter. But then your fingers reached the end of the zip and you were reaching over to shove his jeans down to his ankles. Finally, his cock was free of the confines of the jeans and he quickly stepped out of them, leaving himself in his grey boxers, the front of which were tenting spectacularly with a clear wet spot where the head was.

You didn’t look surprised. In fact, you looked quite smug as you stared at the bulge between his legs. And when you touched him through the thin fabric of his boxers, his hips jutted forward of their own accord. The smile stayed.

“I knew the boys’ locker room talk wasn’t false.” you murmured. Bob didn’t even have a chance to react to that particular statement before you were leaning forward and pressing an open mouthed kiss to that wet spot and right over the head. His eyes rolled back in his head. One finger trailed up his dick from the base to the tip and he jutted forward again. “So sensitive.”

“It’s been awhile.” Bob whispered, unsure of why he’d said it. Maybe you’d stop if you knew. He hoped you wouldn’t.

“Hmm, I can tell. You’re all jumpy.” Your voice was like honey as you repeated your actions and pressed another kiss through the material. He could feel your hot breath through the fabric. “You gonna let me suck you off? Been thinking about it for weeks.”

If Bob’s brain hadn’t broken already, this was going to be it. This was gonna be how he died.

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah, I’ll let you.”

“Take these off. Wanna see you. You’ve been hiding from me.” you murmured, tapping his covered thigh and his stomach, indicating that you wanted his boxers and his t-shirt off. Bob did as you asked and you stood to take off your own shirt and pants. You were left in this simple set of black underwear that shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was, but it left Bob aching for more. The ache was obvious in the bob of his cock.

He’d always known you were beautiful. He’d seen it when you whipped off your shirt at the beach the one day Mav had taken you all down there for dogfight football at the start of their team’s bonding period. You’d been left in your sports bra and shorts and he’d nearly fallen over at the first glimpse of your stomach and breasts. He’d won the game for you, though he hadn’t said anything, and he’d been too shy to take off his own shirt to show off like the others had. But you weren’t with them tonight; you were with him.

Then you dropped to your knees. Bob’s eyes widened behind his glasses, his breath coming out in deep pants and you hadn’t even really touched him. He gulped as you shuffled forward and the back of his knees hit the wall beside his bed. You steadied him with your hands on his thighs and Bob struggled with where to put his hands. He wanted them in your hair, but he wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted and he was completely at your mercy at the moment.

Like you knew exactly what he was thinking, you guided one of his hands to the back of your head and he almost smiled. Almost. Because then you had your hands on his cock for real this time, your warm hands pumping the delicate skin up and down his shaft in alternating motions. Bob whined and immediately clapped his other hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

“Don’t do that.” you whispered, breath reaching the sensitive skin you were working, “Wanna hear you. Wanna hear what I’m doing to you.”

Bob’s head hit the wall. Because as soon as you stopped talking, you ran your tongue up his length. From his balls to the tip of his cock that was now flushed and angry and weeping so much precum he wasn’t sure he hadn’t come yet. Either you were really good at this or it had been longer than he’d thought. You weren’t finished.

You popped the head of his cock into your mouth and swirled your tongue around the tip, pressure surrounding the sensitive skin of his cock. He was panting now, one hand loose in your hair and the other pressing against the wall beside him. One of your hands was still pumping him while the other held the tip steady so you could really take him. And take him you did.

Bob groaned, a guttural sound, as you leaned forward and took a few inches of him into the warm confines of your mouth. The slide of your tongue against the underside of his dick felt heavenly.

“Oh my god.” he groaned, focusing on the feeling of your mouth. This was the best blowjob of his life, by far. “Shit.”

You pulled off him for a moment and Bob almost whined at the loss of contact with your mouth until the most sinful of words was escaping your mouth.

“You can fuck my mouth, Floyd. I won’t break.” The hand you’d been pumping his cock with lifted up to touch the hand he had tangled in your hair and you nodded up at him. He’d barely registered that when you took him in your mouth again and this time, you didn’t let up until the head was bumping the back of your throat. The pressure was insane.

“Jesus, woman, you’re going to be the death of me.” Bob groaned, hand tightening in your hair. He could feel you hum around him and his cock twitched at the sound. If you kept this up, he wasn’t going to last very long. He kept his hand firmly in your hair as you worked in a rhythm of blowing him, bobbing your pretty head in front of him. “I’m close.”

You pulled off again and he did whine. “That’s fine. I’m not finished with you yet.”

This time, you moved your hand to gently circle his balls and he felt them tightening up before he was really ready. When you sucked him back down your throat and dragged a nail down the center of his balls, it was game over. He shattered, hand in your hair and the other one against his abs as he cried out, hips stuttering into your mouth shallowly while you swallowed his release. When you pulled off, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled softly up at him.

“Fuck,” he whined, “didn’t mean to finish so fast. Haven’t even touched you. Wanna touch you.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, voice hoarsened by what you’d just done. Bob hauled you up from the floor and dragged you to the bed. You let him. He ended up on top of you, completely naked and between your thighs. “You been thinking about touching me, Floyd?”

“So much.” Bob trailed a finger from the bottom edge of your bra down to the top edge of your panties and pressed a kiss just above your naval. You shivered at the contact. “Thought about worshipping between your legs and fucking you in the locker room.”

“I never thought you’d have it in you.” You grinned wickedly and pulled him down for a kiss. “What else did you think about?”

“Thought about making out with you at the Hard Deck and showing the guys who you belong to. Wanted to take my time with you and fuck you slow and steady here in my bed.” Bob punctuated that particular sentence with a slow thrust of his hips against your core and was rewarded with a whine of his own from your lips. He may have just gotten off five minutes before, but he was already growing again and he knew he’d be ready for another round as soon as he made his fantasies a reality.

“So why don’t you?” you asked, looking him dead in the eyes.

“You gonna let me take my time between your legs. Touch you here?” Bob murmured, trailing his finger between the seam of your legs now and your hips jumped.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d let you.”

“Good.” He took his time holding himself up with his knees and one hand as he leaned in to kiss you. He should’ve felt disgusted tasting himself on your lips, but somehow it was hot as sin and he groaned into your mouth. Two seconds later, his hand was on your back, unclipping your bra with just one hand. You gasped into his mouth in surprise. He smiled.

Then he was leaning back on his knees and pulling your bra off, tossing it over his shoulder. You laughed and helped him take off your underwear. Bob’s voice grew quiet as he looked over your body, completely bare in front of him for the first time. You didn’t seem self conscious as you lazily looked him over, waiting to see what he would do next.

Bob shuffled down the bed and ran his hands down the tops of your thighs, slowly spreading your legs so he could see exactly what he’d been dreaming about for months. He wasn’t disappointed. Your center winked at him, clenching and unclenching in a fluttery motion. He drew his thumb from your clit to your center, then traced your folds gently. Your hips jumped away from the gentle touch.

“Sensitive?” he asked, grinning from his space between your legs. You shot him a glare.

“Quit teasing, Bob, or I’m getting up and leaving your ass here. That’s twice in one night and my patience is growing thin.”

“I’ve got you.” He settled down, hips to the bed and came face to face with your pussy. He blew on it gently and was rewarded with a groan as you clenched again on nothing. “So pretty.”

The first kiss he placed to the skin of your inner left thigh, just next to where you wanted him. He followed up quickly with another kiss to your right thigh. Then, he felt your hand on the top of his head. Finally, he drew his tongue from the bottom of your channel up to the top and swirled his tongue in firm pressure around your clit. Your resounding whine gave him confidence as he held your hips steady and started eating you like a man starved.

He didn’t just eat you. He worshipped you. Just like he said he would. He drew patterns against your clit and your folds, alternating pressure and sucking on that sensitive button every once and awhile just to make you squirm in his hands. Soon, you were gasping and pulling on his hair, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He ground his hips into the bed, fully hard again as he drew you closer and closer to the edge of the cliff.

“Oh my god,” you whined, voice hitting a new pitch the closer you got to your orgasm. Bob used that moment to introduce two fingers and he pressed upwards with them in a new motion that had you keening. He smiled and started rubbing his thumb in deliberate circles over your clit. “‘M close!”

“I know.” he replied simply and replaced his thumb with his mouth, applying a gentle suction that had you crashing around his fingers and whining his name. He kept up with his thrusts, letting you ride out the aftershocks and you quickly yanked on his hair to pull him away due to the overstimulation.

“C’mere.” you gasped, pulling him up for a kiss. He obliged and kissed you, tongue delving deep to dance with yours. It was filthy and it was perfect. You broke away. “Need you inside me. Right now. I’ve waited long enough.”

Bob nodded and climbed off of you to get a condom from the box he kept in his drawer. It was for emergencies like this one, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d grabbed one. He ripped one of the foil packets open and rolled it on and you pulled him over you yet again.

Your legs were wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his ass as you tried to pull him into you. Bob remained steady and held himself up over you, his strength surprising you.

“What’re you waiting for?” you whined, reaching between your legs. Bob stopped you, pulling back.

“I said I wanted to take my time with you.” he murmured, reaching down to run the head of his cock up and down your slit. The juices coated his tip quickly and you groaned.

“Fuck that. I want you to fuck me.” you said firmly, staring directly up at him. Bob smiled and leaned down to kiss you. And then he drove his hips home in one solid thrust, punching the air from your lungs as your body rushed to accommodate his length. Because Bob was long and just the right thickness to slightly rearrange your insides. Your moan was long and drawn out against his mouth and he hurried to kiss you again.

He hadn’t moved after that first thrust, letting your cunt adjust to the beating he was about to give it. But then you were pressing your heels against him again and nodding for him to move, and how could he say no?

Bob pulled out until just the tip was inside you and drove in again, stealing another moan from your lips. He continued that pace for a while until he felt you clenching around him and started thrusting even deeper and harder. Your leg shifted just enough that he was able to slide the last of his dick into your channel and the whine you gave him was like music to his ears as he panted into your neck.

Just from the way you were squeezing him, he could tell that you were nearly there and he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last either. Being inside you was even more heavenly than being in your mouth and his hips started to stutter the closer he got to his own orgasm. You reached between your legs to touch your clit, but Bob swatted your hand away and reached down to touch you himself. His thumb drew firm circles and soon you were clenching again, crying out. Bob leaned in to kiss you again, swallowing those pretty sounds and reaching his own crescendo between your thighs.

He pulled out and flopped over beside you, settling your body against his.

“That was good, Floyd.” you murmured, head resting on his chest where his heart was nearly beating out of his ribcage. Bob drew his hand over your hair and smiled.

“Yeah, it was,” he said quietly. “Do you wanna shower?”

“You joining?”

“Only if you want me to.”

“Please. I’m not sure my legs will work.” you sighed and Bob laughed. He shouldn’t have, but it felt right and he was rewarded with your own sleepy giggle.

“C’mon, let’s get you showered. You can borrow some of my clothes to sleep in.”

“M’kay.” you murmured sleepily and allowed him to pull you into the bathroom. He turned on the showerhead and gathered two pairs of his boxers along with an oversized shirt for you.

“Hope you don’t mind. I usually just sleep in my boxers.” He shrugged and set his glasses on the bathroom counter.

“I don’t mind.” you hummed, stepping into the shower. Bob stepped in behind you, being careful to always stay within reach of your body. You were right. Your legs were a bit wobbly from the position you’d put yourself in during sex, but you weren’t upset about it. It was a good ache.

Bob handed you a washcloth and poured some sort of botanical smelling soap on it, letting you clean yourself while he did the same thing to his own body. And that’s when you really, really looked at him. Bob was toned. You knew he had to be in order to maintain the rigorous PT standards you had to follow, but he was more toned than you expected and you drew your hand over his abs.

“Why do you hide all this with those shirts all the time?” you asked softly, standing in the spray of the shower. Bob squinted at you and shrugged.

“I don’t really care to show off. It’s not my nature.” he answered, and that was that. The rest of the shower was quiet, but filled with soft kisses and wandering hands. It was a miracle you ended up outside the shower, dressed and not in it going for another round. You wanted to, but you knew you were too tired and you weren’t sure Bob’s body could handle yet another orgasm in the space of an hour.

He handed you an extra toothbrush and you brushed your teeth sleepily, ready to crash. It was only when you were in bed beside him, alarms set for him to drive you home in the morning before work that he broke the silence.

“Are we gonna talk about what this means?” Bob asked quietly. Timidly. Scared of the answer.

“In the morning. Right now I just want you to hold me.” you murmured, slipping closer to his side. He reached around your body to spoon you, settling in the gap you’d both made. And you would.

Maybe you’d tell him about your feelings besides the lust-filled ones you’d shared tonight. And maybe he’d tell you he’d dreamed of far more than just sleeping with you. But that could be said in the daylight.

[all-my-love-for-harry]

When Did You Get So Hot?

pairing; jake seresin x fem!reader

summary; You’ve known Jake Seresin forever, so you can’t explain when he suddenly became this— grown-man confidence, and unfairly hot. Suddenly you’re pressed against your bedroom wall, breathless and wrapped up in every dream he’s ever had about you.

word count; 14.7k

warnings; fluff!!, smut, oral (fem receiving), fingering, squirting, overstimulation, jake in glasses, he's a little bit of a nerd, got my sex facts from google so don't judge

a/n; sorry for the delayyy, i went to see bad bunny last night 😛 happy reading, hope you love it!! (this a one-part fic, i won't be making a part two:) )

masterlist

If anyone had told you that over a decade could pass without you crossing paths with Jake Seresin, you would’ve laughed.

His house was practically a second home throughout your adolescence, not because of him but because of Jannette, his older sister and the person you considered your closest friend. The two of you had been inseparable— matching bracelets, matching moods, matching teenage delusions that you were far more grown than you really were.

If you weren’t at your place, you were at hers, sprawled on her bedroom floor with homework you both pretended to do, whispering secrets about boys you’d never talk to and futures you couldn’t begin to imagine.

And through all of it, Jake was simply part of the backdrop. He drifted in and out of rooms with polite hellos and shy glances, always carrying something: snacks from their mom, a stack of textbooks, whatever excuse he needed to linger for a moment longer. Jannette’s little brother had a gentleness to him, an earnestness that made adults soften and made kids his age roll their eyes.

Contrary to the legend he would later become, Jake Seresin wasn’t always the confident, sharp-jawed, sun-kissed Navy pilot the world seemed to swoon over now. Back then he was lanky, awkward, chronically flustered, and one bad growth spurt away from falling apart like an unbalanced Jenga tower. Even the football team, his hopeful attempt at being “one of the guys,” mostly kept him on the bench.

Most people overlooked him. You never did, though not for the reasons he might have hoped. To you, he was just sweet, awkward Jake— the kid who turned pink from his collarbone to his ears whenever you asked about his day. You had a long-term boyfriend through high school, and Jake occupied a completely different space in your world, one reserved for siblings of friends and harmless crushes you pretended not to notice.

He adored you, quietly and hopelessly, and everyone knew it. You simply smiled and treated him with kindness, the same way you did with anyone who never seemed entirely comfortable in their own skin.

After graduation, life separated you quickly and cleanly. You left for Boston, stepping into a future your teenage self had been desperate for, and Jake finished his senior year without you around to make him stutter in the kitchen. You came home that first winter break, full of stories and certainty, but time began to move faster after that.

Boston turned into London. London morphed into New York. New York shifted back to Boston. Job opportunities, promotions, and restless ambition kept you bouncing between cities, and the years blended into one another before you realized how long it had been since you’d walked the familiar streets of your hometown.

Jake’s life unfolded just as quickly. He went to college and, somewhere between lectures and late nights, grew into himself. The awkward boy sharpened at the edges, found confidence where there had once been nerves, built a body that seemed to belong to someone older, steadier.

The glasses disappeared, the posture straightened, and his laugh became something louder, brighter, unashamed. He joined the Navy, and the constant rotations of training, deployments, and new bases carried him from one end of the country to the other. Holidays became optional. Home turned into a place you visited, not lived.

And so the two of you spent nearly a decade living parallel lives—connected by memories, separated by miles, bonded only through occasional updates from Jannette that always began with, “You’ll never guess what my brother’s doing now…” The world kept spinning, years kept piling up, and Austin slowly shifted from the center of your life to a place you thought of fondly but distantly, like an old photograph kept in a drawer.

When your company offered you a transfer and a promotion, the timing felt right to finally come home. You were older now, grounded in ways you hadn’t been before, ready for warmth and familiarity instead of airports and temporary apartments.

Returning to Austin felt both strange and comfortingly inevitable—the streets familiar beneath the changes, the air softer than you remembered, your family thrilled to have you close again. You slipped back into the rhythm of the city with a mix of nostalgia and quiet relief, as though part of you had been waiting for this without realizing it.

It was your first true holiday season home in years, the first time you had enough time to settle, breathe, and let the past feel close again. You hadn’t thought much about Jannette’s little brother. There was no reason to. Life had moved on, and so had you. This was simply home—nothing more complicated than that.

—

Austin had a way of greeting you with warmth even in December. The air was cool enough for a jacket but still held that familiar softness you used to complain about, the kind that curled the ends of your hair and made everything smell faintly of cedar and car exhaust.

As you made your way toward the restaurant Jannette had chosen — an old converted bungalow tucked between a record store and a tattoo shop — you felt something loosen quietly inside you, something you hadn’t realized had been pulled tight for years.

The windows glowed gold from the outside, condensation blurring the silhouettes of couples and families seated close together. You paused at the entrance, smoothing your coat, more out of habit than nerves. A year wasn’t that long, yet somehow it felt like it had been ages since you last saw Jannette in person.

That memory lived in another country, under warmer light and older buildings — Spain, of all places. Your company had sent you to Madrid for a contract negotiation, and Jannette had hopped on a flight after realizing you’d be staying for the holidays. She claimed she was “morally obligated” to prevent you from spending Christmas alone, but really she’d always been hopelessly impulsive in the best ways.

That trip had been pure serendipity — tiled streets and late dinners, Jannette marveling at every cathedral and museum, the two of you laughing until your cheeks hurt, drinking wine that cost suspiciously little. It felt like yesterday and a lifetime ago at the same time.

Now, as you stepped inside, warmth wrapped around you in a rush, carrying the scents of roasted vegetables, warm bread, and something citrusy. Your eyes adjusted slowly, skimming over the dining room, and then there she was—sitting at a corner table, waving so energetically you swore the people beside her flinched.

You didn’t bother hiding your smile. She stood as you walked over, and the moment you reached her, the two of you collided in a hug that felt like home.

“Look at you,” she said, pulling back just enough to take you in. “God, you look disgustingly put-together. I hate you.”

You laughed, squeezing her hands. “You look amazing too. Like — you look like someone who drinks green smoothies and has a skincare routine.”

“I do neither,” she said proudly, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she sat back down. “That’s just natural beauty.”

You sank into the chair across from her, exhaling in a way you didn’t even realize you needed to. The restaurant was warm, dimly lit, full of low chatter and clinking glasses. It felt intimate, cozy—like a soft landing after months of running.

Jannette flagged down a waiter with the confidence of someone who had eaten here enough to have opinions. “We’ll start with the garlic bread. And the Brussels sprouts. And two glasses of the red blend, please.”

The waiter nodded and walked off.

You raised a brow. “No menu?”

“I know what’s good,” she said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “Austin is my kingdom.”

You snorted. “You moved away for two years.”

“And came crawling back because Dallas is hell on earth.” She said it with the same blunt certainty she used at sixteen when declaring which boys were cute or which teachers were out to get you.

The two of you eased into conversation the way some people slip into warm baths—slow at first, then fully immersed. She told you about her job, about how she’d taken a promotion and then immediately regretted it, about her coworkers who were “performing adulthood like a bad improv routine,” and about the apartment she was leasing that was “small in a charming way, not in a tragic way.”

You told her about the move, your new position, the adjustment of returning to Austin after so many cities. She listened with her chin in her hand, nodding thoughtfully in spots where she used to interrupt, proof that time had smoothed some edges even if most of her remained exactly the same.

When the wine arrived, she lifted her glass. “To you coming home,” she said, eyes warm. “Finally.”

You clinked your glass to hers. “To home. Whatever that means now.”

She smiled at that, but there was a quiet softness in her expression you didn’t miss. “It means you’re here,” she said simply. “And that’s enough.”

Dinner came quickly after that—warm dishes, shared bites, familiar flavors. The conversation flowed naturally, skipping across years as easily as if they’d been days. She told you stories about mutual friends who had gotten married or divorced or both. She updated you on her parents, her neighbors, the dog she was thinking of adopting but wasn’t emotionally stable enough to handle.

Eventually, she leaned back in her chair, swirling the last of her wine. “You know,” she said, “it’s weird having you back. In a good way. I just— I got used to you being in a different time zone. Like you lived in some parallel universe where we texted at odd hours.”

You nodded, understanding more than she knew. “I got used to that too.”

“Well, selfishly,” she said, propping her chin on her hand again, “I’m thrilled to have you back in my gravitational pull. I missed this. I missed you.”

You smiled, a warm, full feeling settling in your chest. “I missed you too.”

Dinner had blurred into laughter and stories and Jannette’s familiar shrieking giggle, and now the two of you wandered down the streets with cups of peppermint hot chocolate in hand, the city glowing in that golden, slightly chaotic way it always did during the holidays.

You hadn’t walked these streets with her in years, not like this. She pointed at new shops that had popped up since your last visit, complained dramatically about the traffic that had somehow gotten even worse, rolled her eyes at the influencer-infested boutiques. The two of you fell into step as if no time had passed at all.

“So,” she said, bumping your shoulder with hers, “what are you doing for Christmas? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because that’s a crime.”

You huffed a laugh, watching your breath plume in the cool air. “Not nothing. Just… solo stuff, I guess.”

She stopped mid-stride, planting herself in front of you like an interrogating mother bird. “Explain.”

You took a sip of your drink, eyes drifting toward the twinkling lights strung between palm trees. “I didn’t tell my parents ahead of time that I was moving back. It all happened really fast, and they’d already booked Cabo months ago. Flights, hotel, everything.” You shrugged. “They tried to cancel when I told them—my mom nearly went to war with their airline miles program—but I told them not to. They were excited. They deserve the vacation.”

Jannette gave you a look that managed to be both deeply fond and profoundly unimpressed. “So you’re telling me your first Christmas home in, what… five years? Six?”

“Seven,” you admitted quietly.

“Seven,” she repeated, staring at you like you had just confessed to a felony. “You’re planning to spend your first Christmas home in seven years alone in your house?”

You opened your mouth to object — gently, diplomatically — but you didn’t get the chance.

“Nope,” she declared, turning on her heel and walking again, her ponytail swishing with purpose. “Absolutely not. Unacceptable. Illegal. I won’t allow it.”

You hurried to catch up. “Jannette, seriously, I’ll be fine. I wasn’t trying to guilt-trip my parents into canceling their trip. I don’t want to crash your family holiday. Really.”

She scoffed, a sharp, dramatic sound. “Girl, you practically grew up in our house. You think my mom won’t cry tears of joy when she sees you? You think my dad won’t start grilling the second you walk in? Please.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You’re spending Christmas with us. End of discussion.”

“Jannette—”

“Nope.” She looped her arm through yours, anchoring you to her as you crossed the street. “I’m not letting you sit at home watching Hallmark movies alone, eating takeout and pretending you don’t care. You’re coming over. You’ll sleep in the yellow guest room — Mom redecorated it, it’s hideous — and you and I will drink eggnog and complain about the same things we’ve complained about since we were seventeen. It’ll be perfect.”

You laughed, helpless against her steamroller certainty. “So it’s already decided?”

“Oh, it was decided the second you said ‘Cabo,’” she said smugly. “This is your home. We’re your people. And you’re not spending the holidays alone when we’re ten minutes away.”

Warmth spread through your chest — unexpected, a little overwhelming. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this, missed her, missed the way the Seresins just claimed you without hesitation.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Christmas at your house. Deal.”

She beamed, looping both arms around yours and squeezing tight as you walked. “Good. And hey— maybe my little brother will be home too.”

You snorted. “Jake?”

“The very one.” She shot you a sly little grin. “He hasn’t been home in ages either. You two keep missing each other like ships passing in the night.”

“Well,” you said lightly, brushing off the odd flutter that stirred in your stomach, “if he’s around, I’ll say hi.”

She nudged you. “You better.”

You smiled into your cup, letting the lights blur softly around you as you walked — warm, full, and for the first time in a long time, home.

—

Jake Seresin stepped off the plane with the easy swagger of a man who owned every inch of ground he walked on, but beneath the crisp uniform and the mirrored sunglasses and the stupidly perfect hair, something in him eased in a way it hadn’t in years. The moment the humid Texas air hit his face — warm, familiar, a little heavy with cedar — his shoulders dropped half an inch, the tightness in his chest loosening like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Home. Damn, he’d missed it.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel, the movement fluid and controlled, the same practiced confidence he carried into every briefing and every cockpit. Lieutenant Commander Jacob Seresin wasn’t the awkward, wiry kid who used to trip over his own cleats and push his glasses up his nose every five minutes. That version of him felt like someone else entirely, a ghost of a boy who cleared out of his own skin the second he discovered weights, contact lenses, a decent barber, and the revelation that confidence could be carved out of sweat and grit and sheer force of will.

The Navy had done the rest.

Years of deployments, missions classified enough his mother would never sleep again if she knew the details, endless hours in the sky where his world narrowed to g-forces, oxygen flow, and instinct. Hangman was born out of that crucible — sharp, relentless, impossibly sure of himself. The best stick on any base he landed on. The cockiest son of a bitch in any room. And entirely, meticulously unstoppable.

But here — here he was just Jake.

He stepped into the terminal, tugging his sunglasses off as he scanned the crowd. No cameras, no salutes, no clipped orders. Just families holding handmade signs, people hugging as though the world stopped spinning outside these walls, kids bouncing on their toes with excitement. He watched them with a quick, private smile tugging at his mouth.

He’d never admit it — not to the Daggers, not to anyone in uniform, not even if waterboarding came back in style — but being home for Christmas made something warm settle in his chest. Something he’d missed more than he let himself think about.

It had been what — three years since he’d been home? Four? Time blurred when you were always on the move. Holidays came and went, replaced with night flights, briefings, nights at the Hard Deck, and holidays spent at whatever base he landed on. He sent gifts, called whenever deployment allowed, promised he’d be home “next time.”

There was never a next time.

Until now.

Thirty whole days of leave. He’d pretended to groan when command handed him the paperwork —What, sending me home? You sure you can spare me?— but deep down, he’d felt something unclench. The last mission had been rough, even by his standards, and his mother’s voice had wobbled a little the last time he called.

“Just come home when you can, baby.”

Well, he was here. Finally. On Texas soil, breathing Texas air, thirty minutes from the kitchen he grew up in and the woman who would squeeze him half to death as soon as she saw him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar, satisfied smirk curve his lips. Christmas at home wasn’t the worst way to spend a month off. He could help out around the house, eat his weight in pecan pie, charm whichever women in the neighborhood his mother insisted on setting him up with, maybe hit up a few old friends.

A little rest. A little quiet.

He slung his duffel over one shoulder and headed for the exit, boots striking the floor with purposeful strides.

He had no idea —none at all— that someone else had just come home too.

Someone he hadn’t seen since he was seventeen.

Someone who used to smile at him like he wasn’t the awkward Seresin kid with bony elbows and fogged-up glasses.

Someone he’d had a crush on so big, it had swallowed him whole.

But for now, Jake just stepped into the Texas sun with a slow, satisfied breath, completely unaware that this holiday was going to blindside him in ways he’d never expect.

—

Jake stood on the familiar front porch, his duffel slung over his shoulder, the wood beneath his boots creaking in that same old way it had when Jannette was sixteen sneaking in past curfew. The house looked exactly the same — warm light in the windows, wreath on the door, a faded “Merry Christmas Y’all” mat that his mother refused to replace even though it had survived a decade of Texas weather.

He hadn’t told them he was coming today. He’d kept his voice smooth and casual on the phone, Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll be home before Christmas, promise. but he’d left out the part where he’d actually managed to get an earlier flight. Surprises weren’t his thing, usually, but for this? For them? He wanted it.

He knocked twice.

There was shuffling on the other side of the door, the faint murmur of the TV, and then... the door flew open so fast he thought the hinges might snap.

“Jacob Thomas Seresin,” Christina breathed, one hand flying to her mouth, eyes going wide and glassy all at once. “Oh my God. Oh, my God.”

He barely had time to drop his duffel before she launched herself at him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, face buried in his chest as she started crying: loud, messy, unforgiving tears. The Seresin kind.

Jake laughed, the sound thick in his throat as he hugged her back just as tight, lifting her an inch off the ground the way he always did. “Hey, Mama.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming today,” she scolded into his shoulder, voice wobbling through the words. “I thought it’d be another week. I was— Jake, I was worried sick.”

“You saw me six months ago,” he said softly, hand smoothing over her back. “I’m alive. I swear.”

“I know,” she sniffed, pulling back just far enough to cup his face between both hands. “But I needed to see you. To make sure you’re eating. To make sure you’re sleeping. God knows the Navy lets you boys run around like you’re indestructible.”

He smirked, because of course she said that. “I’m fine, Ma.”

“You look too skinny.”

He laughed again. “I weigh more than your fridge.”

“You’re deflecting,” she said, swatting his arm, though her eyes were still wet, still drinking him in like she hadn’t seen her son in years. “Come inside. Oh, your father is going to lose his mind.”

She tugged him inside, fussing over his jacket, his face, his hair, everything. The smell of cedar, cinnamon, and something in the oven wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Carl!” she shouted, voice ringing through the house. “Carl, get in here!”

Jake set his duffel down by the stairs, wiping his boots on the rug as footsteps thumped down the hallway.

His father appeared, bewildered, holding a hammer and half a string of Christmas lights. “Honey, what on earth are you holler—”

He froze.

Jake hadn’t seen his father speechless many times in his life. He was a tall man, solid, steady, always a little gruff–– the kind of man who shook your hand so firmly you felt it in your teeth. But right now his expression cracked wide open, surprise folding into something warm and overflowing.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Jake’s chest tightened in a way that felt thick and oddly young. “Hey, Dad.”

Carl crossed the room in three steps and pulled him into a hug that was all arms and strength and quiet emotion. No tears, but his voice wavered just enough to betray him as he said, “Welcome home, son.”

Jake swallowed hard. “Good to be home.”

Christina clapped her hands together, buzzing around them like a hummingbird. “You should’ve told us! I would’ve made something special for dinner. I would’ve cleaned the guest room better. I would’ve—”

“Ma,” Jake said gently, “everything’s perfect.”

“Well, just wait until your sister gets here,” she huffed affectionately. “She’s coming this afternoon to help me with the decorations before the girls’ night she’s got planned.” She waved a hand. “She’ll scream when she sees you. Mark my words.”

Jake smiled, leaning against the doorway as he took in the house— the lights, the garlands, the slightly crooked stockings on the mantle he knew she’d fuss over later. “Good. I wanna surprise her too.”

Christina softened, stepping closer to run a hand down his cheek like he was still her boy instead of a grown man with medals and scars and a call sign stitched under his heart. “You’re really staying the month?”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. Whole month.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting emotion again. “That’s the best Christmas gift I could’ve asked for.”

He didn’t say it out loud—not yet—but deep in his bones, he felt the same.

Home. Finally home.

Jake set his duffel on the mattress—bigger than the twin he’d once outgrown but still tucked against the same wall, under the same window—and let out a slow breath as he took in the room.

His room.

Frozen in time.

Sure, the bedding was new and the TV was bigger than the one he used to play video games on, but everything else? It was like stepping into a perfectly preserved museum dedicated to the nerdiest years of his life.

His science fair trophies lined the shelves, each one a crooked little relic from a decade he pretended he didn’t remember in vivid detail. Blue ribbons for physics projects. A couple second-place ones he used to obsess over. His collection of model planes—some with fading decals, others still immaculate—were displayed in tight formation on the top shelf, a tiny squadron waiting for takeoff.

He approached them instinctively, fingers ghosting over the sleek edges of a vintage F-14 he’d built when he was fourteen. The paint was chipped in one corner where he’d dropped it the night before presenting it to his freshman science class. He smiled despite himself.

God, he’d been such a dweeb.

His eyes drifted to the framed photos on his dresser—and that’s when the smile faltered.

Because there he was.

All awkward limbs and sharp elbows, swamp-green glasses slipping down a nose dusted with freckles. Hair trimmed into that unfortunate bowl-cut his mother loved and he endured. Oversized Seresin football jersey hanging off his gangly frame. Braces. Braces.

Jake groaned under his breath.

Christina had no business keeping photographic evidence of that era.

He picked up one of the pictures—him at fourteen, wearing goggles perched crookedly on his forehead, grinning like he was about to burst as he held up a blue ribbon. He remembered that day. Remembered how proud he’d been. Remembered how a certain girl—you—had ruffled his hair and told him he was “pretty much a genius.”

He placed the frame back down carefully.

That kid didn’t look anything like the man standing in this room now—and Jake liked that. He liked the man he’d become. The broad shoulders, the sharp jaw, the body honed by thousands of hours in the sky. He liked the way people stared when he walked into a room now, the way women’s eyes lingered, the way everyone seemed to expect something from him. Strength. Confidence. Charm.

He liked being desirable. Liked owning space instead of shrinking in it.

But as he glanced back at the models, at the stacked physics textbooks on the shelf, at the laminated certificates pinned to a corkboard his mother refused to replace, something quiet and familiar tugged at him.

Because that boy—the lanky, eager, overly curious one—was still there. Buried under the uniform and the swagger and the persona of Hangman, but not gone. Not really.

Jake still loved planes with an almost embarrassing ferocity. Still read scientific journals when missions kept him up at night. Still tore through thick engineering books no one would believe he understood. And when he had the rare free weekend, he still sat at his kitchen table in his apartment in California and built tiny aircraft from scratch, paintbrush in hand, tongue between his teeth, exactly the way he used to.

But that part? That part was locked up, hidden. No one in the Navy saw it, none of his squadron knew.

People saw what he let them see, and Hangman was easier than nerdy Jacob Seresin had ever been.

He let out a breath, sinking into the desk chair he’d once spent hours in, going over equations and dissecting flight mechanics before he even had a driver’s license. The seat creaked under his weight, older but still familiar.

He ran a hand through his hair.

Maybe it was this room. Maybe it was being home. Maybe it was exhaustion he’d been ignoring for months. But for the first time in a long time, he felt that kid tugging at him from under the surface, reminding him where he came from.

Reminding him who he used to be.

Jannette’s voice hit the house like a gust of warm wind—loud, chaotic, impossible to miss.

“Mom? Dad? Y’all better not have started without me—”

Her footsteps thundered up the stairs before Jake could sit up straighter. The door flew open without a single knock.

“JACOB?!”

Her scream was so shrill he was sure the glass on his trophy shelf rattled. She launched herself across the room, arms flung wide, and Jake barely had a second to brace before she crashed into him.

He laughed as he caught her, lifting her clean off the floor the way he once never could. She was tiny compared to him now— she’d always been petite, but he’d spent his entire adolescence looking up at her. Not anymore.

“Easy there, Netty,” he said into her hair as she squeezed the breath out of him.

“I can’t believe you’re here! You didn’t tell me, you idiot!” she scolded, smacking his arm before hugging him again. “Why didn’t you text? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you—”

“Wanted to surprise you,” he interrupted, smiling.

“Well, you did,” she said, finally stepping back to take him in. “Jesus, look at you. What do they feed you at that base? Concrete? You’re enormous.” She poked his bicep. “I feel like a hobbit next to you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Good to see you too, sis.”

They settled on the edge of his bed, her legs crossed, his stretched out, the afternoon light warm through the window as she grilled him with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been saving questions for months.

“So tell me everything. And don’t skip over the important parts. Not the flying—I don’t care about the flying.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I want to know about the hot pilots you work with.”

Jake groaned. “Jannette…”

“What? I’m young, I’m single, and the Navy is a buffet I’ve never gotten to sample,” she said with a shrug. “Indulge me.”

He rubbed his face. “Rooster would eat that attention up.”

“Rooster?” she repeated, eyebrows lifting. “Is he the mustache one?”

Jake stared at her. “How do you even know that?”

“I stalked your squadron on Instagram, obviously. Anyway, continue.”

And he did, because saying no to her had been impossible since he was ten and she was eleven and a half and had decided she knew better than everyone. She laughed at all the wrong moments, teased him relentlessly, and somehow made him feel normal in a way most people never did.

She had just begun recounting, with dramatic flair, how Christina had remodeled the kitchen last spring when she paused mid-sentence.

“You okay?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Jake blinked a few times. His vision had gone soft around the edges, dry in that familiar, irritating way.

“Contacts are just a little tired,” he admitted.

Jannette’s expression snapped from curious to exasperated so fast he almost laughed. “Then take them off.”

“Can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Don’t wanna wear my glasses.”

She stared at him. Blinked once. Then snorted so hard she nearly toppled off the bed.

“Oh my God. You are unbelievable.”

“What?”

“What?” she mimicked, reaching over to smack his shoulder. “Ah yes, the new and improved Jake Seresin doesn’t wear glasses. Not even if he’s half-blind. Not even if his retinas are about to fall out. Because God forbid someone realizes Lt. Cmdr. Hangman wears prescription lenses.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” she said, leaning back on her hands with a knowing grin. “You think I don’t know you? I’ve known you since you were a fetus. You’re still that nerd who read physics books at the dinner table, except now you’ve got muscles and cheekbones and a smirk you think fools people.”

Jake scoffed, but he didn’t deny it. Jannette gave him a gentler look then, softening around the edges in that sisterly way she had.

“Wear them,” she said simply. “At least here. I promise the Christmas tree won’t judge you.”

He huffed out a laugh despite himself. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do it,” she corrected.

Jake didn’t answer. He just leaned back beside her, letting the memories of childhood and the warmth of home settle around him.

They stayed upstairs talking until Christina’s voice floated up the staircase, calling them down for dinner. Jannette sprang off the bed immediately and Jake followed, trailing behind her with a small smile tugging at his mouth.

The dining room smelled like home: roasted herbs, butter, something warm and hearty simmering on the stove. Jake helped set the table out of habit, moving plates and silverware with practiced ease, the same way he used to before deployments became his normal and home became something he visited rather than lived in.

Once they sat, they dug in, the quiet clinking of utensils mingling with easy conversation. It felt good to be here again, surrounded by people who loved him without needing anything in return.

Which was exactly when Jannette chose to drop a bomb.

“So,” she said casually, stabbing her fork into a dinner roll, “Guess who’s coming for Christmas.”

Jake froze mid-chew when she said your name.

Just half a second. A tiny pause, barely noticeable— unless you were looking directly at him, which of course both women were. He blinked once, swallowed, and forced his expression into something calm, almost bored.

Christina let out a delighted little gasp. “Oh, I didn’t know she was back in town!”

Jannette grinned, pleased with herself. “She took a promotion, but the transfer was super last-minute. She told me her parents had already booked Christmas in Cabo, so she’d be alone for the holidays. I told her she’s coming here instead.”

Christina nodded immediately, glowing with excitement. “Of course she’s welcome here anytime.”

And then —like a spotlight flicking on— her gaze landed on Jake.

Jake didn’t look up. He cut his dinner with unnecessary precision, jaw tight and posture just a little too controlled. He could probably land an F/A-18 on a pitching carrier deck blindfolded with more ease than he could handle the sudden sound of your name drifting through the dining room.

Jannette noticed immediately. Of course she did.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and eyeing him with a grin so wicked he should’ve seen it coming. She opened her mouth —Jake felt the tease forming like a storm front— but Christina shot her a warning look sharper than a commander’s reprimand.

“Not at the dinner table,” she said, light but firm.

Jannette huffed, kicked Jake under the table anyway, and returned to her plate with a smirk that promised she’d bring it up later.

Jake ignored her. Or he pretended to.

Because his mind was drifting on its own. Not far —not enough that he missed conversation around him— just far enough to stir something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He hadn’t heard your name spoken aloud in years. Not like this. Not at this table.

He saw you occasionally—flashes of you on Jannette’s Instagram stories, snapshots of brunches, birthday dinners, blurry vacation selfies. You always looked bright. Beautiful. Effortlessly yourself in a way that made something in him ache in a place he didn’t visit often.

Maybe it was nostalgia. Or maybe it was the memory of who he used to be when he first knew you; awkward, scrawny, bowl-cut and glasses and tripping over his own feet. The kind of kid who hid behind science books and plane models like they were shields.

You, meanwhile, had always seemed… untouchable. Not intentionally, not in a cruel way— you were just warm, kind, comfortable in your own skin, and Jake… wasn’t.

Not then.

But now?

Now he was different. A man forged under afterburners, molded by years of training and survival and expectation. Confident, sharp, admired.

And yet, somehow, the thought of seeing you again made him feel a little too much like that old version of himself. He cleared his throat softly, tried to focus on the conversation, on the familiar comfort of being home.

But your name lingered in the back of his mind, warm and dangerous. And even if he’d never admit it out loud…

He wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for this.

—

The next day, you’d set out early with a mission: find Christmas presents for the Seresins—plural. You loved them too much to settle for gift cards or generic candles, and that meant hopping from store to store until the bags dug into your forearms and your fingers ached from hauling them.

By midday, downtown Austin buzzed with holiday shoppers, lights strung between lampposts, wreaths hanging from every window. You blended right into the chaos, weaving through clusters of people while balancing far too many bags. If someone had filmed you from afar, you would’ve looked like a festive pack mule.

Eventually, you pushed your way into a store filled wall-to-wall with cowboy boots—every shade, every stitch pattern, every heel. The smell of leather hit you instantly, warm and earthy, comforting in a way that reminded you of Texas summers.

You were making your way toward a display near the back when you turned too quickly and collided with someone. Hard.

Your bags swung, you stumbled, and a deep voice let out a low, surprised “whoa—”

You looked up. And kept looking up.

The man was tall—ridiculously tall—with shoulders built like they could hold up the roof. He wore a burnt-orange long-sleeve with the buttons undone over a plain white tank, the kind of casual layering that shouldn’t have been legal on someone built like that. His hands went out instinctively to steady you, large and warm as they briefly brushed your elbow.

You opened your mouth to apologize, but the words died the moment your eyes really focused on his face.

Sharp jaw. Sun-kissed skin. A hint of stubble. Eyes greener than you remembered eyes being capable of being.

There was something familiar there—too familiar. It hit you like a slow, dawning realization, one that crawled from the back of your mind to the front with stubborn insistence.

No.

It couldn’t be.

“Jake?!”

Your voice came out higher than intended. The man’s lips curved —slowly, softly— into a smile. Not a smirk, not cocky or teasing or arrogant. Just warm, gentle. Something that felt like home stretched its limbs after a long sleep.

He dipped his chin once.

“Hey.”

Three letters, one syllable, and it sent a shock straight through your chest.

Because yes.

Yes, it was him.

Except… not the Jake you knew. Not the skinny boy with a bowl cut and glasses that constantly slid down the bridge of his nose. Not the teenager who used to turn red when someone complimented his school projects or his science fair ribbons.

This Jake was—

God.

He was hot.

Taller by a mile. Broader in a way that suggested years of training and discipline. The haircut actually suited his face, and facial hair did criminal things to his jawline. His shirt clung to muscles he definitely did not have at thirteen. His voice had dropped an octave. Maybe two.

You had to remind yourself to blink.

“It’s been a while,” he said, calm— too calm, given the way his heart was hammering inside his chest so loudly he was convinced you might hear it.

Fourteen years. Fourteen entire years. The number felt unreal.

You swallowed, shifting the bags on your arms, your pulse skittering somewhere between shock and disbelief.

“That’s… wow. That’s really you?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound warm enough to melt the frost from the windows.

“Last time I checked.”

You stared another second—maybe two—because your brain needed proof that this wasn’t some cosmic prank.

Jake Seresin.

The awkward little genius who once helped you build a papier-mâché volcano. The boy who grew into this.

Jake’s gaze dipped to the bags weighing down your arms—three on the left, four on the right, one hooked awkwardly by the crook of your elbow. You hadn’t realized how ridiculous you looked until his brows lifted, amused, and before you could protest, his hands were already reaching.

“Here,” he murmured, taking half the load with effortless strength.

You blinked, startled but grateful, the pressure on your fingers easing instantly. “Thank you. I went a little overboard.”

“A little?” he teased gently, shifting the bags like they weighed nothing. “You’re one pair of mittens away from needing a pack mule.”

You laughed, the sound soft but genuine, the kind that came easily around him—just like it used to. “It’s Christmas. I have no self-control in December.”

“Still the same,” he said, smiling to himself.

You tried not to think too deeply about the warmth in his voice, or the way it tugged at something you thought you’d outgrown years ago.

“So,” you said, adjusting the strap of your purse, “how long have you been in town? Last I heard, you were somewhere on the West Coast.”

Jake’s mouth twitched, something proud and something tired flickering behind his eyes. “Got in yesterday. Straight from San Diego.” Then he looked at you more closely, softer. “What about you? When did you get back?”

“A week ago,” you said. “Still adjusting. It’s weird being home after so long.”

He nodded, slow and understanding. “Jannette told us you were spending Christmas with them.”

You let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head. “She announced it, did she?”

“Oh yeah. Right in the middle of dinner.”

“God,” you groaned playfully, “I’m so sorry I’m crashing your family Christmas.”

“Crashing?” His grin deepened, warm enough to melt the leather-scented air around you. “You’re practically an honorary Seresin. My mama’s be over the moon.”

Your cheeks warmed, an involuntary reaction you hoped he didn’t notice. “She’s always been too sweet to me.”

“That doesn’t stop,” he said. “Trust me.”

You wandered through the aisles together, steps falling into an easy rhythm, like muscle memory. Talking felt natural, unforced, effortless in a way you hadn’t expected after fourteen years.

After a moment, Jake shifted the bags in his hands and asked, “Want me to take these to your car?”

“Oh—I didn’t bring one,” you said, shaking your head. “It’s nice out. I walked.”

He blinked at you like you’d confessed to hitchhiking on the highway. “You walked?”

“It’s not far,” you laughed.

Jake tilted his head, unimpressed. “Where are you parked?”

“At home.”

That earned a full grin, wide and incredulous. “You walked from your place? With all this?”

“I like walking,” you defended, nudging his arm lightly. “And it’s Christmas in Texas, not the Arctic.”

Still, he didn’t budge. “I’ve got my dad’s truck. Let me drive you.”

“It’s really okay, Jake—”

“Darlin’, I’m offering because I’m not letting you haul ten pounds of gifts across the city like Santa on foot.”

Your breath caught at the “darlin’,” spoken casually, naturally, like it wasn’t setting off tiny fireworks in your chest.

He raised a brow, patient but firm.

“Fine,” you relented quietly, smiling. “You can drive me.”

“Thank you,” he said, victorious but gentle.

“But,” you added quickly, pointing a finger at him, “I’m still looking for something for Jannette.”

Jake’s shoulders relaxed, and he followed you deeper into the store with an amused huff. “Boots?”

“Boots.”

He took this mission seriously—far more seriously than you’d expected. He sifted through styles with the concentration of someone choosing a gift for a president. You watched as he narrowed it down, comparing stitching, heel height, leather softness.

“This pair,” he finally said, holding up a beautiful tan set with turquoise embroidery. “These look like her. And she won’t shut up about turquoise lately.”

Your eyes widened. “These are perfect.”

Jake’s smile met yours. “Told you.”

After paying for the boots and gathering the growing mountain of bags, you let Jake take the lead. His hand hovered behind your back — not touching, just guiding — as he steered you out of the store and into the winter-bright parking lot. He walked with an easy confidence, long strides purposeful and relaxed, the picture of a man who knew exactly who he’d grown into.

“There she is,” he said, nodding toward a familiar old truck. His dad’s. The same one you’d ridden in a handful of times growing up.

Jake opened the back door first, loading every bag with an efficiency that made you laugh. Then he rounded to the passenger side, pulled the door open, and offered his hand to help you in— gentle, warm, steady.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His lips tugged into a half-smile. “Mama’d have my head if she heard I let you climb in alone.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did an uneven little flip anyway.

He shut the door softly, and for the brief moment you were alone inside the truck, you let yourself breathe and silently asked yourself what the actual hell had happened to Jake Seresin.

It wasn’t just that he’d grown into himself. It wasn’t only the height, or the shoulders, or the jawline that could probably cut through drywall. It wasn’t the sun-warmed skin or the messy-styled blond hair or the way he carried himself with that quiet, lethal confidence.

It was that he looked like a man now—built, gorgeous, magnetic in a way that made your brain short-circuit. A Greek god in a burnt-orange shirt and worn denim. And somehow, impossibly, he was still Jake.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, the truck dipping slightly with his weight, and turned on the engine. The cab filled with the low rumble of heat and the faint scent of leather.

“Alright,” he said, turning to you with that warm, polite grin, “where to?”

You gave the cross streets, but he blinked, brow furrowing. “Those new roads by the river? Didn’t even know they built houses over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you said, amused. “Here, just gimme your phone.”

He handed it over, and you typed the address into the GPS, the little map lighting up between you.

Jake pulled out of the parking lot, navigating the roads with steady hands on the wheel. Conversation began easily, naturally— like some part of you had already remembered how to talk to him.

“So,” you said, eyeing him cautiously, “the navy. You have to tell me everything.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Everything’d take years. But… it’s good. Busy. A lot of deployments. A lot of moving. Not much sleep.”

“You look like you’re doing well,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyes flicked to yours — quick, unreadable — but there was something grateful there. “I’m alright,” he admitted. “It’s exhausting sometimes. But it’s what I always wanted.”

Your chest warmed. You’d known that. Even when he was twelve, building those model planes with ridiculous precision, even when he insisted on watching documentaries no one else understood, even when he talked about physics the way other kids talked about superheroes—Jake had always had that spark.

“And you?” he said, glancing at you with genuine interest. “Last time I heard anything, you were in London.”

You laughed. “God, London feels like forever ago. I worked there after college for a bit. Then New York. Then back to Boston. Then work offered a promotion and a transfer, so… here I am. Full circle, I guess.”

He made a face—soft, teasing. “A Texan in London, huh? Bet you froze your ass off.”

“I did,” you admitted, laughing. “Absolutely. No shame in it.”

“You poor thing,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Those London winters aren’t for the weak.”

“I’ve been away for so long,” you teased, “I’m not sure I even am Texan anymore.”

Jake snapped his head toward you, eyes wide in playful offense. “Excuse me?”

“Might’ve lost my Texan card,” you continued dramatically. “Maybe I’m a Northerner now.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t you dare say that. Once a Texan, always a Texan. Doesn’t matter if you lived on the moon.”

You smiled, warmth curling in your ribs at the earnestness beneath the joke.

Outside, the city moved slowly past the windows—holiday lights strung across storefronts, people bustling with bags and bright scarves, the soft haze of early evening settling over Austin.

Inside the truck, it felt strangely intimate. Like a thread that had frayed with time had knit itself quietly back together. Like fourteen years hadn’t really been so long after all.

Ten minutes after Jake pulled up in front of your house, slowing to a stop as the wrap-around porch came into view. He turned off the engine, unbuckled, and before you could even reach for your door handle, he was already outside, rounding the truck.

“Jake—” you started when he opened your door for you again.

“Don’t fight me on this,” he said lightly, offering his hand.

You rolled your eyes but let him help you down. It wasn’t like you minded.

Then he went straight to the backseat, ignoring every protest you threw at him as he gathered all the bags—every single one—looped over both arms.

“Jake! At least let me grab one—”

“Nope,” he said, adjusting the mountain of gifts with unfair ease. “You’ll throw off my balance.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Been told that once or twice.”

You shook your head, leading him up the walkway and onto the porch, digging out your keys with a sigh. You unlocked the door and pushed it open, flicking on the hallway light.

“Sorry for the mess,” you said quickly. “I’m still unpacking.”

There were a few half-opened boxes near the living room wall, packing paper scattered nearby, and two flat, unopened bookshelves leaning against each other like toppled dominos. A couple of framed photos rested face-down on the couch, waiting to be hung. The space smelled faintly of new paint and pine from the tree you’d decorated last night.

Jake stepped inside and looked around with quiet curiosity, setting the bags down gently near the wall.

“Looks good to me,” he said. “Homey.”

“Homey?” you snorted, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “It looks like a storage closet exploded.”

He just shrugged. “Every new place looks like this at first.”

You walked ahead, kicking a box closed with your foot. “I’ve just been busy at the office. Haven’t had a chance to put the furniture together. Or figure out how to make the bookshelves stand up without killing me.”

Jake glanced at the unassembled pieces, then back at you. “You want help?”

“No, you don’t need to—”

“Darlin’,” he cut in, raising a brow, “I haven’t done a single useful thing today except drive a truck and pick out boots. Let me earn my dinner.”

You huffed out a laugh. “You want to build furniture to feel useful?”

“Exactly.”

You gave in—because it was Jake, and because the idea of sending him home after he’d carried your entire holiday haul felt wrong. “Fine. But don’t blame me if it’s missing pieces. I’m convinced they do that on purpose.”

He clapped once, rubbing his hands together. “Let me at it.”

You left him in the living room while you ran upstairs to change. You wanted to be comfortable—and also maybe to not look like a zipped-up jacket and jeans disaster next to a man who looked like that.

You slipped into soft black leggings and a loose cotton shirt, tied your hair out of your face, and headed back down.

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

Jake had shed his burnt-orange shirt, leaving him in a white tank top that fit like a second skin. His biceps flexed as he tightened something with a screwdriver, the muscles shifting under warm, tan skin. His shoulders were broader than you imagined, wider than seemed fair. His back was a map of lean strength and hours of work.

And then there was his face — head bent, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, brows furrowed, lashes low over his squinting eyes. You wondered if he still wore his glasses; If they were folded neatly in some case, If he still looked impossibly sweet in them.

He must’ve heard your footsteps because he glanced up— smiling the moment he saw you.

“These are a piece of cake,” he said, patting the partially assembled skeleton of a bookshelf. “I’ve built worse things.”

“You look very proud of yourself,” you teased, kneeling beside him and grabbing the bag of screws.

“I am,” he admitted, no shame whatsoever. “Plus, when’s the last time you had me do manual labor for you?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. I’m making history.”

You nudged him with your elbow and passed him the next set of screws. The two of you fell into a quiet, comfortable rhythm—him working, you handing him tools, both of you tucked into the soft glow of the living room light. It felt strangely domestic, strangely easy.

When you finished the first bookshelf, you sat back, admiring your work. Jake cracked his knuckles, pleased.

“Want to start the second?” he asked.

“You hungry?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I could eat.”

“I’ll order something,” you said, grabbing your phone. “Any cravings?”

“Surprise me.”

You placed the order, and twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. Jake immediately started to rise, pulling out his wallet, but you planted your hand on his shoulder—his big, warm, unfairly muscular shoulder—and pushed him gently back down.

“Absolutely not,” you said. “You built my furniture. The food’s on me.”

“I was raised to pay for dinner.”

“Well, I was raised to repay favors.”

He looked up at you, amused, defeated, soft around the edges. “Alright,” he said. “You win.”

Your fingers lingered on his shoulder for half a second too long before you pulled away. And Jake noticed. He didn’t comment— but he noticed. The faint curve of his lips proved it.

You return from the kitchen balancing the two plates carefully in your hands, the warmth of the food rising in soft curls. He’s still crouched by the second bookshelf, tightening the last screw with that quiet concentration he has.

When you tell him it’s ready, he wipes his hands on the side of his jeans and joins you on the floor again, settling opposite you the way he did earlier—one knee bent, the other stretched out, like he’s already decided the floor is the most natural place to be with you.

You hand him his plate and immediately start apologizing again, waving vaguely at the dining table cluttered with half-unpacked boxes and the kitchen island buried under kitchenware you haven’t sorted yet. “I swear it looked worse earlier,” you joke weakly, but you’re still embarrassed.

He glances around, then looks at you with an easy shrug. “I don’t mind,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice softens something in your chest. He nods toward the plate. “Thank you for the food.”

For a moment, the apartment goes quiet except for the occasional distant hum from the street and the soft clink of silverware. You sit a few feet apart, legs folded, plates balanced on your laps, the kind of silence that isn’t awkward—just warm, a breath between two people who aren’t quite sure how close they’re allowed to sit yet.

Eventually, you ask him if he’s staying in town for long. He swallows, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, and leans back on his palms.

“Got about thirty days,” he says. “On leave.”

You nod, letting that sink in. Thirty days feels like a lot and not enough at the same time.

He tells you a bit about being stationed in California—how he likes the squadron, how the flying keeps him grounded in ways nothing else does, how the ocean smell still hits him weird sometimes. You ask if he misses Texas, and his answer comes with a slow exhale.

“Yeah… sometimes. Mostly my folks. And Jannette.” His voice shifts a little on her name, not sad— just honest.

You look down at your plate before meeting his eyes again. There’s a softness threading under your ribs, one you’ve been trying not to acknowledge since he walked through your door. “I’m… happy you’re back,” you say quietly.

For a second he doesn’t move, like the words catch him off guard. Then his mouth curves, small and real, warm enough that you feel it in your stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes lingering on you a beat too long. “I’m happy you’re back home too.”

—

Jake had just finished climbing down from the stepladder, dusting his palms across his jeans, when the doorbell rang. His mom was elbow-deep in some Christmas recipe that Jannette was very obviously sneaking bites from, so Christina called out, “Jake, honey, can you get that?”

He pushed a hand through his hair and headed toward the foyer, still warm from the heater and smelling faintly of cinnamon and whatever Christina was baking. When he opened the door, the cold morning rushed in—and so did you, in a way.

You stood there bundled in a coat almost too big, scarf wrapped twice around your neck, gloves tugged up to your wrists. And in your hands? A precarious tower of perfectly wrapped gifts that rose so high he could barely see your eyes peeking over the top. Your breath clouded in the air, cheeks pink from the cold, and Jake had to bite back a laugh because you looked so damn cute he almost forgot to say hello.

“Well,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe, “are you doin’ some kind of arm workout, or do you just have a personal vendetta against traveling light?”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it wasn’t very effective with most of your face hidden behind a stack of metallic paper and crisp ribbons. “Ha, ha. Very funny,” you muttered, shifting the gifts before they toppled. “Are you going to help me, or should I just file for workers’ comp now?”

Jake grinned as he reached forward and scooped the whole leaning tower of presents out of your hands like they weighed nothing. “You’re welcome,” he said, stepping aside so you could slip into the warmth of the house.

“Thank you,” you replied, brushing a gloved hand over your coat as if it would make you look less flustered.

But you didn’t get a second more to compose yourself because Jannette’s shriek echoed from the kitchen— bright, high-pitched, delighted. In an instant she appeared, barreling toward you at full speed. She collided with you in a hug so tight Jake winced on your behalf.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” she squealed into your scarf before dragging you toward the kitchen like you weighed nothing at all.

Jake followed with your gifts in his arms, just to the edge of the doorway. Christina turned around, saw you, and let out a squeal that matched her daughter’s in pitch and enthusiasm. She wiped her hands on a dish towel before rushing forward to hug you herself.

From where he stood at the threshold, Jake watched the three of you—voices overlapping, hands busy, warmth practically radiating off the kitchen tiles. Something in his chest tugged, something he refused to name.

Before he could take a step inside, Carl called from the living room, “Jake! Need your help with this bracket!”

Jake lingered one more heartbeat, eyes tracing the way you laughed as Christina fussed over your coat and Jannette immediately tried to steal something from the stove again. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted the pile of gifts under his arm, and headed back to the living room.

The kitchen felt warmer than any heater could manage. It was the kind of warmth born from clattering pots, soft laughter, the perfume of cinnamon and roasted something drifting from the oven. Christina handed you a cutting board, Jannette passed you a knife she’d already stolen a tomato with, and you slipped into the rhythm of helping them prep for tomorrow night’s dinner.

Your parents were already in Mexico for the holidays, and being here—being folded into the Seresins’ chaos—felt strangely natural. You wanted to help, needed to feel useful when their kindness had opened their home to you without a blink.

Jake moved between the living room and the kitchen every so often, delivering decorations for Christina to approve or returning with tools Carl needed. And every time he stepped through that doorway, whether it was with a hammer in his hand or a strand of garland slung over his shoulder, he let his gaze drift toward you. Quick, almost shy glances—like he didn’t want anyone to notice, but he couldn’t help himself.

Of course, Christina noticed. And Jannette did, too. The moment Jake turned away to answer his dad, the two women exchanged a look so subtle it barely registered, but you caught the tail end of it. A shared, knowing smile.

They remembered. They remembered everything.

Growing up, Jake’s crush on you had been embarrassingly transparent, all long limbs and red cheeks and too-fast talking. He hadn’t been good at hiding it then— and if the soft warmth on his face each time he glanced your way meant anything, he wasn’t good at hiding it now either.

You weren’t much better.

You tried to be discreet, you really did, but your eyes had a mind of their own. They tracked the line of his shoulders under that fitted shirt, the flex of muscle in his arms when he lifted a box of ornaments, the curve of his profile when he leaned in to listen to something his mom said. He had grown into himself, into his height and his strength, into that steady confidence that radiated off him like heat.

And you were looking. A lot.

Every time your gaze dipped — just for a second— down the plane of his chest or the sharp cut of his jaw, a quiet thrill shot down your spine. Like touching a live wire. Like being reminded you were still very much alive.

You told yourself it wasn’t because he was hot now, not only that.

But God, he was.

And it had been… a while for you. Dating, intimacy, even something as simple as being touched. The absence of all of it had left a kind of hollow ache you didn’t like to acknowledge. A low, restless hum under your skin.

And now here you were. Getting all worked up because Jake Seresin, Jannette’s little brother, for God’s sake, smiled at you from across the room like you were something warm to come home to.

The realization startled you more than it should have. The suddenness of it, the sharp tug low in your stomach, the heat prickling at the back of your neck.

You cleared your throat and focused on chopping vegetables, pretending you didn’t feel his eyes on you again.

Pretending the flutter in your chest wasn’t answering him back.

—

You stayed the entire afternoon without even meaning to. One minute you were helping Christina peel potatoes, the next you were wiping down the counters while Jannette stole cookies straight off the cooling tray, and somehow the sun slipped low without any of you noticing.

Eventually the kitchen duties were handed off to timers, ovens, and Christina’s uncanny intuition, freeing you to wander into the living room where Carl and Jake had finished arranging decorations. The tree glowed softly in the corner—warm white lights, gold garland, and the familiar collection of mismatched Seresin ornaments.

You sank into the couch with a relieved sigh, pulling out your phone to check a few work emails. You only managed three lines of a message before Jannette plopped down beside you dramatically and smacked your phone right out of your hands.

“It’s Christmas,” she declared.

“It is not Christmas yet,” you retorted, leaning down to reach for your phone. “It’s the twenty-third—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Your whole body paused, suspended mid-reach, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Because Jake Seresin was walking down the stairs.

Freshly showered. Hair damp, curling faintly at the ends; face warm from the heat of it, broad shoulders framed by a soft, worn T-shirt.

But none of that was what made your brain short-circuit— It was the glasses.

Simple, thin-framed, perfectly fitted glasses perched on his nose, making him look sharper and softer at the same time. They framed his face in a way that was almost unfair. Handsome didn’t cover it. He looked intelligent, grounded, older, hotter— God, hotter. As if he needed any help.

Your heart stumbled over its own rhythm.

Beside you, Jannette followed the line of your gaze, took one look at her brother, then at your stunned expression—and smirked like a cat who’d just cornered a canary. Her elbow found your ribs with cruel precision.

“Shut up,” you whispered, swatting her lightly.

“I wasn’t talking,” she sang quietly. “You were staring.”

You forced your eyes off Jake —honestly, ripped them away— and pretended Jannette’s rambling about cookie icing required your full intellectual capacity. Still, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jake settle against the far wall, scrolling through something on his phone, glasses sliding down his nose just enough that he pushed them back up with the knuckle of his thumb.

You almost groaned. Silently. Internally.

It was dangerously close to indecent.

Time passed in a blur of warmth and soft chatter until you noticed the hour glowing on the clock. You stood, brushing your hands down your sides.

“I should head out,” you announced gently. “It’s getting late.”

Christina, perched beside Carl on the loveseat, looked scandalized. “You shouldn’t be driving at night, sweetheart.”

You waved a hand lightly. “It’s fine, really. I’ve done it a thousand times.”

Christina shook her head, already set in her ways. “No. You’re tired. The roads are dark. It’s not safe.”

Before you could argue, Jannette, eyes gleaming with mischief, said, “Jake can drive her.”

Jake’s head snapped up. He blinked once, confusion melting quickly into something bright and alert. His gaze drifted to you, locking on, and your breath caught again because glasses.

Christina lit up instantly. “That’s perfect! Yes. Jake, take her home. And darling, leave your car here. He’ll pick you up tomorrow too.”

Your cheeks flushed warm. “Mrs. Seresin, really, that’s not—”

“I don’t mind,” Jake said, voice sliding in low and steady, cutting off your protest.

Jannette muttered under her breath, “Of course you don’t,” earning herself a sharp look from him.

You swallowed, nodded softly, thanked them all, and gathered your things. Jake grabbed the truck keys from the shelf by the door and held the door open for you.

The chill of the night met you both at once— crisp air, quiet street, the scent of pine lingering on your coat. Your breath puffed out in little clouds, mixing with his.

Your cheeks were still warm from the attention, from the glasses, from the way Jake kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

Jake opened the truck door for you just like before— effortlessly, almost instinctively, as if it were second nature. He offered his hand to help you climb in, the warmth of his fingers brushing yours for a moment that felt much longer than it actually was. Then he closed the door gently and circled the hood, breath visible in the cold night air.

Once he slid behind the wheel, he turned the key, letting the engine hum to life. The headlights washed over the quiet street as he eased out of the driveway. The inside of the truck was warm, dimly lit, and filled with the soft rasp of the heater and the low rumble of the engine. Jake kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, and every now and then he reached up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the lightest tap of his knuckle.

You watched him do it once. Then again. Then again— each time something fluttering low in your stomach.

After a stretch of comfortable silence, you said softly, “I didn’t know you still wore glasses.”

He huffed a small laugh, eyes flicking toward you before returning to the road. “Yeah, I’m still pretty blind,” he joked. “Contacts help, but by the end of the day they get annoying.”

You smiled, leaning back against the seat. “I can’t believe Christina didn’t want me driving at night. I’m offended, honestly.”

Jake laughed, real and warm, the sound filling the cab in a way that made your chest feel too full. He shook his head, voice lighter than before. “Yeah, you’re clearly the bigger hazard.”

You grinned, pretending to be scandalized. “Wow. Thank you, Lieutenant Safety.”

He glanced at you again, longer this time, and there was something soft in his eyes, something easy and fond that made you swallow around the sudden warmth in your throat. He returned his attention to the road, but the faint smile stayed on his face.

The world outside the truck was dark and still— houses wrapped in Christmas lights, lawns sparkling with frost, the sky a deep velvet blue. Inside, though, it felt warmer and smaller, the space between you charged with something neither of you wanted to name yet.

You shifted slightly in your seat. The fabric of your leggings clung to your skin, warm from the heater, and you crossed your legs, then uncrossed them, fingers idly brushing your thigh. You told yourself it was the cold. The long day. The exhaustion.

But then Jake pushed his glasses up again, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the cut of his cheekbone— and your thighs pressed together without you thinking.

You tried to play it off, adjusting in your seat, pretending to get comfortable. But the truth pulsed hot and low: you were attracted to him, wildly, stupidly, overwhelmingly attracted. The kind of attraction that made your breath catch and your skin warm. The kind that made your mind wander to places it absolutely should not go— not while sitting beside Jake Seresin. Not while wearing a seatbelt.

He didn’t seem to notice, thankfully. Or maybe he did and was too polite to say anything. Or maybe he noticed, but the curl of a smile ghosting the corner of his mouth suggested something else entirely—something that made your heart thump hard against your ribs.

You stared out the window, trying to breathe normally.

Jake reached up, pushed his glasses up one more time, and you were gone again.

After a while, he pulled up smoothly to the curb and cut the engine. For a moment neither of you moved, the quiet settling between you like a warm blanket, thick and charged and impossible to ignore. Then he unbuckled, stepped out into the cool night, and rounded the truck with long, confident strides. He opened your door with that same gentle care he’d shown all day, offering a hand to help you down.

You met his eyes as you slid out of the seat. “Thank you for the ride,” you said softly, breath visible in the cold. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Jake shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, shoulders lifting in the faintest shrug. “I wanted to,” he said, simple and earnest.

A small wave of silence washed over you—warm, a little nervous, strangely comfortable. You stood there on your front walk, the porch light casting a golden glow over the two of you. Jake looked taller in that light, broader, impossibly handsome with the frames perched on his nose and the cold brushing color onto his cheeks.

Neither of you knew what to say, neither of you wanted to walk away.

“Goodnight,” you whispered, finally breaking the spell.

“Goodnight,” he echoed, voice quieter than before.

You turned, walking toward your porch steps. You made it halfway to the door, heart pounding, breath uneven, before stopping dead.

Fuck it.

You spun around.

Jake was still standing exactly where you left him, hands in his pockets, breath curling in the cold air. His eyes widened when he saw you coming back, mouth parting like he was about to speak—

—but he didn’t get the chance.

You reached him in one determined step, hands sliding up his chest as you surged forward and crushed your mouth to his. The kiss landed hot, full, desperate. Jake froze for just half a second, but then he melted into you, hands flying from his pockets to your waist, pulling you firmly against him like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment.

The world tilted.

You kissed him deeper, your fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. When you finally pulled back for air, barely an inch away, he chased you— capturing your mouth again before you could even inhale, like he couldn’t bear the distance.

You walked backwards without looking, letting instinct guide you, and he followed without hesitation, steps perfectly in sync with yours. He kissed you like you were something he’d dreamed of and never expected to touch. Like he was starving and you were the first real taste of something good in years.

His chest pressed to yours, his breath warm, his glasses slightly askew.

You hit your door with a soft thud.

Jake kissed down your jaw to your neck, his lips hot against your skin. “Where are your keys, sweetheart?” he murmured against the curve of your throat, voice rough, low, absolutely devastating.

Sweetheart.

Your knees almost buckled.

You fumbled in your purse —shaky, breathless— until your fingers closed around the keys. Jake stayed pressed to you, hands exploring your waist, your hips, the small of your back, claiming every piece of you he could reach. You managed to get the key into the lock on the second try and push the door open.

The moment you stepped inside, Jake followed, shutting the door behind him with one hand while the other found your waist again. His lips returned to your neck, nipping lightly, and you let out a breathless giggle. Your fingers slid into his hair, brushing the edge of his glasses, and he pulled back just enough to smirk against your skin.

“Couldn’t keep your hands off my glasses, huh?” he teased, voice warm and wicked.

Before you could answer, he kissed you again, backing you farther into the house until the door clicked shut behind him and the world outside disappeared.

Jake guided you deeper into the house until your back met the wall, the gentle thud echoing in the quiet room. He didn’t kiss you right away. Instead, he paused— breathing hard, chest rising and falling against your — just looking at you like he was trying to memorize every line of your face.

His eyes swept over you, slow and reverent.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, warm and trembling with honesty he probably hadn’t planned to share. “You have no idea how many times I dreamed about this.”

Heat shot straight through you.

Your lips curved, eyes lifting to his through your lashes as you leaned in, brushing your mouth near the shell of his ear. “Tell me what you dreamed about,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin.

Jake pulled back just enough to see you clearly, and something shifted behind his eyes. A spark— dark, certain, hungry. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and sinful.

“No hesitation at all, huh?” he drawled softly.

Before you could respond, his hands slid down your sides, warm and sure, settling at the back of your thighs. In one smooth, practiced motion he lifted you— effortless, like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands flying to the back of his neck, fingers curling in the soft hair there.

Your legs wrapped around his waist by instinct, your body fitting to his like you’d done this a thousand times instead of not at all.

His mouth found your neck again, lips hot and open as he kissed a path up toward your jaw. You tilted your head without thinking, granting him more access, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it.

Jake groaned quietly at the sound, tightening his grip on you.

And then he started walking.

Up the stairs.

Carrying you like he’d been waiting fourteen years for the chance.

Each step jostled you just enough that your breath hitched, your arms clinging tighter around his shoulders. His body was strong and steady beneath you— solid muscle, warm skin, that faint scent of soap and aftershave still clinging to him after his shower.

He kept kissing you between steps, his lips brushing your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn’t stop touching you.

By the time he reached your bedroom door, your pulse was pounding, your fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, your legs locked tight around him.

Jake nudged the door open with his shoulder, eyes lifting to meet yours— full of every dream he’d never said out loud.

He laid you softly on the bed, his body hovering over yours as your back hit the mattress. The room felt charged, the air thick with anticipation as his warmth pressed close. He planted one hand beside your head, the other trailing down your side, fingers igniting sparks along your skin. His lips captured yours in a deep kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth with confident ease, tasting you thoroughly. You moaned into him, your hands roaming his broad back, slipping under his shirt to feel the hard ridges of his abs clenching under your touch.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head in a rush. Your eyes devoured him: toned chest, defined arms, every inch screaming raw power. He mirrored you, stripping your top away and unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers, exposing your breasts to the cool air. They ached for him already, nipples hardening. As he reached for his glasses, you grabbed his wrist.

“Leave them on,” you whispered, voice husky with need. He smirked, that green gaze sharpening behind the lenses, adjusting them before crashing back into another kiss, his mouth devouring yours.

His lips trailed down, hot and insistent, nipping at your jaw before settling on your neck. He sucked hard, tongue lapping at the skin, drawing a gasp from you as a bruise bloomed under his mouth.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmured against your throat, his voice low and rough. You arched into him, fingers threading through his hair. He moved lower, open-mouthed kisses peppering your collarbone, then your breasts. His hand cupped one, thumb circling the nipple while his mouth latched onto the other, sucking firmly.

The pull shot straight to your core, making your pussy clench with empty need. He switched sides, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, leaving faint red marks that would darken into hickeys by morning. Your moans filled the room, body writhing as pleasure built.

“Jake... please,” you breathed, hips shifting restlessly. He released your breast with a wet pop, kissing down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel. His hands hooked into your leggings, peeling them down slowly, caressing the newly bared skin of your thighs.

Cool air hit your soaked panties, the fabric clinging transparently to your folds. He settled between your legs, broad shoulders parting them wide, his breath ghosting over your inner thighs. You rocked up instinctively, seeking friction against the ache in your pussy.

He dragged his fingers along the waistband of your panties, eyes locked on yours through his glasses, that smirk promising everything.

“So wet for me already,” he said, voice gravelly. He tugged them off, exposing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze. You felt vulnerable, exposed, but the way he stared—like he wanted to consume you—only made you throb harder. He leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, sucking marks into the soft flesh, each pull making you whimper. The hickeys would linger, a secret reminder of this night.

“Please, Jake,” you begged, voice breaking. He looked up, green eyes piercing behind the frames, and without a word, his mouth found your pussy. His tongue flattened against your slit, licking a long, slow stripe from entrance to clit.

The sensation was electric, your hips bucking as he lapped at your juices. He hummed in approval, the vibration sending shivers through you. Then he focused on your clit, sucking it between his lips with precise pressure, tongue flicking the swollen nub.

You cried out, hands fisting the sheets. His mouth worked you relentlessly, tongue circling your clit before sucking harder, drawing obscene wet sounds from your pussy. He made out with it, lips and tongue worshipping every fold, dipping inside briefly to taste your arousal before returning to that sensitive spot.

“Look at me, darling,” he commanded, voice muffled against you. You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense stare as he sucked your clit again, the suction pulling a scream from your throat. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, your thighs trembling around his head.

He pulled back just enough to speak, one finger sliding along your slit, gathering your wetness before rubbing firm circles on your clit.

“Did you know not all women orgasm from penetration? Stimulation like this—or toys—can be key. But bet I can make you cum from my tongue alone.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, confident and teasing. Then he dove back in, mouth sealing over your pussy, tongue thrusting inside while his fingertips tugged at your clit. You screamed, the dual assault overwhelming, your body arching off the bed.

His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open as he ate you out with expert focus. Tongue lashing your clit, sucking it rhythmically, he built the pressure higher. Your moans turned to gasps, breaths ragged, every nerve alight. He added a finger, sliding it deep into your clenching pussy, curling to hit that spot inside while his mouth never stopped its assault on your clit.

The combination was devastating— wet slurps mixing with your cries, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat. You felt the edge approaching, body tensing, but he didn't let up, determined to push you over with just his mouth and that skilled touch.

“Jake... I'm so close,” you panted, eyes locked on his as he glanced up again, that smug glint in his green eyes urging you on. His tongue flattened once more, licking broad strokes before pinpoint sucking on your clit, finger pumping steadily. The pleasure crested, threatening to shatter you, but he held you there, drawing it out with every precise movement.

Your body convulses as the orgasm rips through you, waves of pleasure crashing hard. Your pussy clenches and gushes, soaking Jake's mouth with your hot cum. He doesn't flinch— instead, he presses his tongue flat against your swollen folds, lapping up every drop like it's the sweetest nectar.

His lips suck greedily at your entrance, tongue delving deep to scoop out more of your juices, slurping loudly as you tremble beneath him. The wet sounds fill the room, mixing with your ragged breaths, your thighs quivering around his head.

You think he's done, that he'll pull back and give you a second to recover, but Jake's eyes lock onto yours through his fogged glasses, dark with hunger. His tongue keeps working, flicking over your sensitive clit, sending jolts straight to your core.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he moans against your skin, the vibration making you whimper. Before you can beg for mercy, he slides one thick finger into your dripping hole, stretching your walls with its girth. It's long, rough from whatever he's been doing all day, and he thrusts it slow and deep, curling it just right to hit that spot inside.

Your juices coat his finger easily, making obscene squelching noises as he pumps in and out. You gasp, hips bucking involuntarily, but he pins you down with his free hand on your thigh.

“A lot happens in your body during orgasm, especially in the brain,” he says casually, like he's reciting from a textbook while finger-fucking you senseless. “It has been shown that when you reach orgasm, the area behind your left eye, known as the lateral orbitofrontal cortex, shuts down. Kind of why you look so fucked out right now.” His words hit you as hard as his finger, your mind reeling from the mix of science and filth.

“Oh god,” you moan, your voice breaking as he slips a second finger inside, stretching you wider. Your pussy flutters around the intrusion, stuffed full already, but he doesn't stop. He starts scissoring them, twisting and thrusting, while his thumb sneaks up to your clit, rubbing firm circles that make your vision blur. The pressure builds fast, your nerves on fire from the dual assault. “Ho-how do you know all of this?” you stammer, words tumbling out between gasps, your body arching off the bed.

He smirks, never breaking rhythm, his fingers plunging deeper, knuckles grazing your entrance.

“I just read a lot.” His voice is low, teasing, as his hand works you relentlessly. You feel every ridge of his fingers dragging along your inner walls, hitting your G-spot with precision. “Did you know a female orgasm can burn between 60 to 100 calories? That’s on top of the calories burnt during sex.”

“Did you major in women's anatomy or something?” you manage to choke out, your breaths coming in short pants as pleasure coils tighter in your belly.

He shakes his head, eyes gleaming with dominance. “I learn a lot online.” Before you can respond, his mouth replaces his thumb on your clit, sucking hard, tongue swirling around the throbbing nub.

His fingers thrust faster, curling against your G-spot with every stroke, the wet slaps echoing louder. You cry out, the second orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. Your pussy spasms around his fingers, cum coming out in hot spurts as he drives them deeper, fucking you through it without mercy.

He pulls his mouth away just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal. “I want to make you squirt.” The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, but you shake your head weakly, still riding the aftershocks.

“I've never... I don't know if I can,” you whimper, your voice hoarse, body already oversensitive.

Jake's grin turns wicked. “It's different for everybody, but some people may achieve squirting from stimulation to the clitoris, vulva, or other parts of the vagina or body.”

As he talks, his fingers pick up speed, slamming into your G-spot harder, the pressure building to something intense and unfamiliar. “A person may find it easier to squirt when masturbating. Right now, I'm hitting your G-spot. You may feel a tingling sensation or the need to urinate.”

You nod frantically, biting your lip to stifle a scream, the pleasure bordering on too much. That tingling spreads, a full bladder ache mixing with the ecstasy, making your muscles clench.

“Dual stimulation is important, see?” he says, voice rough with his own arousal. His head dives back down, mouth latching onto your clit, sucking and flicking while his fingers piston inside you, relentless on that spongy spot. The overstimulation hits like lightning— deliciously painful, your nerves screaming as the third orgasm barrels toward you.

Your hips jerk, trying to escape the intensity, but Jake locks your thighs in place with his strong arms, refusing to let you pull away. He speeds up instead, fingers curling and thrusting, mouth devouring your clit.

The pressure explodes. You scream his name, body seizing as you squirt hard, a gush of fluid spraying over his face. It soaks his glasses, dripping down his chin, wetting his chest and the bed, but he doesn't stop.

He drinks you in, tongue lapping at the flood, moaning deep in his throat as his hips grind against the bed, cock straining in his pants. Your legs shake uncontrollably, pussy pulsing around his fingers, every muscle going limp as your brain shorts out in bliss.

Jake keeps licking, slower now, savoring every last drop until you're empty and twitching. He finally pulls back, chin glistening, glasses ruined and streaked with your squirt, but his eyes burn with satisfaction. He watches you, sprawled and fucked-out on the bed, chest heaving, pussy still fluttering.

“Told you I could make you squirt,” he says, voice husky, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers trail up your thigh, teasing the edge of your folds again, hinting at more to come.

Your mouth opened, ready to answer, but Jake’s phone rang with a notification from the corner of the bed he had discarded it earlier —

Guessing you’re gonna spend the night there, just know mom will go get your ass if you’re not here to open the gifts tomorrow — naked or not!

taglist; @primadonnasdream @lunatygerqueen @bellarkeselection @dizzybee03 @mrsevans90 @untoldshortsofthefandoms @jackiehollanderr @literal-tv-menace @khouse712 @heartz4chucky @iefitzgerald-blog @myownevils @kmc1989 @pullmecloseman @kvmitchell @read-just-cant-stop @hipsternerd9 @fantasyfootballchampion @whatislovevavy @britt217 @eloquentdreamer @lynnevanss @madsothree @xhazzz @daggersquaddoll @lomlbuckybarnes @pascalquinns @sydneejean @bodhiscurls @calirindo @kastlepage @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @clonesdserveb3tter @fox-saturn @kyliesalvatore @7dreambaby @moonymeloncholymoney @football1921 @edelweissbob @peakysanakin @404rogers @farfrombuck @pmitchell @averyhotchner @jackiehollanderr @fortjackson @clean-and-claire @mrsnikstan @random-reader-13 @wylesgirl @lmrwriter

[teascorner]

How I wish I could, but you’re so far away.

Or:

The six weeks that Bob wasn’t allowed to touch his girlfriend’s boobs

i'm so hyped about the tg3 news. here's to hoping that it revives the fandom.

this oneshot is part of a larger story that i haven't finished yet, but maybe someday.

i'm pretty sure that i successfully avoided any obvious descriptors of reader, but lmk if there's anything that stands out!

warnings: smut!!! literally just bob floyd sucking on his gfs tits for 1.6k

Six weeks.

Bob had counted every single day.

He'd been marking them in his mind, not on a calendar, because that felt a little too obsessive, even for him. It was an exquisite kind of torture. The kinds that left him wanting and waiting and anticipating. The kind that he knew would be oh so worth it.

Every morning that he woke up beside her, her hair spread across the pillow, the fire opals hidden beneath her sleep shirt, and he'd thought: One day closer.

Every evening he watched her move through his kitchen or her studio, the tiny sunsets glinting at the neckline of her tank top, and he'd thought: Soon.

He'd been patient. He was good at patient. He'd waited what felt like years just to hold her hand, even more to kiss her, more to learn her body in the candlelit dark of her studio. 

Six weeks was nothing compared to that. Six weeks was a blink.

But God, it had felt like forever.

Now it was Saturday. Six weeks to the day since the piercer had stuck the needle through and threaded the fire opals into place. 

She had declared them officially healed that morning—no tenderness, no discharge, no redness. 

She'd done the aftercare religiously, and Bob had watched her do the aftercare religiously, too. Something about the way she gently swiped the cotton over her nipples, making them tighten even further under the soft lights of the bathroom mirror...

The piercings were perfect. The fire opals glowed orange and red and gold against her skin, catching the light every time she moved. 

Bob had been staring at them all day. He didn’t want to stare at them any longer. 

He wanted to touch. 

To taste. 

To suck and nip and pull.

They were in her apartment now, the late afternoon light golden through the windows. She was lying on her bed, propped against the pillows, wearing a soft cotton tank top and linen pants. She was reading a book—some novel with a serious cover— and she looked so peaceful, so content, that Bob almost didn't want to disturb her.

Almost.

He was going to anyway.

Sue me, Bob thought. He'd been patient for six weeks. He was done being patient.

He crawled onto the bed beside her and draped himself over her chest. His head rested on her stomach, his arms wrapped around her waist. She didn't look up from her book, but her hand came down to thread through his hair. "Hello."

"Hi." He nuzzled into her tank top. "What are you reading?"

"Book."

"Good book?"

"Mm."

He lay there for a moment, breathing her in. Jasmine and amber and warm skin. The ladybug tattoo on her hip was under his cheek, hidden by her pants. That little silver belly ring was a cool point of metal he could feel through the thin fabric. And above him, just inches away, were the fire opals.

He looked up. The tank top was loose, and from this angle he could see the outline of them. The silver bars, their opalescent ends. They'd been there for six weeks, visible but off limits. 

"Baby."

"Mm?"

"They're healed."

She turned a page. "They are."

"So I can—"

An amused sigh, followed by a smile and a firm but playful tug at his hair.

"You can."

He didn't need to be told twice.

Bob shifted up her body, settling his weight beside her, and pushed the strap of her tank top down her shoulder. The fire opal came into view—silver bar, glowing orange end, perfect and beautiful against her skin. His mouth went dry.

"Hi," he said to the piercing.

She laughed, soft and warm, and the movement jostled her breasts and made the light reflect off the gems like fire. "Did you just say hi to my nipple?"

"I've been waiting six weeks. They deserve a warm welcome."

"You're so weird." 

"You love it."

"I do." It was fond, and honest, and despite the fact that Bob was moments away from having her tits in his mouth, and he was splayed across her body that he knew better than his own, his heart flipped at her admission. 

She loved it. 

She loved him.

Bob leaned down and kissed the skin beside the piercing. Soft, gentle, reverent. She sighed, her hand still in his hair. He kissed closer, tothe curve of her breast, the edge of the areola, the spot where the silver bar entered her skin. The metal was cool against his lips, warming quickly from his touch.

She made a sound. Soft, wanting. The same sound she'd made before the piercings, but different now. 

He took the fire opal into his mouth.

The metal warmed against his tongue. The opal was smooth, slightly rounded, and he traced it with the tip of his tongue, learning its shape. Her breath hitched. Bob groaned. Her hand tightened in his hair. He groaned again, rougher this time.

"Bob."

"Yeah?"

"Just like that. Don't stop."

He didn't.

He explored her thoroughly. The left side first—the fire opal, the silver bar, the way it moved slightly when he tugged with his lips. She gasped, her back arching, and he filed the reaction away.

Then the right side—the same fire opal, the same silver bar, but slightly more sensitive. Same as before the piercings, but elevated now. She moaned when he sucked, a broken, desperate sound that made his blood run hot. 

He heard these noises before. He’d been the cause of these noises before. But never from this. Never from just his mouth on her tits, sucking and licking and tugging. 

Bob catalogued everything. The taste of the metal—clean and cool, warming under his tongue. The texture of the opal—smooth, almost glassy. The way her nipple pebbled against his lips, even harder now with the piercing through it. He could smell her lotion, the one that smelled like jasmine and amber. The one that came in a glass jar that sat in Bob’s bathroom as well as her own. 

He stayed there for a long time. Kissing. Licking. Sucking. Gentle and then less gentle, testing what she liked, what made her gasp, what made her moan. The fire opals glowed in the golden light, tiny sunsets against her skin. He worshipped them. He worshipped her.

After a while, Bob’s ministrations grew slower, lazier. Her hand relaxed in his hair, moving down to the nape of his neck. Her breathing evened out. He looked up and found her reading her book again, her eyes scanning the page, her expression peaceful.

He laughed against her skin. "Are you reading?"

"You're taking a while. I'm multitasking."

"I'm exploring."

"Explore faster."

"No."

She laughed, her smile wide and open, and turned another page. Bob grinned and went back to work.

He lost track of time. The light shifted from gold to amber to soft grey. Only rustling sheets, soft breaths, and turning pages filled the quiet. Her breathing stayed mostly even, but every so often he could feel her heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, her hips buck up, seeking friction that wasn’t there. She wasn't as unaffected as she pretended to be.

Finally, after what might have been an hour or might have been three, he lifted his head. Her eyes were blown wide, glazed over with want. Her book was still open, but she hadn't turned a page in a while.

"Done exploring?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless.

"For now." He reached over and grabbed her bookmark—a crumpled receipt from the pharmacy, and slipped it between the pages. He took the book from her hands and set it on the nightstand.

"Hi," she said, but she was smiling.

He shifted down her body. His hands found the waistband of her linen pants, pulling them off in one tug. 

The ladybug tattoo came into view—tiny and delicate, perched over her hip bone. He kissed it softly, ticklishly. She laughed, breathless. "You and that ladybug."

"Me and this ladybug,” Bob agreed.

He moved across the soft skin of her belly. The silver ring in her navel, which he touched with the tip of his tongue. She gasped, her hips lifting.

He settled between her thighs and looked up at her. The fire opals glowed in the grey evening light. Her eyes were hooded, her lips parted, her chest heaving.

"Ready?"

"Please." Her voice was strained. "Please, Bob. Can you—"

"Yeah."

He lowered his mouth.

She cried out, her hands searching for purchase in his hair, his shoulders, the sheets. He took his time again. Slow, thorough, the same attention he'd given the piercings. Enjoyed her here, too. The taste of her. The sounds she made when he touched her just right. The way her thighs tightened around his head when she got close. 

He brought her to the edge once, twice, pulling back each time until she was gasping, begging, his name a broken prayer on her lips. Then, finally he let her fall.

She came apart beneath him, her body arching, her voice breaking. He held her through it, soft kisses and softer touches, until she lay limp and trembling on the sheets.

Bob crawled up her body and kissed her. Deep, slow, letting her taste herself on his lips like sweet nectar. Her hands came up to cup his face, pulling him closer.

"I love you," she murmured against his mouth.

"I love you too." He kissed her again. Then, for good measure, he pressed two quick piercings to each breast, his lips barely grazing her nipples.

She laughed, a wet, happy sound. "You're such a dork."

"Your dork."

"My dork."

She shifted, wrapping herself into his arms. For the rest of the evening, they lay with each other, touching and kissing and whispering. The fire opals glowed. The ladybug sat, poised and waiting to take flight. And Bob held the woman he loved and let himself be happy.

Six weeks, he thought. 

Worth every second.

[sortagaysortahigh]

Slim Pickins | Joaquin Torres x Reader

A/N: omg guys im so glad ts is over, yall know I love reading fluff but writing fluff is a whole other ballgame for me. However, i had fun writing most of this, very dialogue heavy, friends to lovers/idiots in love, love confessions, all that jazz! Plus my comedic timing is here, idk if its funny tho ngl i might be rereading sections too often. Thank you to chicken @love-chx for beta-ing this for me, i love u chicken <3. Also tagging @anxietyandtacos bc casserole is my biggest supporter in my shitshow writing and i love her <3

Summary: Every Friday for the past few months you've been going on shitty dates, and at this rate, you're convinced that you're either ending this life alone or settling for another douchebag. You can't find a genuinely good guy, it's not like there's one right in front of you or something!

Warnings: 2nd person POV, might be use of y/n honestly i cant remember, Spelling and grammar errors (I am who I am), cursing, mentions of violence, reader does throw things at people, self-deprecating humor and 'I'm gonna kms' humor, reader has a shitty love life, SAMBUCKY SUPREMACY WOOO (implied sambucky intimacy <3), reader does threaten to murder joaquin a few times but it's fine!! they're friends!! SMUT: nasty kissing/makeouts, choking, minor spanking, MATING PRESS WOOOHOO!! (not too detailed), giggly sex, unprotected p in v, creampie, cum eating, squirting, fingering, oral (f receiving), handjobs, spitting, drooling, biting/bruising/hickies, praise, finger sucking

Word Count: 20.1k

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

Ngl guys, I NEED THATT BARK BARK BARK BARK!!!!!, anyways heres the fic:

Every Friday night ended in the same repetitive cycle of disappointment for you, and somehow, someway, you managed to continue the cycle over and over again. 

It was a simple routine, you’d spend the week talking to some random guy from some shitty dating app, or maybe you’d meet him in a random store, at the movies, hell, even a few guys from the Air Force base! You’d text, with the occasional phone call or Facetime sprinkled in. From there they’d ask when you were free, the reply was always ‘this Friday works for me’ because it was your only genuine day off.

From there they’d plan some lackluster date, and of course, like an idiot, you’d go. The date would be horrible from start to finish, they typically fell into three broad categories: The Narcissists, The Idiots, and The Wanna-be heroes. 

Those that fell into the third category were always the worst, mainly because they were overly full of themselves while simultaneously empathetic. It made zero sense to you, then they’d go on long winded tangents about how admirable the work you did was, or how amazing it would be to work side-by-side with heroes like Captain America and the Falcon. Then, after your third attempt of drowning their non-stop talking out with a drink, they’d subtly try to ask for a connection to Sam Wilson or Joaquin Torres.

As if you were the walking LinkedIn for hero networking.

You preferred to listen to the Narcissists constantly talk about themselves while trying to gaslight you into liking and sleeping with them. 

Maybe Joaquin was right and you really were a walking douchebag magnet. 

Tonight was no different, you’d gotten dressed up, opting to gaslight yourself into thinking that maybe things would be different, or the date would be enjoyable, or at the very least you’d get an ounce of good sex for the first time in months. It wasn’t as if there were a million and one options; genuinely good men weren’t actively lining up at your doorstep begging for a chance to take you on a date.

Of course, you’d been on a few dates with guys that seemed as if they were truly good for you and you’d even tried dating some consistently. However, around the one or two month mark, something would click into place and the potential relationship blew up in your face.

There was the guy who’d just finished veterinary school, he had a great relationship with his family, shared a lot of the same ideologies and beliefs as you, loved animals, spent his off-days doing volunteer work, and even knew how to actually do his own taxes. 

Everyone had faith in him—Joaquin and Sam had even nicknamed him ‘the tax guy’. 

Then he’d gotten black out drunk after a concert with you and vented about how much he missed his ex-girlfriend while simultaneously forgetting that you were his current fling. He’d even mentioned that the only reason he really liked you was because you were pretty and the fact that you shared a birthday with his ex so ‘it had to be a sign that she would come back’.

Plus he also said you gave great blowjobs. But that was neither here nor there.

To make matters worse, you had to call his emergency contact to pick him up from your apartment. That emergency contact just happened to be his ex-girlfriend.

To say you had a terrible dating history was an understatement.

Yet here you are, glaring at your own reflection and questioning every second that led up to being stood up in a lackluster fake Italian restaurant in the middle of Washington DC. The drinks were overpriced, you were practically stranded, and the straw that broke the camel's back was your server having the nerve to leave his number on the back of your receipt while he tried to ‘comfort’ you after watching you get stood up.

Said server didn’t look a day older than eighteen, and that was pushing it.

So you did what any responsible twenty-something year old woman would do. You yelled at him, practically screaming at the top of your lungs, made a scene, and then raced to the restroom to look at your angry blurry reflection.

The fitted black dress felt too tight, your heels felt too small, the restaurant was too hot, your skin felt sticky, and your bra was digging into your back to the point that you wanted to cry tears of frustration—not to mention your thong had shrunken in the dryer and was currently clinging to your hips to the point that you were convinced you’d get a rug burn. The icing on the cake. however. was the sound of ‘Rather Be’ by Clean Bandit playing over the bathroom speakers. 

This had to be your personal hell.

It wasn’t long until you were calling someone to pick you up. You sat outside for nearly twenty minutes on top of a random pile of crates that were left outside of the restaurant. The humidity left your hair frizzy and skin moist while you debated on running into moving traffic to end your misery.

Well, you were until a very familiar motorcycle pulled up in front of you. So familiar that you had to do several double takes to process who exactly was on the bike.

Then Joaquin took his helmet off, shaking his head like a dog fresh out of water, and if you had half a mind to actually consider your best friend attractive, then in that moment you would’ve realized that several women walking out of the restaurant stopped to gawk at him, one so drunk that she’d even whistled at him and proceeded to attempt to cat call him.

Sure you noticed them, but it hadn’t ever fazed you. Joaquin was objectively an attractive guy, but you saw him as your friend.That was that. 

It wasn’t as if one day you’d wake up and figure out that you were utterly in love with the guy that had to ask his own mother to make him ‘less spicy’ versions of traditional Mexican dishes.

Joaquin flashed the crowd of women a smile and a wink, but before they could approach him, you practically rushed through the crowd with your jaw clenched, looking like the epitome of irritation.

“Jesus Christ, Cabezona, you look like shit.” He smiled as he spoke, eyes quickly taking your disheveled appearance in. Then he glanced behind you at the few women still looking in his direction, debating on asking for one of their numbers while you pulled the extra helmet out, mumbling a series of curse words under your breath.

“Yeah, no shit. How the hell did you get Buck’s bike?” 

He blinked a few times before looking back at you and nodding. “Oh uh—he’s staying with Sam right now, and I was there when you called me. He said it’d be faster than taking my truck. Besides, I look pretty damn sexy on it, don’t I?” He elbowed you, wiggling his eyebrows up and down while you scoffed.

“Whatever you say, Quino—” Then you paused, now glancing at him, noticing he was looking past you towards the women near the entrance into the shitty restaurant. Then you slowly nodded “—I’m totally cock blocking you aren’t I? Oh my god, Quino! Go—flirt or something, tell them I’m your cousin or something!” 

Joaquin laughed, shaking his head while looking back at you. For a second there was something else in his expression—something you didn’t recognize. But the second you noticed it, it was gone.

“It’s alright, Cabezona. Now c’mon, Bucky’s gonna kill me if I’m not back with this baby in the next half hour. He’s doing paperwork or something with Sam, y’know after Sam’s whole ‘I’m gonna sue you’ fiasco. Now get on the bike.”

You rolled your eyes at him, shoving him lightly before pulling the helmet on.You glanced down at your dress, shaking your head before struggling to get on the bike without flashing the entire street.

It took a few minutes, and several curse words, alongside grasping onto Joaquin’s side—grip practically bruising as you attempted to slide your dress down lower while your legs practically clung to the sides of the bike. 

“If I flash D.C. my ass, you think people would respect me more?” 

He glanced back at you as he pulled the helmet on, a muffled ‘nope’ leaving his lips.

Then you were instinctively grasping onto his waist, helmet-clad face pressed into his shoulder while you squeezed your eyes shut. It wasn’t your first time on a motorcycle, but you hated it nonetheless. 

You met Sam and Bucky through Clint Barton. It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant meeting, not when Clint had actively tried to kill you during his assassin era, but after managing to clear your name and cut ties with several illegal weapons dealers and mafia-based families worldwide, you needed a job.

That job practically landed in your lap about four years ago when Sam had called Clint for a favor, and you just happened to be exactly what he was looking for. Someone well versed in weapon’s mechanics with enough global intel to land you in the Raft for life. It was a no-brainer to work for Sam Wilson.

Working for Captain America meant you weren’t a criminal, and that was enough to get you to say yes. Then with Sam came Bucky Barnes. Truthfully, you had a theory that anyone who held the shield at one point came with Bucky, even if it was reluctantly. 

You and Bucky bonded fairly quickly, and in a lot of ways, he was like a father to you. Which was odd at first because you’d never had a great relationship with your biological dad, and prior to meeting the former Winter Soldier turned Congressman, you admittedly stated on several occasions that you would’ve fucked him.

However, you would not do that now—you weren’t into the freaky things that Sarah Wilson’s dark romance bookshelf held. Hell, you tried getting into that genre of romance novels, but the second Sarah handed you something by Penelope Douglass, you read three chapters and silently returned the book, opting to re-read Lord of the Rings for the fifth time. 

It’s safe to say you also silently judged Sarah, but then again, when you had nowhere else to go after being practically stranded in Louisiana with Sam, she gave you her couch and for that, you’d forever be grateful—even if she did read kinky freaky books. 

Joaquin laughed at the way you held onto him, and admittedly, it made his heart race a little bit. He always had moments like these, moments when you were a little too physically close for comfort, moments that would tear down the facade that you and him were just friends. That he only wanted to be your best friend, that you weren’t more than that to him.

But he knew you didn’t see him that way, and it didn’t bother him. For the most part, he never really thought about it—but it always crept up on him when he least expected it.

However, the second the bike was parked in the garage under Sam’s building and you practically fell off of it as you attempted to get off, Joaquin was easily snapped out of those thoughts. Now, he was focused on holding his own abdomen as he doubled over in laughter, meanwhile you were leaning against the side of Sam’s suburban, hands braced against the windows while you held yourself up with a panicked expression and unruly hair.

“Stop fucking laughing at me! I’ve had a shitty night, Torres!” You glared at him as you regained your footing, now smoothing out the dress and pointing a singular manicured finger at him.

He nodded a few times, catching his breath while holding in laughs, doing his best not to smile at you as you stormed towards the garage elevators. Arms crossed in front of your chest while you waited for him to catch up—the key fob being the only thing that would get the elevators to actually work.

It took him a few seconds to catch up to you, offering a wide smile while he scanned Sam’s spare key then hit the button for the elevator.

“So, what happened with this guy, uh, the electrician?” 

You scoffed. “No, the electrician was last week’s idiot. This week’s idiot just happened to be mister tortured artist with an obsession with Instagram. Completely stood me up at that shitty restaurant that he recommended. I got like 4 drinks, cost me like thirty bucks, then mister barely old enough to serve alcohol hit on me.” 

Joaquin’s eyes widened, lips rolling inward as he tried not to laugh, he noticed the way you sighed, shoulders slouching lower as you shook your head.

“Laugh. I know you want to—go ahead. Sam’s gonna laugh—he always does. Just let it out now, and the usual ‘I told you so’, I’m all ears.”

The elevator opening caught both of your attention, and he motioned for you to enter first. So you did, then he followed suit before pressing Sam’s floor number. As the doors shut he glanced back over at you, raising a single brow at the sight of you pulling several bobby pins out of your previously curled hair, now it was more of a frizzy disaster.

You held them between your teeth as you took bits and pieces out of the half-up, half-down style you’d spent far too long on. To make matters worse, the heat damage wasn’t even worth it—the asshole you’d gotten all dressed up for didn’t even show up! 

Joaquin held his hand out in front of your mouth, you easily dropped the pins into his palm, then you started handing them to him as you pulled each individual one out of your hair.

“How many are in there?” he looked down at his hand then back at you, slightly concerned.

“Beauty is pain—that’s why my thong is so far up my ass I might be getting a free fucking colonoscopy.” 

Your serious tone had his eyes widening in horror, then he processed your words, and the laughter that he’d previously swallowed down bubbled out. You shook your head at him, still dropping bobby pins into his hand as you rolled your eyes. Meanwhile his laughter echoed off of the metal elevator walls.

Eventually the two of you made it back to Sam’s apartment, your hair now framing your face in an awkward frizzy afro of sorts. But you knew Sam had hair ties somewhere in his apartment for his dates, so you’d just steal from his stash.

When you walked in, both Sam and Bucky paused. They had the perfect view to the front door, watching as you walked in, kicking your heels off with a frustrated pout, meanwhile Joaquin held the door open for you, then followed you inside before locking it behind him.

Sam and Bucky exchanged a singular look. Both struggled to understand how you and Joaquin could be so close and not see one another romantically. It made absolutely no sense to them, you were perfect for one another. Yet somehow, every Friday you went on terrible dates and Joaquin was always the shoulder you’d cry on after the fact.

“So, how was the plumber?”

You scoffed at Sam, glaring at him the second you managed to get the heels fully off of your feet, then you walked into his kitchen, thankful for the open floor plan. Everyone watched as you rummaged through the fridge, finally finding the bottle of mango lemonade that Sam always kept stocked in his fridge for you.

Several months ago you’d forced him to buy one, and now it was a habit.

You were quick to grab a glass from the cabinet beside the fridge, pouring yourself some juice while mumbling a jumbled mixture between English, Russian, and Spanish curse words.

First you took a drink, then you spun around, looking at them.

“It was terrible! That idiot stood me up! What the fuck?” 

Bucky slowly nodded, looking from the tablet in his hand to you. “Have you ever considered that maybe you should take a break from the DC dating scene, I don’t think it’s ever done you any justice. Or just delete the apps. I hear they’re terrible.” 

“Have I considered taking a break from dating? Well Grandpa, I have actually because no matter what the fuck I do, everyone just fucking sucks! What the hell is this? Some shitty rom com from the 90s?!” You were shouting now, frustration evident on your features while you gripped the cup in your hand so tightly that everyone was afraid it would shatter.

When no one replied, you groaned, putting the glass down on the countertop then storming to Sam’s guest room. 

He just watched from his seat on the sofa, shaking his head at you. “Torres, make sure she doesn’t burn my place down.” 

Joaquin nodded at Sam, following after you, only to find you rummaging through the drawer that had his own clothes in it. There had been several nights when he had to stay with Sam because of work, and of course, following his accident last year, he wasn’t exactly able to live alone—so he stayed with Sam for a while.

That led to him having several clothing items here, clothing items which you were currently going through like a madman. He shook his head at your frustrated expression, slowly approaching you, then grasping both of your wrists and carefully pulling them away.

“Cariño, calm down and go take a shower. I’ll find you something to wear.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, nodding your head.

It wasn’t as if you were genuinely upset, you didn’t feel the need to cry or anything of that nature. But you were just overwhelmed, and everything was bothering you to the point that you couldn’t even think straight. 

Somehow Joaquin always knew how to ground you, it was as if his presence alone was enough to calm you down. 

While you showered, he looked through the options, settling on a pair of loose sweats, and a Twilight shirt that you’d gotten him with the words ‘Chica where have you been loca?’ on it surrounding a heart with Jacob Black’s face in it. The clothes had been oversized because after his accident that’s all he could really wear, so he knew it wouldn’t bother you the way your dress did.

He slipped into the steamy bathroom and placed the pile of clothes onto the counter, then let himself out.

By the time that you’d gotten out of the shower and gotten dressed, he managed to make himself comfortable on the bed, gaze focused on his phone while he mindlessly scrolled through TikTok, even giggling to himself at the random thirst-traps and edits people made of him—Joaquin would be a liar if he said he wasn’t deep in the ‘Joaquin Torres edits’ and the ‘The Falcon edits’ hashtags.

He liked to watch the videos people made of his clips from press releases, interviews, and the occasional interaction he’d have during his daily life. Not only did it fuel his ego, but it also made him feel like what he did mattered—and of course it was nice to know people found him attractive enough to comment things like ‘bark bark’ and ‘my legs are wide open rn’.

As you walked out of the bathroom in his clothes, you focused on braiding your slightly damp hair, you’d done your best to not get it wet in the shower, knowing that once it was wet that would be a whole other world of issues.

Meanwhile, Joaquin shifted onto his side, gaze now on you. “You feel better now?” 

You nodded your head at him, opting to walk around to the other side of the bed before plopping down beside him. Once you finished with your braids you laid down, pulling the comforter over your body while turning to face him.

“I think my love life is utterly hopeless…I’m sorry for yelling earlier, I was overwhelmed and I felt like my clothes were actively trying to murder me.”

Joaquin laughed at you, nodding his head as he turned to face you now, his phone still in hand playing the most recent edit. Your brows knit together at the song playing from his phone, and before he could fully process what you were doing, you’d already snatched the phone from him.

Your jaw dropped at the sight of the video of him taking off Bucky’s helmet, clearly at a gas station. Then the beat dropped and several different clips of him biting his lip in interviews started playing, one transitioning into the next and so on.

His eyes widened, a rosey flush overtaking his features. 

“Seriously Quino! You’re over here watching edits of yourself! Oh my god! Wait do you save them into a folder—wait back up—!” you were laughing and giggling as he tried to snatch the phone from you, but you quickly tossed the blanket onto him, then used your legs to push him back slightly before rolling over and hopping off the bed.

While you moved you also went into his TikTok bookmarks, eyes widening at the several different folders, some labeled with emojis, others pertaining to workouts, a few having to do with places to visit, then there was a folder labeled ‘Cariño’ but you didn’t look at that one. Instead you focused on the one with the eagle emoji.

Then you looked back at him, watching as he practically jumped off of the bed. 

“Don’t you dare!” 

You shook your head at him, a wide smile on your face. “You do save them don’t you!” Then you flashed him his phone, now opening the folder, the several videos buffering through, and in the few seconds that you’d let your guard down, Joaquin was practically tackling you back onto the bed, now you were stretching your arm as far away as possible while attempting to shove him off. 

The mixture of your laughter and his practically bouncing off of the walls while you both rolled around the bed, then eventually you managed to pin him down, catching your breath as you held both of his arms above his head with one of your arms, straddling his waist, while you held his phone in hand.

Before either of you had a chance to process the position, the door to the bedroom opened, and Bucky stared at the both of you with wide eyes, his lips parted while he tried to process what he walked in on.

“Jesus Christ Sam, they’re about to have se-” before he finished his sentence, Joaquin’s phone was hitting him directly in the abdomen and Bucky practically doubled over as he choked on his words. Then you quickly got off of Joaquin, heat enveloping your features while you tried to process what you’d just done to Bucky.

Joaquin sat up quickly, blinking several times as he took in the sight of you rushing over to Bucky who was gripping his abdomen with his vibranium arm. Meanwhile Joaquin’s phone was now on the floor face down, but Ride by Sir-Mix-A-Lot was playing in the background.

“Bucky I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to throw it, I just reacted! Oh my god! Sam’s gonna kick my ass! Jesus this is it, I assaulted a congressman now I’m going to the Raft!” 

You were panicking while Bucky slowly stood up, nodding his head and catching his breath.

“Anyone ever told you that you have a strong arm, kid? You ever played softball?” 

You shook your head at Bucky’s question. Brows knit together as you tried to shrug off the shame and embarrassment of practically hurling Joaquin’s phone directly at Bucky all because you didn’t want him to finish his sentence. 

“You’re not going to the Raft for hitting me with his phone. Speaking of—” he squatted down to pick it up, eyes widening at the video playing before handing it to you, awkwardly clearing his throat before leaving the room.

You slowly turned to look at Joaquin who looked equally, if not even more mortified than you. Then you showed him the specific edit playing, a compilation of Joaquin shirtless when he played in a charity basketball tournament. 

“Y’know what, at least one of us is having a better day Cariño. Now, can you please, give me my phone back and stop judging me for supporting my supporters!” 

You blinked a few times. “I think this makes you a little narcissistic, y’know. Or at the very least, chronically online. Now Buck is gonna tell Sam about this entire situation—Jesus Christ, he thinks we were borderline fucking! Oh my god, this is mortifying for me!” 

Joaquin sat up, raising a single brow, slightly offended.

“Would it really be that terrible? Damn, just call a guy ugly why don’t you?”

You blinked a few times, now looking over at him, tilting your head to the side as your eyes trailed him. “You’re not ugly though, actually—wait nevermind. Not important, what’s important is I have to live knowing I hurled your phone at James Buchanan Barnes! He’s like a dad to me! I just assaulted my pseudo-dad!” 

He laughed at your panicking, lips rolling inward as you glared at him, throwing his hands up in a surrendering motion as he got off of the bed. “Listen sweetcheeks, you’ll be fine! Besides, if anything, Sam’s just gonna make awkward eye contact with us for a few days, and that’ll be it! It’s not like we’re actually having sex.”

You nodded at that, now handing him his phone as he walked towards you. Then you let out a deep sigh, opening the guest bedroom door again and grimacing as you walked back out.

The both of you silently walked back into the living room, sitting beside one another on the loveseat, both mirroring the same awkward expression and tense shoulders the second Sam and Bucky made eye contact, then looked at you two.

A tense silence filled the room for about three minutes. Then Sam sighed, shaking his head. “Listen, if you two are getting freaky, that’s fine by me, but save it for your own place—not mine, and don’t let it screw up work.”

Your jaw dropped at Sam’s nonchalant nature, then you looked at Bucky who simply shrugged. 

“Yeah, as long as it doesn’t influence work, then you two should be fine doing whatever it is you’re doing, just don’t do it near me, around me, in front of me, or within my vicinity—”

You cut him off, “All of those things mean the same thing Buck—”

He nodded his head. “That’s the point.” 

Then you shook your head again. “—Wait a damn minute, we’re not having sex!” You motioned between yourself and Joaquin. “We’ve never, not once, ever done anything under the umbrella of sex. We’re just friends, that’s it.”

Sam slowly nodded his head, very clearly not convinced, then he glanced at Joaquin who had a distant look in his eyes, very clearly zoned out and focused on something else. “So you mean to tell me, you two have never, not even after a long night of drinking, have ever hooked up? You’re just this close and comfortable with each other with no semblance of sexual or romantic feelings?”

You nodded your head, then glanced at Joaquin, who blinked a few times as if he’d finally zoned back in.

“Yeah, we’re just friends. Best friends at that—right Cabezona?” he elbowed you slightly.

“Mhm, now stop calling me that! My head is not that big!” 

He scoffed, raising a single brow. “Yes it is. Even if it’s not literally huge, metaphorically it is, little miss ego-maniac.”

Your jaw dropped at that, now shoving Joaquin with both hands, he hadn’t anticipated it, and had to grab onto the arm of the sofa to stop himself from toppling back. “Don’t be fucking rude Quino!” 

Sam and Bucky slowly nodded at the exchange before glancing back at one another and shaking their heads in sync. 

You two were truly hopeless.

Three days later you found yourself at the grocery store with Joaquin in tow. He decided that he also needed to buy groceries, and he’d practically yelled at you over text about waiting for him to pick you up so that both of you could go together. Something about having multiple sets of eyes making the process faster.

If anything, shopping with Joaquin made things ten times slower. He was like a little kid, going through every single aisle, getting easily distracted—and you couldn’t stand how he managed to touch every single thing! Hell, he’d tried to convince you to buy snacks that he liked for your apartment under the guise that he ‘spent all of his time there anyways!’ 

You were currently in the produce aisle, looking through the tomatoes, brows knit together, biting into your tongue slightly as you focused on finding ones that weren’t overly ripe and still firm. In one hand you held the clear plastic bag, in the other, you lightly felt several individual tomatoes and rummaged through the large wooden bin of them. 

Eventually you settled on eight that you actually liked.

Meanwhile Joaquin was weighing limes, hyperfocused on getting exactly three pounds of them. He’d roped you into making him ceviche based on his abuela’s recipe, and she said that he needed exactly three pounds of limes. 

You knew she was just messing with him. Clearly, Joaquin did not.

His abuela had called you directly and given you the list of ingredients, telling you to measure the seasonings based on taste and what you thought was enough. She said that she trusted your judgement while making several jokes about Joaquin’s inability to cook, not to mention his spice intolerance.

You’d met his family three years ago when Sam had sent you with him on a recon mission in Miami. The mission was relatively simple and had been completed earlier than expected, so it gave him the perfect amount of time to head home to see his family, and he’d dragged you along with him because you’d been complaining about missing home cooked meals.

His family loved you immediately, it also helped that during your years of not-so-legal work, you’d managed to pick up some Spanish. 

Although, it did take a lot of convincing for them to finally believe that you weren’t Joaquin’s girlfriend. Everytime you’d visit Miami with him, you had to go through the same process and the same ‘so are you two together yet?’ questions from his cousins.

But you didn’t mind, not when his family was so welcoming, and of course, you loved his Abuela the most—something you’d never tell his mother. While she was strict, she was also loving, and funny, and embraced you time and time again while also letting you tease Joaquin. 

Plus, every time she saw you, she’d do an egg cleanse on you while ranting about the importance of doing a ‘limpia’ every now and then.

By the time you moved on to the onions, Joaquin had finally perfected the three pounds of limes, tossing the bag into the cart. Then you glanced over at him, raising a single brow which led to him sighing and grabbing the bag, now handing it to you. 

You gave him the onions then proceeded to open the bag, grabbing each individual lime, making sure they were the right texture and color. Meanwhile Joaquin waited, swaying back and forth on his heels while he watched you.

“Y’know you can just tell me I did a good job now. I’m pretty good at the whole produce thing.”

You scoffed at him, closing the bag again and handing it to him. “You did better than last time, when you literally brought me a bag of half-rotten limes. Now can you go get the fish from the butcher area? I don’t like how it smells over there.” 

Joaquin shook his head, hands on his hips while he stared at you with a singular brow raised.

“You look just like your mom right now.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t bring my mom into this, you know you’re supposed to go pick out the right cuts of fish!” 

You shook your head. “No, Abuela gave us both a list, you can read! Here—” you dug through your purse for a second, then handed him his glasses that he insisted he never needed.It got to the point where he put them in your purse anytime he’d have them on for more than an hour. When he didn’t take them from you, you shoved them right against his chest.

“Seriously?! Fine—but you owe me one!” 

You nodded at him, smiling triumphantly as he slipped the thin white wired-frames on. “Now go get the damn fish or I’m not cooking anything! Thanks! Love you! Bye Quino!” As you spoke you shoved him away from you, then clapped a few times, laughing at him as he tried to lightly slap your hands away from him.

He scoffed, shaking his head while turning around and heading towards the back of the store, leaving you to finish the produce shopping. 

About ten minutes later, as you were trying to get cucumbers, someone cleared their throat beside you. You glanced over to your right, confusion evident on your features as you made eye contact with none other than mister tortured artist that stood you up. His eyes trailed your figure, a single brow raised as he took in your fitted sundress.

It was hot, it made sense that you’d be wearing something breathable. What didn’t make sense was the idiot beside you having the nerve to clear his throat, then practically eye-fuck you in the middle of a grocery store produce aisle. 

“Can I help you with something?” his eyes met yours as you spoke, irritation and venom evident in your tone.

“Y’know, I was gonna call you, had an uh—family emergency. Damn, I didn’t think you’d be this hot.” His eyes were back on your body, which earned a loud scoff from you.

“Dude, fuck off. Besides, I’m glad you didn’t show, I got back together with my ex, I needed someone to pick me up and he just happened to be around.” The lie practically rolled off of your tongue, it wasn’t exactly a good idea, but there was no way in hell that you’d let this douchebag think he had any real effect on you.

“Oh, you sure? You don’t have to lie to me, I said I meant to call, we can always try again—maybe somewhere more private and intimate.”

He didn’t even bother making eye contact with you as he spoke.

Joaquin was your savior, walking right up to you and putting the now bagged and wrapped fish into the cart, then he noticed the way you were breathing, and your fists clenched at your sides while you glared at the artsy douchebag across from you. 

He didn’t need to know what had been said to know that you were pissed.

So he smushed himself right next to you, a hand wrapping around your waist, gently resting against your side as he planted a kiss to the side of your head. 

“You alright cariño? This guy bothering you?” 

You relaxed against Joaquin’s touch, glancing at him, a pleading look in your eyes that only he could recognize. “Yeah, I’m fine baby, this is the asshole I was telling you about. Remember? From Friday?” 

He nodded, now taking the time to look at the guy across from you. Joaquin knew his name was Dylan, that much you’d told him when you vented on the drive to the store, complaining about your terrible taste in men and rambling about how much you hated having to settle. 

Joaquin also didn’t know what you saw in this guy. Sure he was tall, but the guy was lanky, scrawny, and looked like he smoked two packs a day. Not to mention the way his ‘oversized’ clothes were mismatched in the worst possible way, and he had paint stains all over his jeans. Plus he had on god-awful boat shoes.

Maybe he managed to catfish you—that had to be it. 

Well, maybe he was funny, or something. Joaquin knew you’d ranted about constantly settling, but at this rate, the bar had to be in Hell.

“Ah, this is Daniel? Wish I could say it was nice to meet you man, but clearly, the circumstances aren't great.”

Dylan nodded slowly, blinking several times as he looked between you and Joaquin. “So this is the ex boyfriend that you’re back with? You sure you aren’t bullshitting me, I think you would’ve mentioned your ex-boyfriend being the Falcon.” 

You simply shrugged. “I like to keep my dating life private.”

Meanwhile Joaquin was doing his best to contain his excitement that someone recognized him in public. He had a fake boyfriend facade to upkeep! He couldn’t afford to squeal right now.

Dylan didn’t look convinced, and clearly he was persistent. To the point that it was starting to piss Joaquin off. So he did what any rational best friend would do in this situation, he leaned into your space, and littered the side of your neck with kisses—right in front of the guy. At first, he’d only left a few pecks—then he lightly traced his tongue along your skin.

Your eyes widened, shock evident at the feeling of Joaquin’s lips and tongue along your bare neck.

You didn’t know whether or not you wanted to whimper or gag. Either way you’d be kicking Joaquin’s ass over this later.

The public display of affection was enough to earn a loud scoff from Dylan as he walked off. 

Then you were shoving Joaquin back slightly, now whisper-shouting at him. “Seriously dude! Maybe that was overselling it!” 

Joaquin shrugged, matching your tone, “What? I had to sell it! I mean come on, ex-boyfriend?! You could’ve said I was a one night stand turned into a three night stand or something!” 

You shook your head at him. “You didn’t need to fucking lick me! You pervert!” Then you ran the back of your hand along your neck, wiping away the remnants of his spit from your skin as you grimace.

He threw his hands up in surrender. “God forbid a guy acts a little freaky with his fake girlfriend!” 

Your jaw dropped at that.  “You’re so chronically online! You freak!” 

Joaquin watched as you rummaged through your purse, finally pulling out a small pack of makeup wipes, practically ripping it open as you grabbed a wipe and ran it along your neck. He raised a single brow at the dramatics of it all.Okay, maybe you weren’t being that dramatic considering he did run his entire tongue along the column of your throat in the middle of a grocery store produce aisle,but he had a point to make!

Besides, he’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t enjoyed it. If you’d let him do it again, he would without an ounce of hesitation.

It wasn’t the first time you had to put on a fake show of intimacy and affection in public. 

But usually that was done under the guise of working recon missions, having to blend into large crowds at fundraisers and banquets, going undercover with one another, posing as a happy—and sometimes unhappy—couple. 

Hell, once he had you pinned against a hallway wall at a masquerade ball, his lips on yours while he held one of your thighs up, wrapped around his waist as his fingers dug into the plush skin. 

He thought about that night sometimes, having to shake his head and force himself to snap out of it. 

“I am not chronically online! You’re just chronically offline!” 

You rolled your eyes at that, tossing the used makeup wipe into the nearby trash can before looking down at the list of groceries and essentials that you needed for your apartment, and the list of things for the ceviche. “Let’s go get my coffee before I wring your throat.”

“As long as you tell me I’m pretty while doing it.”

Then you shoved him again, now pushing the cart towards the coffee and tea aisle.

By the time that you’d actually made it back to your apartment and put everything away, it was nearly four. Then you’d spent half an hour chopping up vegetables while forcing Joaquin to handle cutting the fish.

He was reluctant the entire time, making faces as he tried to avoid getting any fish juice on himself. He’d even opted to wear a pair of latex gloves and one of your frilly aprons.

“This is so disgusting.” 

You laughed at his complaining, nodding your head while you focused on juicing the limes into a bowl. “Well, you were the one who practically begged your Abuela for the recipe, if you hadn’t opened that big ass mouth then we wouldn’t be here! Besides, it’ll be good when it’s ready.” 

Joaquin shook his head, now putting the last bits of the cut up fruit into the large container, then he moved his knife and cutting board directly into your kitchen sink, pulling the gloves off and tossing them in the trash can before turning the water to the hottest setting to wash his hands.

“You better wash that cutting board too! Just wash it once and leave it in the sink, I’ll put it in the dishwasher when I’m done here.” You focused on pouring the lime juice overtop the fish while you spoke, ensuring that all of it was saturated. 

“It’s fine Cabezona, I’ll do the dishes too. I owe you one after licking you like a dog—even though I’m positive you liked it!”

You nearly dropped the bowl at his words, a loud scoff leaving your lips. “Joaquin! You’re such a perv!”

He nodded while he washed the dishes, then unloaded your dishwasher, stacking each bowl and plate on the counter before putting them in the right cupboards. “I’m just saying, everyone likes being a little freaky every now and then. Besides, you’re always wound so tight—I guarantee you’re into that nasty shit.” 

You tried to drown him out as you closed the container and put it inside of the fridge, focusing on cleaning up and putting the container of cut vegetables away, followed by the additional lime juice that you’d squeezed for later.

“Joaquin Torres, now is not the time to talk about my shitty sex life! We can’t all be you!” 

He turned around, now shrugging your apron off and leaning against the counter. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

You raised a brow at him, looking over at him from your position next to the fridge. “Well lets see, anytime you get laid you walk into the office, my apartment, Sam’s apartment—hell you walk anywhere and you’re all smiles and laughs as if you’ve had the best night of your life. So clearly, only one of us is having good sex here, and it’s most definitely not me.” 

Joaquin’s expression was unreadable for a few seconds as he stared at you.

“Don’t even start pitying me either, and please, I don’t have time for another ‘you just have shitty taste in men’ speech, I’ve heard it enough from literally everyone. Maybe I’m just like an idiot because I genuinely can’t find a good guy to save my life.” 

Then you shut the fridge and moved back towards the small island that you were previously standing by, now focused on wiping down the countertop as Joaquin stared at you.

“Have you ever considered that you’re blind as hell?” 

You blinked a few times, pausing your motions to look over at him. “I’m pretty sure every good guy that’s left is either dead or in a committed relationship, so either I’m blind, or an idiot—or maybe both. I’m thinking I should just call a Nunnery and join a convent.” 

Joaquin sighed, shaking his head before turning back towards the sink, now loading the last few cups before shutting the dishwasher and washing his hands again. After he patted them dry on his pants, he was at your side again, leaning against the island while you reorganized your small fruit basket, putting the oldest fruits on the top to make sure you’d get to them before they went bad.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve dated guys that don’t know the difference between their, there, and they are.” 

You nodded at that. “Honestly, probably. Jesus, even the tax guy turned out to be an asshole. Maybe I’m like a douchebag magnet! What does a girl have to do to find a guy who isn’t a piece of shit,like, men are all shitty. No offense, well you don’t really count.”

He blinked a few times, arms now crossed in front of his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean? You always say I don’t count.”

“Because you don’t count. You’re my best friend, I don’t see you romantically. Yeah. I can admit that you’re attractive, but I wouldn’t ever date you.”

Joaquin didn’t know whether or not to be offended, so instead he pressed further. “Okay, elaborate on that.” 

You looked over at him, a bit confused. “Why?”

“Because, I’m pretty sure I should be offended—but I can’t tell.”

That earned a laugh as you shook your head. “I don’t mean to offend you, it’s just, you’re my friend and I see you as a friend. I mean, if I wanted to, I’m positive I could see you romantically, but I just don’t. I like what we have and given my shitty relationship track record, I don’t want to ruin my friendship with you just for the chance to bone you. Besides, your abuela would kill you if we stopped being friends. Y’know she likes me more than you.”

He slowly nodded at that. “But you would—hypothetically bone me?” 

You shrugged again. “Why’s that important again?” 

Joaquin ran a hand through his hair, staring at you with that far-away look in his eyes again. “Can you just answer the question without answering with a question.”

You sighed, now standing up straight, hands on your hips as you turned to face him fully. “Hypothetically speaking? Like full on mind-wipe? Forget I ever said it?” When he nodded you took a deep breath, eyes trailing his figure for a few seconds before meeting his own again.

“Yes. Hypothetically, I’d bone you—but I think you’d be boning me. You’re too overconfident and cocky to be submissive at first.”

It wasn’t as if Joaquin was unattractive, there was nothing unattractive about the man. Of course, he wasn’t the tallest guy around—however he made up for that in almost every other department.

He had nice teeth, sure they weren’t perfect, but you loved his smile. His hair was always done, and his curls were to die for, they were always soft anytime you’d touch them, and you knew he spent time taking care of his hair. Physique wise? He was a wall of muscle, tan skin that was perfectly toned from years of being in the Air Force and now being an Avenger. 

Joaquin’s eyes always held so much emotion, they were deep pools of chocolate that you could drown in—if you really wanted to.

Not to mention his hands? Jesus Christ you could write a book about Joaquin Torres’s hands.

But outside of all of his physical traits, Joaquin was genuinely a great guy. He cared deeply for everyone in his life, and even those he hardly knew. He was observant and knew how to read people well—especially you. 

His words snapped you out of your daze.

“I’d definitely do the boning.” 

You scoffed at that, shoving him again. “You make me sick!” 

Joaquin smiled, nodding his head. “Well, it’s true! Besides, you’d love my hypothetical boning! Now, not to totally void the mind-wipe, but I was thinking that maybe, possibly, we could, well—y’know at least try once. You could use it.”

You blinked a few times. “Joaquin Torres, are you asking to bone me?” 

He nodded, jutting his bottom lip out slightly for a few seconds. “I guess so yeah, it doesn’t need to be like romantic—you just need to get laid, and lucky for you, I’m great in bed.”

“You’re literally offering to pity fuck me. Oh my god, is this what my life has really come to? My best friend has to pity fuck me? Jesus Christ!” With that you stormed off, leaving Joaquin standing in the kitchen with a confused expression on his face.

He wouldn’t really be pity-fucking you. 

Okay, maybe he did pity your lackluster lovelife and even shittier sex-life, but having sex with you would’ve been a win-win situation for the both of you. Joaquin would probably be able to get rid of the random fantasies about you, and you’d actually get to have a real orgasm that doesn’t require a vibrator.

Maybe Joaquin should’ve been more bothered by your blatant rejection—yet somehow he still had a semblance of hope that you’d cave. It wasn’t as if he’d ever force himself onto you, but based on the amount of stress you’ve been under, alongside your lackluster love life, this was something you needed.

Although, maybe volunteering to be the person to sleep with you wasn’t the best idea in the world.

He should’ve known you’d overreact to the simple suggestion. 

You were constantly a walking ball of emotional tension waiting to explode. He’d been used to it, and he was one of the few people that knew how to calm you down and help you relax. Granted, there were also other ways that would most definitely help you relax—but now you think that he offered to ‘pity fuck’ you, which was an insane thought in the first place.

You had to be blind. Joaquin was positive you were blind. 

Even Sam had made several quips in the past about the way that Joaquin looked at you when he thought no one else was paying attention. He was constantly overly possessive when it came to you, and sure, he did take things a little too far at times—hence the grocery store incident—but you outright refused to see him as anything other than a friend!

It was infuriating in a way that he couldn’t explain. He couldn’t just go on and yell at you or be mad that you didn’t see him romantically, not when your reason for it all was so valid and made perfect sense. You and him were best friends, you’d almost instantly clicked, it was rare to meet someone that you meshed with so well. 

If you didn’t want to ruin the friendship, that made sense to Joaquin and he didn’t want to push the issue. But he was currently trying to swallow down the minor sting of rejection while considering the best course of action.

He could easily play it off, acting as if he was joking and hadn’t meant for the joke to get that far. The only issue with that was the fact that he was a terrible liar and you always saw right through him, something about knowing his tell—whatever the hell that meant.

Joaquin could also just swallow his pride and chase after you, which seemed to be the most realistic option here. It wasn’t as if you were on the verge of starting World War III, well, not this time at least.

So he took a few deep breaths, ran his hands through his hair, then made his way to your bedroom, glancing over at the sofa, spotting your black cat sitting and staring at him as he stopped walking—hesitating as he debated on actually walking into your bedroom. 

“Binx, this is a terrible idea isn’t it?”

A meow was her only response, Joaquin pretended that it was a meow of encouragement, however he knew the cat didn’t exactly like him. If anything, she was probably shaming him for his terrible timing and horrendous ideas.

Then Joaquin walked down the short hallway, knocking on your bedroom door a few times. Of course you didn’t respond—he should’ve expected that. 

So he slowly opened the door, met with the sight of you laying flat on your bed, feet hanging off the edge slightly while your face was pressed into one of your many pillows. Then you let out something between a muffled shout and groan, raising a single hand, middle finger facing him.

“Oh come on, Hermosa! You can’t really be in here pouting right now!” He opened the door wider, arms now crossed as he leaned against the doorframe, looking directly at you while you let out another muffled shout.

“I have no idea what you’re saying right now, you do know that, right?”

Then you were sitting up on your elbows, groaning again as you looked over your shoulder at him, eyes squinted, brows knit together, and an evident pout on your face. “Fuck off Joaquin. I really don’t need your pity right now, it’s bad enough Bucky gave me relationship advice yesterday! A man who hasn’t been on a real date since the 1940s has a better dating history than me!”

Joaquin slowly nodded. “I mean, I think he’s technically dating Sam? Actually—I don’t know what the hell those two are, but I know I’ve heard some suggestive sounds from Sam’s room before. That was enough for me.”

You groaned again, face back against your pillows. 

He finally walked into the room, grasping your ankles and dragging you down slowly, ignoring your squeal as he leaned against your bed to usher you onto your back. Then he plopped down beside you, both of you staring up at the ceiling fan. 

“I didn’t mean to insult you y’know. I just figured it would’ve been a win-win. Besides, you said it yourself, you don’t see me romantically, so I thought it would avoid the whole awkwardness thing.”

You sighed, hands now folded together over your stomach, eyes following the slow rotation of the fan’s blades. “Okay, I might have overreacted. But Quino, my love life fucking sucks. People are always yapping about how your twenties are supposed to be like full of great experiences and I mean, yeah so far most of my twenties haven't been horrible—outside of being like a criminal for the first two years—but I have terrible luck with relationships and even worse luck with sex.”

Then you finally turned to look at him, eyes trailing his side profile, taking in the different curves and ridges of his face. “This shit sucks.” 

He laughed at you, a smile on his face as he finally looked at you, neither of you fully processed how close you actually were to one another until this exact moment in time. Your faces were inches apart, he could feel your shallow breaths against his face, and the smell of your minty gum lingered between the two of you.

Joaquin’s eyes traced your features. “Y’know, you’re really pretty, Cabezona.” 

You raised a single brow. “Yeah, because every girl wants to be called pretty, followed by an endearing nickname about how big their head is.” 

He bit his bottom lip as he smiled, nodding a bit before speaking. “It’s part of the Torres charm. Besides, you know how my family is, everyone has a nickname—at least yours isn’t something like Lindito. They basically call me a cutie pie because I was a cute kid—it was fine when I was six, now I’m almost thirty!”

You laughed at him, raising both brows. “Don’t make me call your Abuela and tell her you’re talking about her!” 

Joaquin scoffed, brows knit together. “I’d never! Now, can you please get up and stop wallowing in pity and embarrassment. If anything, I should be the one wallowing, you just brutally rejected me.” 

You rolled your eyes then looked at him again, except this time you made direct eye contact with him. “This is literally embarrassing, I can’t get laid to the point that you offered to bone me.”

Now it was Joaquin’s turn to roll his eyes. “I didn’t mean anything offensive by it, but let’s face it—you need to get laid. Like properly, not whatever mediocre shit you’ve been doing with guys.”

Then you sat up, shaking your head. “Yeah, but it won’t be with you, mister hot shot, now c’mon, we have to finish cooking and call your Abuela before she kills you. Not me though, I’m her favorite.” 

A grand total of four days have passed since the night that you brutally rejected Joaquin and assumed that he was offering to ‘pity-fuck’ you—whatever the hell that meant. 

Within those four days, you managed to walk in on Sam and Bucky in a very intimate position in Sam’s office, which led to you yelling at them both while they shrugged their missing remnants of clothes back on—honestly, you were glad they weren’t full blown fucking when you walked in because you probably would’ve stomped your foot and yelled at them even more.

Then you spent an hour laying on the sectional in the room with your head in Bucky’s lap as you vented about your lackluster love life and fear of commitment, which was followed by even more relationship advice from him—which you screamed into a throw pillow over.

It also didn’t help that both Sam and Bucky were acting incredibly awkward following you walking in on them, but you simply brushed it off, telling them you couldn’t care less about what they did with one another, while emphasizing the use of locks on doors.

Sam tried to argue with you about needing to knock, which you rolled your eyes at, while telling him this office was technically government property, and it was a shared space with Joaquin as well—so technically, you were within your right to walk right into the space without a care in the world. Especially since the door was unlocked.

It didn’t help that your younger sister had called and told you that she was engaged to her long-term high school sweetheart. You hated him—but he made her happy so you tolerated him. Although, given the opportunity, you would kick his ass, so you congratulated her and told him he was always on thin ice.

That sent you into a minor depressive period because truthfully, you felt pathetic. You knew there weren’t that many good guys left in the world, but the fact that your younger sister had managed to settle down before you really sent you over the edge.

Joaquin told you that you were just being dramatic when you told him that you would just end up alone with seventeen cats, you were already on the way there! Binx was your first cat, but what was to stop you from adopting seven more!.

Even today as you sat inside of Sam and Joaquin’s shared office, you were irritated and venting. 

“No you guys don’t get it! I have shit luck with love! Y’know this is the first Friday in months that I haven't had a date? Mind you, each date was shitty. But damn, at least I was trying! Now I feel like a sack of moldy potatoes. My little sister is gonna get married next year and I’ve never even been in a real committed relationship!”

Sam shook his head. “You do know you have your own office in this building, right?” 

You scoffed at him. “So what? Now you don’t even want to talk to me? You’re in a relationship with my pseudo-dad so you’re basically my step dad that doesn’t love me Sam!” 

Joaquin groaned, spinning around in his desk chair to look at you. “Cariño, you need to calm down and stop yelling at everyone, it’s three thirty, and for the first time in a while we’re not on some high-stakes mission or on crunchtime with some Avengers related deadline to meet, or handling a potentially world-ending crisis. You can’t be mad at Sam for wanting some peace and quiet.”

You blinked a few times, jaw clenched as you squinted, staring directly at Joaquin, wishing you had magical powers to light him on fire. “Peace and quiet? Coming from you? You never shut the hell up!”

He took a deep breath, over the past few days you’d progressively gotten snappier. Joaquin figured it was because you desperately needed to get laid, you were so wound up and tense that anything sent you spiraling into a fit of rage. It was most likely because you hadn’t had your weekly dose of mediocre sex to keep your inner turmoil at bay.

“Jeez, have you always been this mean and whiny?” 

You glared at Sam, who shook his head, raising a single brow. “Listen, I’ve got a sister, you don’t scare me. I’ve also fought literal aliens from outer space—wait put that down! What the hell are you doing!” 

Then you were hurling your plastic water bottle at him. He ducked right on time, eyes wide and jaw dropped as he looked at you, then he shook his head, now standing with his hands on his hips.

“That’s it, get out! You’re on time out. Go work on a report or something, get the hell out of my office.” He stared at you, eyes wide as he pointed towards the doors.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you stood up and walked out, slamming the door behind you. They both winced slightly at the sound. The doors into the room weren’t exactly easy to slam—it was as if you’d put all of your strength into the action.

“You really are acting like her dad, man.” 

Sam scoffed, now looking at Joaquin. “And you’re acting like her shitty boyfriend. Go console her, give her a kiss so she stops letting all of her frustration out on everyone! It’s obvious you like her! Can’t you go confess your feelings and help her deal with her inner rage demon. She’s never this bad. She tried to shoot me once, but I think I’d prefer that over her hurling full bottles of water at me, in my own office!”

Joaquin’s jaw dropped, eyes wide as he stared at Sam. 

“Oh please, don’t look at me like I’ve got three heads, it’s obvious to everyone but you two. You’re basically in love with the maniac, and she’s so hellbent on just being your friend that she can’t process how un-platonic the both of you actually are! I mean come on! Her dating history is trash because she’s too slow to see what’s right in front of her, and you won’t man the hell up and tell her how you feel!”

Joaquin pursed his lips, eyes shut as he nodded a few times. He knew Sam was right, but he didn’t need the tough love, not today at least. “Listen man, I don’t know what to do about her, she’s just so—well you know how she is! Y’know I offered—”

Sam cut him off, blinking several times before speaking. “Offered to what? Don’t tell me you tried the whole ‘lets just have sex as friends’ thing. That never works!”

“Okay, it wasn’t exactly like that, in those words! But come on! She told me she doesn’t see me romantically! How’s a guy supposed to recover from that? I get it, we have a great friendship but if she doesn’t want to flush it down the drain, I get that, I just have to respect her boundaries, I can’t just bug the shit out of her until she snaps and fucks me.”

Sam grimaced, shaking his head. “Okay, a little too vulgar for me, kid. Were those her words, like verbatim?” 

Joaquin nodded. “Kind of, sort-of? She said that, but she also told me, she probably could see me romantically if she tried, but she doesn’t want to try so why should I push it? Besides, she’ll eventually relax! It’ll just take some time.”

“Yeah, how about you actually, y’know, act like the adult that you are and talk to her about your obvious feelings, and maybe little miss anger issues, might actually put two and two together and realize she’s practically in love with you, thinks you’re unattainable, so she settles for idiots and assholes.”

That conversation sparked one of Joaquin’s less-than-great plans. Instead of talking to you about things, he opted to simply do boyfriend-ish things around you while simultaneously being a little too up close and personal with you for several days, hoping you’d get the message, or at the very least, full-on reject him so he could actually move on.

It started the day after he spoke with Sam. That Saturday Joaquin showed up at your apartment with a bouquet of sunflowers—thankfully they were actually in season—and when he handed them to you, you were utterly confused. 

He was starting to think that maybe you were really that oblivious. Your reaction only emphasized that. The second he handed you the bouquet, you asked if he was apologizing for something, or if you’d forgotten about an important date—or if maybe these were ‘thank you’ flowers. 

Joaquin stared at you, utterly confused.

Who the hell just randomly shows up at someone’s doorstep on a Saturday with ‘thank you’ flowers—most people would just get them delivered. It also didn’t help that you simply shrugged, focused on trimming the stems before putting the flowers in water without any other questions. You were quiet the entire time, which also had him overthinking the gesture.

Mainly because you hadn’t been quiet in a while.

Then you decided it was time to grace him with the terrible news that you had a date on Monday. Who the hell goes on dates on a Monday?!

“Well, he seems nice enough I guess. He actually works on base, not directly with us, but I’ve seen him around. He stopped me yesterday on the way back to my office. I can’t even promise that he’ll be different—maybe if I’m lucky he’ll actually be good in bed.” 

Joaquin was glad you weren’t looking at him, he couldn’t even control his facial expressions, right eye twitching slightly at the news.

So he opted to step his game up, that day as the two of you spent time together, he stood closer than usual, and as he moved behind you, he made sure to place his hand on the small of your back, or he’d grasp your hips slightly, shimmying past you as if there wasn’t enough room for him to move without touching you. 

Throughout the entire day he helped you with your mundane tasks, and the domesticity of it all was getting to him—to the point that he had to give himself a pep talk in the bathroom

He even helped you unbraid your hair, fingers massaging against your scalp just enough to make you blush.

His final move that night was pulling you directly against his chest on your oversized sofa, arms wrapped around you, fingers gently grazing the sliver of exposed skin on your hip between the hemline of your shirt and the pajamas you wore. Hell—he even intertwined his legs with yours. 

Sure you’d cuddled in the past—but never like that. 

When you tried to question it, he hummed against your scalp, pressing a kiss to the top of your head while his gaze remained focused on the shitty slasher movie that you chose.

By the time the movie ended, the both of you had fallen asleep.

Sunday morning you were awoken by the sounds of Binx’s loud meowing and the rays of sunlight shining through your half-opened blinds. As you tried to get up, you then realized that Joaquin was still holding you in place—the motion had an unfamiliar feeling bubbling through you. 

Something similar to butterflies? But that wasn’t right—that was something associated with childish crushes and you’ve never had a crush on Joaquin Torres.

So you shoved his arm away, which in turn woke him up. Then you were up, walking to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with the only goal of feeding Binx before she managed to start a feline uprising at eight in the morning.

“G’morning Sunshine.” Joaquin sat up as he spoke, yawning and stretching. Taking the time to roll his shoulders back then crack his neck slightly. The couch wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, however after a night of sleeping in the same position—he felt stiff. 

His voice was raspier than usual, and that didn’t help with the foreign emotions you were currently feeling. Your brows knit together as you looked down at Binx, who was now purring while rubbing herself along your calves. Of course the cat would be happy now that you were awake to feed her—she couldn’t give you thirty more minutes of sleep.

“Uh—morning Quino.”

Your voice was strained, and you cringed the second you finished speaking, glad he couldn’t see your face.

“So what’s on today’s agenda? Now that Sam and Bucky are on good terms, it looks like we’ll have a lot more free time.” 

You nodded your head without looking at him, now squatting down to give Binx her ceramic bowl of wet food, then you looked around, trying to find things to do that would help you avoid Joaquin’s stare. You were unfortunately, very unsuccessful, especially when the second you stood back up, he was already in the kitchen, one hand on your lower back as he walked past you, taking the time to brew a new pot of coffee.

You rushed to the bathroom, eyes wide, panic evident on your features as you looked at your own reflection. Maybe you were just imagining things, he’d always been touchy-feely with you, and it hadn’t ever affected you before. What was so different now? Maybe you were just overthinking things, this was Joaquin—your Joaquin.

There wasn’t anything different between the two of you. You were friends, best friends at that. You trusted him with your life, so why the hell did it feel like your skin was tingling from where he’d touched you, and why the hell were you blushing like a schoolgirl.

You tried to take longer with your morning routine, hoping that you’d be able to waste as much time as possible—maybe he’d get the hint and go home.

But instead, he walked right into your bathroom, which wasn’t exactly unusual for the both of you. Then he placed another hand on your hip, squeezing past you to grab his spare toothbrush and the toothpaste. Then he was brushing his teeth, standing right beside you—except he was closer than usual.

Or at least he felt like he was closer than usual.

You had to be losing it. This was normal, there was nothing different about this interaction—so why the hell did it feel so different?

The bathroom wasn’t exactly huge, so of course you’d be close. The counter only had one sink, it wasn’t as if this was a large dual-vanity bathroom with extra walking space. The bathroom had barely enough room for the both of you behind the wide-set counter, even then, you had your own organized chaotic mess of things along both sides of the white countertop.

Plus, with where Joaquin stood, his left shoulder was brushing against one of your plush towels hanging on a hook, and he hardly fit into the space between the wall and you. Usually he’d opt to lightly shove you closer to the wall, so you weren’t exactly sure why he chose that side today, maybe because it was closer to the toothbrushes.

While you swished your mouthwash, he flossed, humming the tune to Love Story by Taylor Swift. Then as you both made eye contact in the mirror’s reflection, you raised your brows at his song choice, taking a second to spit the mouthwash out, and in seconds, you were both scream-singing in sync.

“Little did I know! You were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles and my daddy said stay away from Juliet!” 

You were both incredibly off-key and pitchy. Bursting into a fit of laughter while trying to keep up with the song, except both of you only knew some of the lyrics, so you ended up mumbling and making up words while singing together.

He held one of your brushes in hand as he sang to you. “I've been feeling so alone—something about waiting for you—something something something—marry me Juliet you’ll never have to be alone!”

You laughed at him, a wide smile on your face while you shook your head, shoving him slightly before snatching your brush out of his hand. Then you opted to moisturize your face, using two fingers from each hand to rub circles against your face before tapping your under-eye cream on.

Joaquin watched you the entire time, brows knit together, focused on your movements. “The hell is all that even for? Can’t you just slap some lotion on and call it a day?”

You blinked several times, now turning to look at him, brows knit together in confusion. “You only use lotion?”

He nodded, shrugging “I mean yeah, I wash my face, then put lotion on. That’s really it.”

You shoved him once, then scoffed and shoved him again. “Of course you’d have nice skin just because. I can’t stand you, y’know that? Only using lotion, my ass—now c’mere!” 

Joaquin wasn’t exactly sure how he could get any closer to you, but then you stepped back a bit to grab one of your fancy little moisturizers, unscrewing the cap of the glass bottle, a dropper now in hand while you grasped his jaw—the motion catching him off guard, then you were focused on dotting the liquid along his face.

Before he could fully process it, you were rubbing circles into his skin, and he was staring with wide eyes and parted lips. 

“Close your mouth before you catch a fly.”

“So you’ve got flies in here? That’s disgusting, cariño. I think you actually should call someone about that.” Then you shoved him again, shaking your head at his antics.

The two of you stood in a comfortable silence as you moved on from one serum to the next, applying each product carefully to his skin as he stared at you with another unreadable emotion.

Maybe if you weren’t so blind you would’ve realized Joaquin had nothing but unending adoration in his eyes as he focused on your face, taking in each and every detail, committing this moment to memory.

Before he could get too caught up in the domestic fantasy, he cleared his throat. “Cabezona, are you finished yet? I think I’ll be fine without your ten step skin care routine!”

“Don’t you have your own apartment to be at? Instead of bothering me on my peaceful Sunday?”

He shook his head at you. “Nah, but I’m thinking, we should go out today. I heard about this great spot in Chinatown, you’ll love it, I promise! After we can go to the aquarium, you know you love seeing the octopi.” Joaquin sounded so excited and admittedly you were too—he was right, you did love seeing the ever expanding Octopus exhibit.

“Okay fine, but I have to get ready. No way in hell I’m going looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

“Works for me cariño, I think I have some clothes somewhere here too, gotta go find it in all of your shit.” Then for some reason unknown to him—he planted a firm smack to your ass as he walked past you.

Your surprised breath had him realizing what he’d done. It was something similar to a high pitched gasp—hell if he wasn’t so focused on the rush of heat throughout his entire body he would’ve registered it as a slight moan.

Joaquin froze in the doorway, and you froze in place, jaw dropped while you slowly turned to look at him. At the same time he was slowly turning around, absolutely mortified—the domesticity was really getting to him—to the point of no return.

“Did you just smack my ass? What the hell, Joaquin!” 

He slowly nodded “I don’t know—shit I mean yeah—but I don’t know what came over me! I’m sorry! I just—you and then me—and then—I’m sorry. God don’t kill me—I didn’t mean to, I just—I think I’m losing it here!”

You blinked several times, mouth opening and closing as you struggled to figure out what to say to him. 

“Listen Hermosa, I really didn’t mean it—like really. Oh my god—holy shit. I’m really sorry, like seriously sorry, don’t murder me—please you look like you’re about to kill me!”

He was full on panicking, this wasn’t part of his plan, hell his plan was supposed to be long and drawn out, he’d spend a week pestering you, doing relationship-esque things until you finally got the hint, then he’d do some grand gesture and ask you out on a real, genuine date. Not the shit that you’ve been so used to.

After the date he’d also fuck you until you forgot your own name—but now it was looking like he wouldn’t live to see that potential date ever happen. Not when your shocked expression was quickly warping into your usual glare. The glare was like a silent warning telling him to run, so that’s exactly what he did.

The moment you reached for your brush again—he was off, sprinting out of the bathroom, down the short hallway, and running away from you.

You were quick on your feet, chasing after him with your brush in hand, throwing several random things at him while he ran circles around your living room, then into the kitchen, then he’d ducked behind the Island for a few seconds to catch his breath before practically hurdling himself over it to get away from you.

“I’m sorry for smacking your ass! To be fair! It’s a nice ass!”

“You’re such a pervert! I’m gonna fucking kill you Joaquin!” Then you threw the TV remote at him, he barely managed to smack it out of the way mid-air, wincing at the impact on his palm. 

Now you were both at a stand still, the only real piece of furniture separating you both was your small sectional, he stood on the side closest to your bedroom door, you stood on the opposite end closer to the apartment door. He wished he had ended up on that side—then at least he would’ve been able to run down the building hallway.

“Come on Hermosa! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just—something came over me okay?! You don’t need to murder me—you’ll go to the Raft or something—Sam would kill you! Actually that’s a good point! If you kill me, Sam’ll kill you!” 

You blinked a few times. “Then let him kill me! At least I’ll kill you first you freak!” 

“You’re so mean! Take it as a compliment! Actually—shit! Don’t take it as a compliment, that's not how my mom raised me! But fuck—you’re so—just God—I can’t ever get you out of my head! Then you go and do shit like that! With the thing on my face and my heart is racing—and it’s not because I’ve been running. You just don’t get what you do to me Cariño!”

You paused, dropping the brush in your hand, it hit the floor with a shallow bang. You stared at him, brows knit together in confusion, his words didn’t make any sense to you. 

It wasn’t the first time you’ve done something like that for Joaquin, you two were close, extremely close, so why was everything suddenly so different?

“Then you look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about! But I know you do! I know you feel it too! I spent all of yesterday trying to get you to really feel it! Then I had this whole plan about how I was going to act around you for a week—and honestly, I was just gonna do stuff that I’ve always wanted to do with you! But then waking up with you in my arms had my brain feeling like mush and my heart hammering in my chest—and you—you’re just—you’re everything to me.”

His confession had you in shock, brows raised, lips parted, heat enveloping your features while you struggled to process everything. 

“Fuck, last week you rejected me, and y’know what? I earned it, asking my best friend to have sex with me was a bit shallow, I can admit that!—but then you said you don’t see me romantically—which yeah it hurt, but you followed it with you could see me romantically if you wanted to, and that gave me enough hope that maybe you do feel the way I do, maybe you just don’t see it—or haven’t let yourself—but at this point, I have to let it all out because I literally smacked your ass like you’re my girlfriend and now you’re probably gonna behead me with some evil makeshift guillotine in your closet!”

As Joaquin spoke, he moved his hands rapidly, emphasizing certain words and phrases. He’d always done that—talking with his hands—but right now, something about it had your heart racing.

Or maybe it was the realization that Joaquin Torres had romantic feelings for you.

“Then I talked to Sam, and he told me that maybe you’re just settling for shitty guys because somehow, in the back of your mind, you won’t let yourself see what’s right in front of you.Not to sound like a narcissist here, but I’ve swallowed down my feelings for so long, and every now and then they come bubbling up and I have to gaslight myself into thinking that I’m just insane and don’t actually like you in the romantic sense!”

That’s when you realized why your heart was racing, not because Joaquin Torres has feelings for you—no. It was because you have feelings for Joaquin Torres. 

You really did settle each and every time, going for asshole after asshole and somehow convincing yourself that you just had bad luck and would never find a single guy that was actually kind hearted and cared about you beyond just having sex. Then you’d end up on a series of shitty dates, being heartbroken, angry, and frustrated—and the first person you always called was Joaquin.

Joaquin Torres who had every single positive trait that you wanted in a man. 

Joaquin Torres that knew you like the back of his hand.

Joaquin Torres who’s family absolutely adored you—and you adored them.

Joaquin Torres, the same Joaquin Torres that you’d instantly clicked with when you met several years ago.

You’d managed to completely drown out Joaquin’s mixture between ranting, venting, and confessing his feelings for you. Then you shook your head, walking around the sofa in three long strides until you were toe to toe with Joaquin.

“If you’re gonna kill me, at least tell me I’m pretty fir-” you immediately cut him off, rolling your eyes at his terrible attempt at humor. One hand tugged on his shirt, the other caressed the side of his face, practically pulling him into you as you smashed your lips against his. 

Joaquin was practically frozen in place for a few seconds until he felt you pulling away—clearly reading too much into his lack of reaction. So he gently grasped both sides of your face, kissing you back, pouring all of his frustration into the kiss. 

Things started slow, however the second you parted your lips, letting him in—things picked up very quickly. He kissed you as if he’d never be able to again, like he wanted to memorize this exact moment, and he held you firmly against him—one hand moving from your face to your hip, pulling your lower body flush with his own.

He bit your lip as he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours for a moment while you both stood in silence, your uneven breaths filling the space.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for years—Christ the day I met you I wanted to kiss you. Then when you came to the hospital to see me after I got my ass handed to me by that Flag smasher? All I wanted to do was kiss you until I couldn’t breathe.”

You bit your bottom lip slightly, eyes finally meeting his as he leaned back a few inches. 

“I think I might be an idiot, Quino.” 

He nodded at that, thumb gently caressing your cheek. “Oh absolutely, your taste in guys emphasized that.Would now be a bad time to ask if you want me to bone you?” 

You laughed at his joke, shaking your head with a smile, before lightly shoving him and taking a step back. “You’re such a freak!” 

“I never said I wasn’t! Come on, you’re basically my girlfriend now, let’s all be honest here—you could be my wife if you wanted to, I’ll propose right now, drop down on one knee and everything.” Both of his brows were raised while he shrugged, hands out in front of him and a smirk on his face.

“Oh my god! Quit being yourself for ten minutes Joaquin Torres!” Then you walked away from him, towards your bedroom. 

“Wait! Where are you going?!” 

You glanced over your shoulder with a single hand on your doorknob. “What, did you think you were gonna defile my couch?!Now, come on—I prefer having sex on a bed, besides, I haven’t even had sex in my bed.”

He blinked a few times. “Like ever?” 

You nodded. “I usually don’t bring my dates here, besides, letting random men know where I live isn’t the safest bet. Honestly, I think I settle for car sex the most. Wait—does my vibrator count?” Then you giggled as you walked into your bedroom, mentally counting to five to see how long it would take him to follow you. 

You only made it to three before he was practically running through the door and shutting it behind him. Then his hands were back on you, walking you towards your bed before pushing you down.

Before you knew it, he was shirtless and on top of you, his lips back against yours. He kissed you like he had a point to prove, lips moving against yours, kissing you deeply, moaning against your lips while you fought him for control of the kiss. 

Joaquin knew he’d won the second you whimpered as he rolled his hips against yours. He was perfectly situated between your thighs, and your toes curled at the feeling of his evident bulge pressing against your clothed core. 

Your hands were all over him, tracing his chest, then his shoulders, then his back. Eventually, one settled in his hair, lightly tugging at the curls, earning a low moan. But he hadn’t stopped kissing you, his lips perfectly moulded against yours, and you were both lost in one another. You had years to make up for. 

Eventually he pulled back for air, heavy breaths against your lips while he struggled to fully regain his composure. Then his eyes scanned your features, your eyes were slightly hooded as you looked up to him, an evident flush on your skin, and your lips were swollen.

“You’re so pretty.” 

You laughed at him, raising both brows. “Yeah, you aren’t too bad yourself, Torres.” Then you moved the hand in his hair to his jaw, thumb grazing against his bottom lip, tugging on it slightly while holding eye contact with him. 

He smirked, nodding a few times. “I always knew you were a freak in the sheets.”

You scoffed. “You’re so annoying!”

Joaquin smiled. “That’s why you like me, isn’t it?” 

That earned an eye roll. “Isn’t there something else you could be doing with your mouth instead of annoying me on purpose?” 

Then there was a glint in Joaquin’s eye, and he tilted his chin down slightly, just enough to pull your thumb into his mouth, lightly sucking on it for a few seconds before letting it go. 

The sight had your eyes widening.

“Yeah—there’s something I’ve been dying to do with my mouth. Promise you’ll love it.” Then his lips were on yours for a few seconds before he trailed open mouthed kisses along your jaw, taking the time to run his tongue against your warm skin, then as he kissed down your throat, he nipped a few marks into the skin, smirking at the sounds of your quiet whimpers.

Then he ran his tongue along your freshly bruised skin—the motion so familiar that it made you giggle. Well at least you giggled until the found the spot below your ear, which earned a surprised gasp from you—and that was all Joaquin needed to hear before he was kissing against your skin, sucking your skin into his mouth, teeth lightly tugging at it—your fingers digging into his back at the feeling.

Once he was satisfied with his work, he started kissing back down your neck, and along your exposed shoulder in your cut up t-shirt. His hands focused on pushing the shirt up from your waist, exposing more and more skin until he was met with your bra. 

You pushed him away, slightly embarrassed at the older plain black bra, it was your comfiest bra—it even had a few holes along the band closer to the hooks on your back. 

“What’s wrong, Hermosa?” He sounded so soft and concerned, looking at you as if he was afraid of breaking you.

“Nothing—don’t judge my ugly bra.” 

He laughed at that, shaking his head. “You think I’d judge something that’s coming off anyways?” Then, he was sitting back on his haunches, gently pulling you up before his hands grasped the edge of your shirt—making eye contact with you, waiting until you nodded—then he was pulling it upward, helping you take it off.

The second his eyes landed on your chest, he groaned, biting his bottom lip at the sight of your tits—even if they were confined in the plain bra—he didn’t give a shit about that, to the point that he was pushing you back onto the bed, lips back on your skin. Joaquin started from your shoulder, then moved along your chest to the swell of your breasts.

He took his time with you, a trail of bruising kisses along your plush skin, then he reached behind your back with one hand, fumbling with the clasp of your bra—the motion making you laugh as you shook your head.

He glanced up at you from your chest, a rosy flush overtaking his cheeks. “Don’t laugh at me, you’re gonna give me performance anxiety!” As he spoke, he finally managed to unclasp the bra, taking the time to pull the straps off of your shoulders, then he squeezed his eyes shut as he took it off of you. 

“Quino, what the hell are you doing?” 

He laughed, “Giving myself a grand reveal! Duh.” Then he opened his eyes, lips parted as he stared directly at your bare chest. He blinked a few times, then licked his lips while nodding his head. “Yeah—you’re so fuckin pretty, all of you—Christ.” 

You gasped as he practically dove into you, lips back on your chest, one hand massaging against your right side, his mouth focused on the other, a mixture between bruising kisses and low groans being left against your skin. Then he wrapped his lips around your nipple—gently sucking on the hardened peak, earning a high pitched moan from you.

Eventually he moved onto your other breast, repeating the motions until your back was arching into him while you pulled his hair so hard that it stung—although that wasn’t why he stopped. Joaquin opted to kiss along your stomach, even taking the time to bite into the soft skin, smirking against you at the sounds of your quiet whimpers.

By the time that he made it to the waistband of your pajamas, he paused, now looking up at you, giving himself the chance to process how truly wrecked you really were. Your hair framed you in a messy halo, your eyes were hooded, swollen lips parted, and you stared at him as if he was everything and more.

His heart was about to beat out of his chest.

Then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants. “Can I?” 

You nodded at him “Please—” 

Joaquin didn’t need to be told twice, he was pulling your pants and panties off in one motion as you lifted your hips, easing the process along. Once they were full off, his eyes focused on you—taking in every single detail of your body, from the budding bruises he’d left, to the scars, stretch marks, hell even the few moles and birthmarks he’d never seen before.

His stare made you feel insecure in the moment, opting to sit up with your back against your pile of pillows leaning into the headboard, legs pressed together and arms wrapped around your chest, as if you wanted to hide from him.

“Mi Vida, don’t hide from me, you’re so beautiful, everything about you is beautiful.” His voice was full of adoration as he stared at you with a fondness you’d never really experienced before.

Joaquin stared at you as if he was in love, and that alone was enough to have you sitting up further, grasping his shirt and crashing your lips against his. He laughed against your lips, smiling into the kiss as his hands found their way to your waist—one at your thighs, pushing them apart to slot himself between them once again. 

Your hands were all over him, moving from his hair, to his cheeks, to his jaw, then down to his chest again, now beneath his shirt, fingers splayed against the toned ridges of his abdomen. The warmth of his skin was comforting in a way you couldn’t explain.

He moved away enough to pull his shirt off, tossing it aside somewhere, lips back against yours. The kiss was somewhat sweet, but now it was a mixture of teeth and tongue as he deepened the kiss, mouth practically overtaking yours.

Joaquin Torres had always been competitive, it was clear that his competitiveness was incredibly prominent in every aspect of his life—to the point that you felt as if you were drowning in him trying to keep up.

Eventually you pushed him away to catch your breath. He smiled at you once before moving back down, following his previous trail of bruising kisses, except this time with light open mouthed kisses. He’d even grazed his tongue against a few of the blooming marks along your skin.

Then he was between your legs, kissing along your inner thighs, gently biting into the skin—doing his best to leave marks. He’d always been possessive, and to him, you were his girl. The world didn’t need to see every single mark he’d leave against you, some were just subtle reminders for you.

Joaquin used both hands to spread your legs—wide. He was a bit shocked at how wide he was able to get them, raising both brows with a satisfied smirk. “Never knew you were this flexible.”

You scoffed, shaking your head as you looked up at the ceiling to avoid his gaze, feeling the flush of embarrassment taking over as he stared directly at your wet center. 

“Can I?” You didn’t look at him as you mumbled a quiet ‘please’. Too embarrassed to actually meet his gaze. 

Joaquin smiled, shaking his head at you, you’d never been the shy type, but maybe the intimacy was getting to you—however, he reveled in it. He’d never felt more in love.

He didn’t hesitate to lick a flat stripe along your cunt, the motion caught you off guard, eyes widening as you looked down at him, giving yourself a better view of him.

“That's it baby, I want you to look at me—promise I won’t be mean.” Joaquin’s teasing tone made you groan, both hands covering your face for a few seconds before you shook your head.

Joaquin winked at you before repeating the motion, this time with more pressure—starting at your sopping hole, ending at your clit. “You’re so fuckin wet—taste so good too. Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long—wanted you for so long.”

Then his tongue was back on you, he hadn’t started slow, if anything he’d dove straight in—as if he was a prisoner on death row and this was his last meal. 

You couldn’t stop your moans and whimpers, Joaquin had been a man starved and he clearly had a point to prove. Your hands were in his hair, tugging at his curls, back arching into him while you tried not to roll your hips against his face—doing your best to keep some composure.

He knew you too well, and he noticed the way your thighs had already started tensing up. His tongue moved against your clit, alternating between small circles to rapidly flicking against it, the mixture of sensations eliciting borderline pornographic moans from you. He wasn’t stopping anytime soon—and he wanted you to let go. 

Joaquin knew you needed this, and honestly, he needed it too.

So he hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder, bringing you even closer to him, pulling your clit into his mouth, harshly sucking on it while moaning against you, his eyes now shut as he let himself get lost in the motions.

You looked down at him again and nearly lost every sense of composure you had left, his brows were knit together, eyes shut, and as he sucked on your clit with his fingers gripping your thigh, he moaned against you—as if he was doing this for his own pleasure, not yours.

Then you noticed the way his hips rolled into your mattress—that had you whimpering his name, biting your bottom look as you tugged on his hair, fingers grazing his scalp while you finally let go—now grinding yourself against him.

Joaquin let go of your clit, a deep guttural moan leaving his lips at the feeling of you grinding against his face, then he moved lower, nose now pressed against your pearl while his tongue lapped at your dripping hole. 

The second he slid his tongue into you—you whined his name like a prayer. Now fully rolling your hips against his face, moaning at the pressure from his nose against your clit and the feeling of his tongue licking into you—practically darting in and out of you at a brutal pace.

Your body was on fire, the coil in your abdomen wound so tight it felt as if you were about to explode, and all you could focus on was the feeling of Joaquin Torres’s tongue fucking into you.

He managed to press his face deeper against you, moaning at the taste of your cunt, drowning himself in it. His hips were grinding against your mattress as one of his hands held you against him, then he slid his tongue out of you, two fingers now prodding at your hole, his tongue back on your clit as he slowly slid them inside of you.

The stretch of his fingers alongside his tongue moving against your clit sent you over the edge—practically gushing against his face as you came with a high pitched “Quino!”.

Joaquin’s eyes fluttered open as he looked up at you, your lips parted, brows knit, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy as your orgasm consumed you—fuck you’d never looked more beautiful.

You expected him to stop, but he was far from finished with you. Fingers now curling into you, fucking you through your orgasm—prolonging it. One of your hands moved from his hair, now on his shoulder—nails digging into his skin as you held onto him, unknowingly grinding yourself against him even more—rolling your hips over and over again—using him for your own pleasure.

“That’s it Hermosa—use me—fuck just like that.” His words were muffled against your core, you didn’t even fully register them as he finger fucked you through your high and into the world of overstimulation. It was simultaneously too much and not enough, your nerve endings on fire and all you could think about was Joaquin.

He brought your clit back into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucked on it, tongue swirling over it slightly—just enough to have you seeing stars as his fingers brushed against the velvety spot inside of you that left you gasping his name. Joaquin focused on that spot, fingers moving rapidly and purposefully, moaning against your clit at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him.

This was downright sinful, prior to this moment, you were positive you’d be going to hell—but Joaquin Torres’s greedy mouth on your cunt had you convinced there was a spot dedicated to the both of you.

It wasn’t long until you were toppling over the edge again, vision blurring as a white heat overtook your entire being—practically screaming his name as your eyes watered slightly.

He looked up at you, eyes hooded, mouth still focused on your clit—moaning at the sight of you, knowing that he was the one bringing you this much pleasure was enough to have him on edge.

Thankfully, as you came down from your high, you gently pushed him away, whimper and shaking your head, voice breathy while mumbling. “It’s too much—fuck—give me a second”. 

When he finally moved away from you, he licked his lips, now staring at you with a dopey smile on his face. You should’ve been embarrassed at the shiny layer of your essence along his lips and chin—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when he was looking at you like you’d hung the stars. 

Neither of you said a word as you held eye contact. 

Something unspoken in the air, an evident shift in your entire relationship—but neither of you cared. Not when he’d already confessed his feelings for you and made you cum twice in the span of twenty minutes.

Especially not when you knew that you were practically in love with Joaquin. It’d just taken him slapping your ass and word-vomiting a confession for you to realize it.

Your eyes moved from his, trailing along his body, stopping at his waist—the evident tent in his sweats had your eyes widening slightly. You’ve always had an inkling that he was big just based on the way he carried himself—but now you knew you were right and your mouth was already watering.

“Take them off Joaquin.” 

He nodded at your request—although it was more of a demand.

You laughed as he stood up, rushing through the process of taking off his sweats and briefs—stumbling a bit as he kicked them off. However, the second your eyes landed on his cock you stopped laughing, lips parted, mouth watering slightly—just enough that you were drooling.

He was big—huge even—thick and girthy in a way that you knew would make your head spin, a few defined veins traveling along the shaft of his cock, and the head had a pink-ish flush to it, already leaking precum. 

The sight was salacious.

Joaquin watched it happen, the sliver of spit gliding along the edge of your open mouth—then in seconds he was back on you, his tongue trailing along your chin, gathering it before kissing you. It was downright filthy, the way his tongue explored your mouth—the taste of cunt still fresh on his tongue. 

You moaned against his lips, one hand on his jaw, the other sliding along his torso, then down to his cock, fingers trailing the length of it, before you grasped him in hand, his hips bucking into you. You kissed him as your hand slowly pumped along his shaft—thumb spreading his precum along the tip, dragging it down his cock—using it to move faster, gliding along the length of it all.

He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours as you jerked him off, pausing for a moment, long enough to spit on your hand—then it was back on him. 

“You’re gonna kill me—y’know that?” 

You laughed at him, head rolling forward the slightest bit, gaze focused on his cock—biting your bottom lip as you tighten your grip on him, speeding your motions up just enough to make his abdomen flex. “I want you in my mouth Quino.” Your words were quiet whispers, then your eyes met his again, faces only a few centimeters apart.

“Not today—fuck don’t think I’ll last today—shit” he moaned, heavy breaths against your lips while he rocked his hips forward—chasing his own high. But he needed more. “I need you, Corazón”.

You smiled, kissing him softly before shoving him away from you. 

“You’re giving me whiplash baby—but if you don’t want to, we don’t have to.” He laughed at his own joke, smile on his face while you looked up at him, shaking your head, biting your lip, holding back your own grin—or at least attempting to hold it back.

“Tell me how you want me, Joaquin.” 

His eyes widened at your seductive tone, you’d never sounded sexier—it made his cock twitch, and he was blushing. How one sentence managed to make him blush was insane, considering he’d just had his face between your thighs to the point that you were practically squirting against his tongue.

“Shit baby—on your back, but trust me okay? You said you’re flexible right?” 

You nodded at him, brows knit together as you slid down the mattress, now flat on your back with your legs bent at his sides. Then you watched as his palms met the backs of your thighs, lifting them slightly until you got the message and raised them up—legs now in the air. 

You were laughing at him, and soon enough, he was laughing too.

That was until he rested your ankles on his shoulders and leaned closer into your space, practically folding you in half. You were in shock at his position of choice. “What the hell, Quino? Basic missionary too boring for you or something?” 

He smiled, nodding his head. “Trust me—you’ll love it, I promise. Oh shit wait—I don’t have a condom.” His movements faltered as the realization dawned upon him, minor panic evident on his features.

“I’m on the pill—and I’m clean. I’ve never let anyone else ever—y’know without one. Wait—you literally go to the clinic with me to get tested!” 

Joaquin shrugged, which in turn made your legs stretch a bit more—earning a short gasp. “Well, when you put it that way corazón, I might end up cumming inside of you—I gotta ask now, are you okay with that?” 

You blinked several times “Quino, you literally have me folded in half and you’re asking if I’m okay with you cumming inside of me when I just gave you the okay to fuck me raw? Are you hearing yourself right now?” 

“I made you cum twice and you’re still so mean—jeez. God forbid a man wants full consent before creampie-ing his girl.” His hands left your calves, now up in faux-surrender as he spoke. The motion made you both start laughing again, but the second he moved his hips forward the slightest bit—his cock nudged against your clit and you gasped.

Then you were making eye contact again.

He hesitated for a few seconds. “You sure?”

You nodded, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

That’s all the encouragement he needed. Joaquin teased you the slightest bit, running the tip of his cock along your dripping folds—tapping it against your swollen clit a few times before lining himself up with your entrance.

Then he slid in the slightest bit—and the immediate stretch had your eyes squeezed shut, a breathy gasp leaving your lips while he slowly rocked himself into you, inch by inch. 

“You’re so big—fuck Joaquin” 

He nodded, shushing you in a comforting manner “‘s okay—you’re doing so well baby, fucking cunt feels so good—just like that, relax into it cariño.” He kissed along your calves as he focused on filling you to the hilt, taking his time with you, letting you adjust to his size. 

Your hands gripped the comforters, knuckles practically white as you bit your bottom lip, doing your best not to clench around him—trying to relax, trying to let him in fully. The stretch stung in a painfully pleasurable way, something you couldn’t put into words, it was too much and not enough all at once. 

He was so deep—and you had a feeling the position also had something to do with that. It was like you could feel him in your stomach. Your toes curled while your back arched into him, head lulling back, brows knit, all the while mindless moans and mewls filled the space.

When Joaquin fully bottomed out he moaned your name, eyes focused on where your bodies met, you held him in a vice grip, he wanted nothing more than to ruin you—fucking you so hard you forgot about every single shitty guy that you’d been with—making you his and only his. 

But he also wanted to take his time with you, wanted to be slow and considerate—wanting to make this good for you.

It was as if you could read his mind, eyes fluttering open as you met his gaze. “Quino—I need you to fuck me, hard—” before you could even finish your sentence he was pulling out of you in a swift motion, to the point that only the head of his cock was inside of you, then he practically slammed back into you.

You screamed his name.

Your words snapped something inside of him, and as his fingers gripped your legs—he focused on fucking you into the mattress, hips unrelenting as he rocked into you, moaning at the feeling of your cunt. 

“So fuckin tight, you’re making such a mess baby—fuck look at that, just like that Hermosa—just like that” he praised you while he fucked into you, eyes trailing your entire figure, then pausing at your cunt, moaning at the sight of you practically sucking him back in, his cock coated in a layer of your slick, pussy practically drenching him.

Then he leaned even closer to you, one of your legs slipping off of his shoulder, however he still held you in place, hand on the back of your thigh, practically folding it against the mattress as his lips found yours again. 

The kiss was sloppy, neither of you could really focus on it, but Joaquin needed to be as close to you as possible—needed this moment to last. 

You couldn’t think straight, Joaquin clouded your every sense to the point that all you could do was moan and whimper a mixture between his name and slurred praise. Your thighs were tense, hips practically burning, and the pleasure radiating through your body was too much.

You tried pushing him back, but you didn’t want him to stop—you just couldn’t focus on anything but the fire raging throughout your body.

“‘S okay baby—you can take it, I know you can. Fuck you’re so good for me Corazón—mean the world to me too.” Joaquin was rambling, letting your other thigh go—giving you a quick sense of relief, but his thrusts hadn’t let up, and he wrapped a single hand around your throat—applying the slightest bit of pressure—testing the waters.

Your moan was the very definition of desperate as you grasped his forearm, holding him in place, eyes slowly opening, meeting his intense stare.

That’s what sent you over the edge, holding eye contact with Joaquin as he roughly fucked into you, his hand wrapped around your throat, and you finally realized the odd emotion you’d always seen in his gaze was just love—pure, undevoted love.

“Fuck—I love you Joaquin” your words were mumbled as you moaned, eyes squeezed shut again, legs shaking as your final orgasm hit. You couldn’t focus on anything but the pleasure sweeping through your body in waves, when you thought you were alright—it was like mini aftershocks kept hitting you.

He hardly processed your words, part of him couldn’t tell if he was hearing things or not, but it hadn’t stopped his hips from tensing up, cock twitching inside of you as he buried it to the hilt, thick ropes of cum filling you with an overwhelming warmth as he moaned “I love you—fuck love you so much—.”

Joaquin practically collapsed on top of you, his head buried in the crook of your neck, shallow breaths hitting your flushed skin, meanwhile he intertwined his fingers with yours, his other hand grasping the comforter below as if it was a lifeline while he came down from his high.

The weight of him on top of you was relaxing, it was everything you needed in the moment.

Then your doorbell started ringing, and it wasn’t just once, no it was several times in a row—something only Sam did when he was irritated and couldn’t get a hold of you.

Your eyes widened and so did Joaquin’s, he lifted himself up, using his hand on the mattress to brace himself as he looked at you.

“Is that—?” 

You nodded, then you looked over at your bedside clock, ‘10:38’ showing. Then you realized you were supposed to send over the finished satellite reports by ten thirty today, meaning it was eight minutes late, but also, you most likely had several missed calls and texts from Sam.

“Oh my God, he’s gonna kill me!” 

When the doorbell started ringing again, you groaned. Then Joaquin slowly pulled out of you, kissing your forehead as he whispered apologies against your skin, hearing your subtle wince. He was quick to stand up, pulling his sweats back on, then he looked between your open thighs, pausing in his motions—eyes trailing your fucked out cunt, practically moaning at the sight of his cum leaking out of you.

“God—I should take a picture of that. Fuck—shit Sam can wait another second—” Then he was back between your thighs, tongue lapping at your leaking hole, your eyes widening as you whimpered, one hand already in his hair, meanwhile Joaquin’s tongue was back inside of you—the motion outright filthy.

It didn’t take much for you to cum again, you were already too sensitive, you felt like a live wire.

A few seconds after Joaquin started rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb, you were moaning his name and gushing—this time you were genuinely squirting, legs shaking, and body tense.

You pushed him away from you—thighs clamped shut as you caught your breath. Both of you exchanged a look before glancing at the clock, five minutes had passed.

“That’s gotta be a record for you huh? Five minutes was all that one took?” 

You shushed him, slowly sitting up, looking around the room for your clothes. But he was already off the bed, wiping his forearm against his face—doing his best to clean himself up before opening one of your drawers, pulling out a pair of shorts and tossing it at you.

You’d already found his shirt, so you pulled that on, then slipped into the shorts on wobbly legs.

“You really are a fucking freak Joaquin.” You spoke as you tried to find your footing, grasping the edge of your nightstand and taking a deep breath. Your legs were already sore, so was your abdomen. 

“Yeah, but you liked it, besides, I didn’t miss the way you reacted when I choked you, you love that shit don’t you?” He wiggled his brows as he teased you, now helping you stand up straighter, both of you looking at one another before walking out of your bedroom. Then he sat on your sofa while you opened the front door.

Sam was clearly annoyed as he looked at you. That’s when you noticed Bucky was also outside of your apartment, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. 

This was about to get even more mortifying.

Sam practically invited himself in, already ranting. “Y’know kid, the job’s been relatively easy lately, and all I asked you to do was finish those reports because you’re the best data analyst I’ve got. You know everything about illegal and legal weaponry, practically specialize in foreign and alien-based tech, and you can spot an anomaly a thousand miles away, and yet here you are, damn near fifteen minutes past the deadline which I gave you on Wednesday—when usually you’d have everything over a day or two early.”

He paused, now turning to look at you again, shaking his head—he still hadn’t registered Joaquin sitting shirtless on the couch. “Then I called you, several times, I called you yesterday and today, you didn’t answer, I thought you died or something! How would I feel thinking you died when the last real conversation we had was me kicking you out of my office!”

Bucky cleared his throat as he looked at Sam, the first time Sam hadn’t noticed, then he did it again, which led to Sam looking at him with wide eyes.

“Yes, Buck?!” 

Bucky then nodded his head in Joaquin’s direction, Sam easily followed the motion.

Joaquin awkwardly smiled and waved at Sam. It didn’t help that he had red scratches along his chest—something you hadn’t even realized you’d done to him. Then of course, his hair was disheveled, and he looked a little too relaxed. 

That’s when Sam looked back at you, eyes taking in your figure, now noticing your own messy hair, the U.S. Air Force t-shirt you had on, and he noticed the way that you leaned against one of the countertops closest to you.

“Oh my god—are you two serious?! Didn’t I say don’t let this get in the way of work! I’m over here dragging that walking museum piece around because I thought you were dying, meanwhile you’re over here screwing Joaquin?!” 

You nodded. “Bucky’s the one who told me I needed to pursue less shitty guys.” 

Bucky shook his head at you. “That’s not what I meant. Don’t throw me under the bus here, he’s already pissed because I forgot to make brunch reservations—I don’t even like brunch.”

Then Sam looked over at Joaquin. “Did you at least tell the girl you’re in love with her before sleeping with her?” 

Joaquin shrugged, grimacing slightly before replying. “Does it count if I told her while we were having sex?” 

Sam blinked several times. “Those are details I didn’t ask for. Jesus Christ! Get those reports done and sent to me by tonight! And at the very least, answer your phone calls! Torres—you need to answer yours too! Let’s go Buck, before I lose my mind.” 

Then Sam was leaving, Bucky gave you an awkward smile, and a final, “for the record, I’m glad you came to your senses and realized you like him” before following Sam out.

Once the door clicked shut, you locked it. Now left with Joaquin.

“Well, that could’ve gone better.” You spoke as you walked to the sofa, plopping down across from him, feet now resting in his lap. 

He just stared at you for a few moments. “Y’know I do love you, right? It wasn’t a heat of the moment thing. I’m in love with you, and I was serious about the whole having to gaslight myself into thinking I’m not into you when I know I am.”

You laughed at him, smiling as you leaned against the couch cushions. “I can’t believe I’ve been this blind for so long, y’know how many shitty dates I could’ve avoided? Like genuinely—also you’re still a fucking freak.” 

Joaquin smiled, nodding his head. “Yeah? What—was the head too much at the end? Want me to tone it down some, I dunno, I think I might’ve set a record for you today, four orgasms? That’s more than you’ve had in months.”

You scoffed at his teasing. “Oh, shut up! It’s not my fault I didn’t know you were Mister munch!” Then you paused. “I need a shower.” 

He watched as you stood up, walking away from him, then you turned back, clearing your throat, waiting for him to meet your stare. When he did, you smiled. 

“Well, are you coming or what?”

Joaquin was positive he’d never moved faster, following you right into the bathroom, but before he could fully process what you were doing, you pressed him against the bathroom wall, a mischievous smile on your face.

“For the record, I’m positive that I love you too, Quino.” Then you were kissing him.

-

Thanks for reading my super hot and sexy ppl <3 Im literally posting ts from my job rn bc im so over working on a Saturday

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Cold Eyes, Warm Hands

✦Read on a03! - Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦summary: You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?✦ ✦warnings/tags: thunderbolt!reader, (not) enemies to lovers, pushy and creepy men, emotionally constipated Bucky Barnes, protective Bucky Barnes, light angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut, love confessions, (fingering, p in v sex, feral!bucky, possessive sex, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: Slight warning for creepy men being creepy. Not Bucky tho. My king would never. Also shoutout to @deanwinchestersunhappythoughts for convincing me to finish this one!✦

Everyone knows that Bucky hates you. 

It’s not something he hides, and if he’s trying to, he’s not doing it well. He leaves every room you enter, slipping out with a scowl and not a single word. If there’s a meeting, he sits so far across the table that it’s like he thinks you’re carrying the plague. Once he had to stand next to you in the back of a transport truck, and he spent the whole trip making a face like he was about to vomit. 

You try to ignore it. There’s not much else you can do. It’s not like you haven’t spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what you did to him. If it’s just your general face that he can’t stand, or your personality, of if you did something to deeply offend him the first time you met, and now you have no shot at even a friendship. 

You don’t think you did. There hadn’t been a bump in the elevator, or a misunderstanding in the lobby, or some time a while ago where you’d been in the same Subway car, and sneezed on him. You’d know by now, because you’ve replayed every single subway ride you’ve ever taken over and over in your head, looking for a flash of Bucky’s face. There, on the street, in a coffee shop or some random building where you might have told him to go fuck himself, and forgotten entirely. 

It seems unlikely. You don’t have a habit of telling people to go fuck themselves. 

That’s the whole reason you have this job in the first place. 

You’re the nice one. The diversity hire, who’s only there because she knows how to smile and not look like someone holding a gun to her head. You don’t run into conflict, and you always stick to the plan, and you don’t even like to leave a dirty dish in the sink for later, because you don’t want to force someone else to clean up after you. Let alone your grumpy, brooding roommates. 

It’s painfully stark, the difference between them and you. It’s only grown more apparent, as time has passed. You run training with Yelena, and she has to give you time outs every time you apologize for punching her in the face. You’ll eat dinner on the night that Ava cooks, tell her that it’s good—it’s not amazing, but it’s food, and you know she worked hard on it—and she’ll look at you like you just announced you were blowing your brains out after dessert. John has taken to covering your mouth with a hand during meetings, because you always try to offer motivation or sympathy with the targets, and none of them care about that. 

“You are weird little bird,” Alexei once told you, frowning at you from across the room. 

You’d laughed softly, folding the corner of your book between your fingers. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You smile.”

“You smile.”

“I am complex man. I live full of happiness and anger. You are only happiness.” He’d narrowed his eyes. “Is there silent anger, brimming below songbird’s surface?”

“Don’t call her that.” Bucky had muttered, and you’d blinked. You hadn’t even realized he’d entered the room. 

He’d walked over to the bookshelf, hands in his jacket pockets, not sparing you a single glance. Alexei had scoffed. 

“Bucky Barnes, I am doing investigation. This is serious business, do not mock-“

“I’ll mock, Alexei, when you’re doing something pointless. There’s nothing to investigate.” He’d grabbed a book, and turned to Alexei, his back firmly to you. “She’s clean. We’ve checked.”

He’d walked out without another word, and you’d bitten on your lower lip until you tasted blood. Of course it hadn’t been a real defense. Bucky doesn’t care enough about you to defend you. He just didn’t want Alexei to waste his time on something as pointless as you. 

So you know, that Bucky hates you. And he has no secret reason, because it’s just you. The rest of them got used to you after a few months, and even like you know. Yelena doesn’t bitch about the breaks, and lets you hold her guinea pig as long as you let her hold your crows. Ava sits with you while she reads, and doesn’t roll her eyes at every single thing you say. John once called you not entirely useless, which is John for incredibly important and useful.

Alexei made you a—rather poorly constructed, but very sweet—cake for your last birthday, and insisted everyone buy you at least one gift. They all put a shocking amount of effort into it as well, and it had been clear that you weren’t just Valentina’s happy, pretty invader anymore. 

Even Bucky had gotten you something, and you’d pretended it meant something. That it hadn’t just been because Alexei threatened to rip out his spine if he didn’t. 

It had just been a jacket. Thick and warm, shoved into your hands like he couldn’t let go of it fast enough. 

“You get cold.” He’d grunted. “On missions.”

 “I- I don’t-“

“Yes, you do. Your fingers shake, and your heart picks up. It’s dangerous.” He’d nodded to the jacket. “Wear that.”

You’d swallowed, as he’d walked away. 

And you do. Wear it. You’re the exact kind of over-emotional and pathetic fool he thinks you are, so you wear it on every mission, and look at Bucky to see if he’s noticed. 

He never has. 

The rest of them love you, but Bucky doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be much you can do about it, but you don’t give up. You’re still nice to him, and it’s only a little in the pathetic hope that he might look at you one day and realize that he was wrong. Until then, you cling to the fact that the rest of them like you. That it was a long, natural curve to get there—given how you got here, and what you are—but they all genuinely like you. 

Of the team, Bob gets on with you the best. None of them question why—they likely assume you both just don’t like fighting—but you eat breakfast together every day, do the crossword puzzle, and go out for walks at least twice a week. 

You’ve seen Bucky glaring at you, when you get back. He might think you’re wasting time, or putting you both in danger by just going outside as superheroes. As if he doesn’t know that if anyone is least likely to be in danger of an attack, it’s you and Bob. Like you didn’t have your fucking GPS’ on the whole time, and he’s not your boss anyway.

“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep goin’ out there.” He’d grunted once, as you’d made tea in the kitchen after. 

“That’s- Not actually how colds world.” You’d mumbled. “And I don’t get sick anyway.”

“Hm.” He might have been looking at you. You weren’t going to dignify it with a glance, because you’d see the loathing in his eyes, and your heart might split down your chest. 

He’d just walked away. You’d stood in the kitchen for about five minutes after, head bowed, taking deep breaths through your nose. 

Everyone loved you. 

It was the in your nature, quite literally, to have everyone love you. That’s why you’re here. Not to whine about your own problems, not to burden people with your pain, but to be the lighthouse. Your powers and sweetness smooth over the violence and anger of the team. Your presence calms down press events, because none of them are ever mean to you. If there’s hand to hand combat you’re entirely, hopelessly useless, but no one even throws a punch at you, so it’s not a problem. 

You’ve wondered if that’s why Bucky hates you. Because he thinks you’re messing with his brain, and he’s had enough of that for a lifetime. 

But you’ve told them. You turn it on and off, and you never use it on people you’re close to. 

Maybe Bucky didn’t believe you.

It doesn’t matter. He still hates you. 

And it hurts more, than if anyone else did. 

Because you’re an idiot, and you’ve had a crush on him since you were in fucking middle school. You watched all the Howling Commandos documentaries in history, and stared dreamily at him in the grainy footage. You’d liked his smile, and his loyalty, and his general, pretty face. When the news about Hydra, then Sokovia had broken, you’d had some friends mock you about your old man crush was a war criminal. When he’d been pardoned and ended up on the news with Captain America, you’d watch the footage maybe a little longer than you needed to. 

You’d never wanted to meet him. 

You’d never wanted to be a superhero in the first place. But college was fucking expensive, and the job market was shit, and you’d needed money fast. Valentina had offered it, as long as you used your powers. 

That was something you hadn’t wanted to do either. You didn’t want to do most things. Didn’t want to go places people could hurt you. Places you could mess up, or disappoint someone, or be seen. 

And this has been your greatest dream and worst nightmare. 

Everyone can see you. You’re in the public eye every day, and held up like a shiny diamond to be admired. 

They all love you. Last month a magazine ran a s hit piece about the New Avengers, and still called you The Princess, because you were all smiles and sweet words, lovely to look at and talk to, but not worth much in a fight. Compared to what they said about everyone else—calling John the Prince, because no one took him seriously, and he was a foolish ass for thinking they did, and Bucky The King, because he used fear from his past to enforce the New Avengers and their status now—they might as well have sent you flowers. 

People had even been mad online, that they’d ever say something mean about you. 

Bucky had heard that in the damage control meeting, and snorted. 

Your heart had turned to fractured, tiny piece of glass that cut at your stomach and hands. You’d felt sick, and hadn’t been able to do much for the rest of the day, as his cruel little snort played over and over in your head. 

He’d been your foolish dream, since you were a kid. You’d never wanted to meet him. 

Because exactly what you thought would happen, did. 

He hates you. 

Bucky Barnes hates you. 

And he doesn’t even care enough about you to do it behind your back.

 “I don’t want anyone arguing with me about this one.” He says in the jet, and you don’t bother to look up from your feet. 

You know he’s looking at you. You can feel it. And you don’t argue with him, not like the rest of them do. You just offer some ideas for how to improve the plan, or point out holes in his idea with polite words. He always looks at you like you spat up vomit on his suit. 

So you don’t say anything. 

That’s your goal for this mission. Be as nothing to Bucky as possible. Don’t let his glowers and cold words loop in your head for hours after, making you feel like you’re even less than you already know you are. Don’t think about if he’s looking at you, don’t try to be his friend, don’t indulge the fantasy of his attention. 

Any attention. Even if he’s sneering that you’re an insufferable brat who needs to be coddled, it would be attention. Even if he touched you with anger in his hands and hatred in his eyes, at least he’d be touching you. 

You’ve realized, that him hating you isn’t doing anything to make your crush on his go away. If anything, it’s making the whole situation worse, because apathy is harder to indulge than the idea of him slamming you against the wall and fucking you until all his frustration feels eased. 

Which is the exact type of thought you’re not supposed to be having. 

So you just keep staring at your hands. Bucky clears his throat, like he’s waiting for something, and you don’t give him the satisfaction.

He moves on. 

“I got us a connection with a mercenary in the area, who’s been hunting these people down for years. We’re working together, so everyone is going to be civil with him. Right?”

Ava raises her hand next to you. “What are we calling civil?”

“I don’t know. Use your judgement. Or- Actually-" Bucky sighs. “No name callin’, no yellin’, and- Try to act like you’re a damn adult for two days. Can we do that?”

“You name call all the time, Bucky-“

“I’m the oldest, Walker. I’ve earned it.”

John rolls his eyes, and Yelena jumps in. 

“Can we pheromone him?” She looks to you. “Can you pheromone him?”

“Um-“ You flush, your eyes instinctively shooting to Bucky. 

His jaw is clenched, hands braced on his hips, and glaring at you with the usual silent disgust. You swallow, heat crawling over your skin. You can’t tell if it’s shame, or just the usual hunger for him. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

“I technically can.” You mumble, ripping your gaze away from Bucky. “If we need it. But- Bucky says he’s on our side. I don’t think I need to, right?”

You look to Bucky again. His nostrils flare, the fury on his face almost leaking into the air. 

“Right.” He grunts, glare moving to Yelena. He launches into a longer brief, about the drug ring you’re going after, the agents details, but you don’t hear most of it. You’re too busy staring at the floor, hiding the tears brimming in your eyes. 

Useless.

You can’t even make a choice by yourself. Fucking useless. 

When you land, you’re first out of the jet. Your arms wrap tight around your stomach, head down, not glancing back to check if Bucky’s venomous glare is still trained on you. If it is, that’s fine. It’s fine. You’re fine, because it’s nothing new, nothing you didn’t expect, nothing you’re not just going to have to grow the fuck up about and get over- 

You’re too lost in your own self-pity to see where you’re going. 

You slam right into someone’s chest.

“Woah!” A deep voice laughs, big hands grabbing your shoulders and steadying you against a firm body. You squeak, trying to back up, but the hands just tighten. “Hey, are you-“

“She’s fine.” Bucky’s snaps from behind you, and whoever’s grabbing you stills.

“Barnes, you look like shit-“

“Six hour flight. We all look like shit. Let her go.” The man releases you, and you stumble back a few paces. Into Bucky’s chest. 

He grabs your upper arm, and your breath hitches pathetically. It’s the metal hand, and it’s solid and firm through your jacket, and your head starts to race with images of it running down your thighs with that same tight grip, sending shivers up your spine and molding you exactly how he’d want you-

He doesn’t want you. 

Bucky’s hand flexes like he can’t bear to touch you, and he moves you off to the side. You swallow down the shame. He doesn’t get the satisfaction, doesn’t get to see how he’s slowly fucking killing you. 

“What’s wrong with her?” The new man asks, and Bucky grunts.

“Told you. Long flight.”

You bite your lower lip, fingers curling on your side. If he didn’t just hate you, this might be considered cruel. It might be cruel anyway. But your skin is still burning where he touched it. And your heart still skips a beat when he says your name. 

“This is Mulder. Mulder, this is-“ “I know who this is.” Mulder cuts Bucky off with your name, and you blink up at him in surprise.

He’s not bad to look at. Same dark hair as Bucky, just beardless and a little more of a haircut. His eyes are blue as well, if not a little more gray. He’s got a strong jaw. Thick build, and a friendly smile. 

That’s directed at you. You return it tenitivly, and he laughs.

“Wow. You’re even prettier in person, sweetheart.”

You flush, standing a little taller. “Oh, um- Thank you?” “No problem. You’re my favorite, you know.” He winks, still grinning. “I like these assholes just fine, but you? Very excited to work together.” “I’m- Me too.” You offer, and Mulder opens his mouth—maybe to compliment you again, which you’re not sure you can emotionally handle right now—but Bucky cuts him off. “We have time for talking later, Mulder. You bring the car?” Mulder rolls his eyes. “Course I brought the car, Barnes. You think I’m a damn idiot.” Bucky doesn’t answer. When you risk a glance over, he’s looking at Mulder with a coldness in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Even when he glares at you, there’s some heat in the hatred. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of fire will smoke you out, like he hates you so much it’s making him recoil and physically tense at your mere existence.  He’s tensed as he glares at Mulder, too. 

But rigid. Not a live wire set to snap. Something deeper, and less forgiving, that seems to be making his tongue sharper and words clipped. 

“You live in these… Woods?” Yelena asks as Mulder piles you into his truck, and he shrugs.  “No, just been here for years, trying to catch these bastards. They’re slick, keep figuring out how to avoid me, I’ve chased them half across the world. Who knew they’d be holed up in the backyard of my damn operation.” He chuckles, glancing over to Bucky. “But that’s how Hydra stayed underground, wasn’t it? Plain sight?” Bucky grunts. “Don’t know. Wasn’t exactly invited to all the strategy meetings.” Mulder laughs again, and you frown. Bucky doesn’t like to talk about his time in Hydra with anyone. And laughing about it makes your gut prickle wrong, your tongue aching to jump in and say something about how it’s not really anyone’s business anyway, let alone Mulder’s to comment about. But Mudler continues before you can. 

Probably for the best. 

The last time you defended Bucky at a press event, he didn’t look at you for a week. 

“We’re going to have to head into the city for a few days. Trace these asshole to their exact base, play it careful. I’ll send some of you in first, they know I’m looking for them. ‘Course, they’ll be thrilled to see me, but I’m trying to play it humble. Makes the attention I do give all the more exciting.” Mulder winks at you, and you flush. 

Bucky didn’t mention if this man had powers. If that comment was just a coincidence, of if he’d known what you’ve been thinking about Bucky. If he’s a mind-reader, that’s going to be a real problem. You don’t know how to guard against a mind reader, and all your thoughts are pathetic, and what if he tells Bucky about them- 

“How you know Bucky Barnes?” Alexei jumps in, staring at Mulder with almost open affection. “You go to pretty assassin school together? You take super solider serum?” “Nope.” Mulder laughs again. He does that a lot. “I worked with Wilson, a while ago. Back when he was just a normal guy like me. Trained in Shield, left to figure out where my life is going after the fall. I admire the enhanced, though. You’ve gotta be a good person, to go through that change and come out the other side a good person.”

Bucky, Ava, and John all tense across the Van, Alexei puffs out his chest, and you just shrink into yourself. 

Mulder says your name, still wearing that charming smile. “You especially, with what you can do? A worse person would abuse that.” “I- I don’t-“ “She barely uses it.” Bucky grunts, and your nails dig into your side.  “Wow, Barnes. Didn’t know you spoke for her.” Bucky works his jaw, and you really don’t understand what’s going on with him. He’s the one who said to play nice. 

The least you can do is try and play nice for him. 

“He’s right, Mulder.” You mumble. “It’s kind of- For emergencies only.” “Again. Admirable.” Mulder grins at you in the mirror. “And you can call me Jack.” You nod, still smiling, and glance back to Bucky. His face has settled into an almost unreadable stone mask. 

Almost. You’ve spent so much time silently staring at him that you can read. 

He’s furious.

You haven’t even started the job yet, and Bucky looks like he’s about to rip someone’s spine out. You don’t understand why—no one’s messed up, Mulder seems like a bit of an ass, but no more than the rest of you, and you haven’t done anything to piss him off yet—but you’re not foolish enough to ask. 

You just let out a slow breath, and tip your head back against the rattling wall of the truck. 

The mission is going to be long. 

And you’re going to be caught in the center of it, just trying to keep your head above water around Bucky, and be a little fucking useful to the team. 

To Mulder.

Because even if he’s an ass, you’re his favorite. And that makes the hair on your arms stand up, because what if you disappoint him. What if, when this is done, he decides that you’re not at all worth what you seem to be on paper. 

That, at least, is something you can try to prevent. You’ve already lost Bucky—though you know you never had him in the first place—so you don’t need to waste the mission worrying about if he’s seeing you. It’s going to be all about Mudler. 

“Jack,” he reminds you again, as you unload equipment in his makeshift base of a motel room. “You can call me Jack, sweetheart.”

You won’t mess this up. 

“Okay.” You smile at him. “Jack.”

He grins right back, and across the room, there’s a loud crack as something breaks. 

“Fuck, Bucky!” John shouts, and you look up to see him gaping at the mess of a computer on the floor. “What the hell, why did you-“ “It was weak.” Bucky grunts, and you can feel his glare on you again. “Just fuckin’ snapped when I picked it up. Not my fault.” Mulder laughs, giving Bucky another lazy grin. “Well, don’t go breaking any of my other shit. I might start to take offense.”

“Noted.” Bucky grunts.  He doesn’t even crack a smile. 

And you’ve seen him be grumpy on missions before. It’s almost his default setting, to act like a dad with a pack of unruly children who refuse to be house trained. But this is different. He looks like he’s seconds away from either breaking his own jaw, or slamming his fist into the wall. 

The next few days are spent gathering intel about the operation, taking what Jack already has and blending it with anything the rest of you can find. Alexei translates some Russian documents, because every time he’s thrown into a field like this he just ends up getting drunk with the gang members. Yelena and John track down a few of the inner circle members. Bucky and Ava grab them and drag some information out with questionable methods, before dumping them in the snow. You and Jack track down a few of the known bases, as well as some of Jack’s informants, and get whatever you can. 

“You should do your thing.” Jack mutters in your ear. He’s taken to standing rather close behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. 

You don’t mind it. It’s just a little strange. “I don’t do my thing unless it’s an emergency.” You remind him softly, and he shrugs. 

“If you don’t do it, I’ll never get to see it, and we might have to be on this case for weeks.”

“Jack…” You sigh—this isn’t the first time he’s tried to make you do it, and it probably won’t be the last—but he shakes his head, cutting you off smoothly. 

“Actually,” his lips brush your ear, and you swallow. “Don’t do it. I want to stay on this case together.” 

You weren’t going to do it in the first place. But there’s not really any good response to that, so you just hum and laugh weakly. The man you were waiting for walks through the door, and you’re saved from the conversation.

When you get back to the motel room, Jack runs the team through what the man told you. And for once, Bucky isn’t glaring at you. He’s glaring at Jack.

He’s been glaring at Jack a lot. 

“We should reshuffle teams.” He grunts after a week, and Ava mock pouts. 

“Aw, you’re sick of me already, Barnes?” 

“No.” He snaps. “I just think it’s bad to stick to the same pattern on a mission like this. They’ll pick up on it.”

“Good point.” Jack nods, and Bucky shoots him such a withering glare you’re shocked it doesn’t actually kill him. “But it might be even better if we move into teams of three and four.”

Bucky opens his mouth, still glowering, but John cuts in first. “Can I be with you two? If Yelena keeps shit-talking me in Russian, I’m actually going to punch her.” Yelena snorts. “Walker, you could not lay a single little finger on me-“ “You wanna fuckin’ bet-“

“Hey.” Bucky snaps, and they both fall silent. “The hell did I say on the jet?” “Not to insult him.” Yelena nods to Jack. “There was nothing about each other.” “Yeah, Yelena’s right, we can fight, that’s our right as teammates-“ “John. Shut up.” Bucky rubs a hand over his face, letting out a low, long groan. 

His eyes flick to you, then away just as fast. He lets out a heavy breath like someone’s physically hurting him. 

“Fine. Whatever. John, you’re with them. Yelena, me and Ava.”

John grins, marching over to your side and raising his hand for a high five. You give it awkwardly, Jack a little more enthusiastically, and John flips off Bucky’s scowl. 

“Suck it, Team Loser. We’re going to grab those dipshits first.” You sigh, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Not a competition, John.”

He rolls his eyes, grumbling something about how it could be, but drops it fast.  Bucky keeps glaring at you. You bite down the pain of it, same as always. 

There’s still a job to do. Jack still likes you enough to want you on his team. You won’t mess that up. 

The next few days pass in a blur. You’re closing in on the gang, Bucky’s still acting like everyone is insulting his mother to his face, and Jack hasn’t stopped trying to get you to use your powers. 

He just wants to see it, is what he says, over and over. Even John jumped to your defense at one point, but Jack just laughed again, and said that John’s luck enough to be around you all the time. He just gets this moment.

“Unless you want more.” He smirks at you, and you flush.  John groans. “Jesus, no wonder Bucky hasn’t been sleeping.” 

“Bucky hasn’t been what?” Your eyes shoot away from Jack, and John just shrugs. 

“We’ve been bunking together. And Alexei, but I’ve tuned him out, he snores like a fucking monster truck-“ “No, I- I know that. Why isn’t Bucky sleeping?”

“Oh. ‘Cause.” John waves a hand, then moves on down the hallway. You open your mouth to call after him, but Jack stops you with a hand splayed on your lower back. 

“Don’t worry about Barnes, sweetheart. I know how he can be.” 

You frown at him. Bucky can be a dick, but you can all be a dick. And he’s got a lot on his shoulders, and a lot of shadows behind him. It’s amazing he’s standing at all, let alone still fighting. He’s earned being a little bit of an ass, even if it rips your heart out of your chest every single time. 

“Bucky-“ “Come on.” Jack cuts you off, rubbing his hand up and down your spine. “Let’s go find this ass. So you can do the thing.” 

You smile at him weakly. You won’t do the thing. But Jack, also, doesn’t seem willing to give up on asking you.  It’s almost three weeks, when you finally have a solid lead. Three weeks of Bucky looking like he wants to shoot someone and Jack being stuck to your side, before you finally have an ending in sight. There’s a bunker in the mountains, that should have all the evidence you need to bring the gang down. 

You have one day, before a snowstorm blows in, and it becomes inaccessible for months. So you’ll move out in the morning, and spend the night doing what you do before every big move on a mission. 

Drinking. 

It’s a tradition they started before you joined. It’s time honored and well-kept, to the point that you’re pretty sure Alexei would throw actual tantrum if anyone forgot. You find somewhere with a pool table, a jukebox, and liquor. Everyone drinks until the room is spinning, and you’re all giggling and forgetting about your problems. The morning seems a million miles away, and the pain seems even further. It’s not drinking to celebrate. It’s drinking so that if tomorrow goes wrong, at least you were alive tonight. 

Then you’re up at the crack of dawn, and you finish the job. 

Usually, you spend the evening next to Yelena, having whatever she puts in front of you, giggling at stupid jokes, and pretending you’re not staring at Bucky’s handsome profile down the bar. He usually sits with Alexei or Walker, silent and annoyed by the whole thing, but slowly loosening up over the night. He’ll go play darts or chat with the bartender. If she’s lucky, he’ll be in a good enough mood to give some random girl a little attention, and you’ll go to the bathroom with your mouth tasting like bile. 

You’ll splash your face, remind yourself that he hates you and you have no right to be bitter about this, and try not to look at him for the rest of the night. Which usually means dancing, trying to learn how to play pool—it’s been two years, you’re nowhere close, no matter how much John yells at you—and turning in the moment you spot Bucky’s random girl sitting on his lap. 

But tonight, there’s no girl. A few of them have walked up to him, and he’s flat out ignored them. You feel a little bad for them, as they storm back to their friends. You understand, more than they could ever imagine, what it feels like. The sour sting of Bucky’s rejection, that feels like an open, infected wound. At least their’s will heal. You just keep poking at yours, until your guts are spilled all over the floor, and you can’t be bothered to pick them up.

You really are trying, not to look at him. To pay attention to what’s in front of you, because there’s no point. Bucky hates pity, even more than he hates you, and combining the two isn’t going to do anyone any favors. But he looks so sad. Still angry and hostile, but with a slump to his shoulders that tugs on your heart. Maybe now, if you just extended a slim, delicate olive branch—just an offer to listen, that will snap in half and take you with it—he’d accept it. 

That’s all you can think about. Yelena’s sliding drinks in front of you, and Jack is cooing in your ear, but you can’t see or hear anything but Bucky. His gloved hand is turning the glass, his gaze trained on the movement of the water inside. His chest heaves, jaw ticking and mouth setting in a thin line. Jack says your name, but it sounds far away, so you just hum in acknowledgment. 

“You’re gorgeous.” He murmurs in your ear, and you tilt your head at Bucky.  He’s oddly tense. Like he’s bracing for a fight. 

“And you smell like sugar.” Jack is still talking. Bucky’s stopped turning his glass, his head bowing lower than before. “Look like an angel. Do we know if God is real, yet? Did he send you?” “I dunno.” You mumble. Bucky’s spine just stiffened. Maybe there’s danger, and he just doesn’t want to worry anyone. 

Jack plays with a strand of your hair. “If you’re not an angel, you’re a siren. I mean,” he laughs. “Cheap joke. That’s your code-name. But shit, you really nailed it. So smart, too.” “She didn’t come up with her name.” Yelena says, some distance away. “Valentina did. She doesn’t like being called it, either.” “Hm. She doesn’t like using her powers, doesn’t like her codename.” Jack laughs. “Maybe she should retire. Come live with me, sweetheart, you’ll never have to worry about anything again.” You can hear Yelena respond something sharp, but you don’t really hear it. 

A new, brave girl approached Bucky. He’d looked her up and down slowly, expression almost unreadable. The same stone mask from before, but just a little heavier. 

He’s tired. 

And he looks to you. For a split second, Bucky’s eyes lock with yours. You stare at him, leaning a little further forward. Jack is still playing with your hair, and you can feel his hand slide up your spine. 

That pure coldness flashes through Bucky’s gaze, and he looks back to the girl. 

Smiles at her. 

He never smiles at you. 

“I’m going to bed.” You tell no one particular. You don’t want to keep drinking. You’ll just start crying. 

Jack volunteers to go with you. He keeps his hand on your back, as he walks you out of the bar. You can feel Bucky staring daggers at your back as you leave. 

You’re able to hide your tears, in the sting of the cold wind. If Jack suspects they’re anything else, he doesn’t say anything. He’s mostly just babbling about how long he’s been working on this, and what he wants to do after, and what he likes doing with his free time.

 “Do you like Vegas? You must be fun in Vegas.” “I’ve never been to Vegas.” You mumble, wiping your nose on your jacket. It’s the jacket Bucky gave you. 

Your throat hurts. He’s a good man. He’s a strong, good man who sits with Bob when he doesn’t feel well, and mocks John relentlessly but has his back in fights. He helps Ava with her suit upgrades, gives Yelena advice, and indulges all of Alexei’s stories about the Good Old Days, even throwing in a few extra facts if he’s in a good mood. 

It’s just you. 

You’re the only one who he treats like this. 

So, somehow, it must be your fault. 

“What the hell is up with Barnes anyway?” Jack says, and suddenly your brain decides to pay attention.  “He’s under a lot of stress.” You mumble, and Jack rolls his eyes. 

“We all are. You know, last time I met him he wasn’t like this, he must not have gotten laid in a year.”

You make a face, but don’t say anything. Jack rubs your back, sighing dramatically. “He’s such a damn ass to you, sweetheart. Can’t stand it. You deserve better than that.” You might. You probably do. You’ve told your heart that over and over, but it doesn’t seem to be willing to hear it. The rhythm of its beat falls in line with Bucky’s name. 

You’re starting to hate yourself for it. 

Jack doesn’t need to know that, so you only hum. 

“Have you tried your thing on him?” He asks, and your body recoils. 

You stumble away, eyes wide in disgust as a foul, sickening taste creeps up your throat. 

“No- I- No.” You shake your head frantically. “I would never- I don’t use it for anything like that, I’ve never used it for that, and I- Bucky isn’t- How could you say that?” “He’s just such a dick to you,” Jack says your name, taking a large step forward. Pressing you back against the wall. “Come on, you’ve at least thought of it-“ “No, I- I would never-“

“You don’t have to lie, it’s just me-“ “I’m not lying-“

“Sweetheart.” Jack coos, taking another step forward, leaving your back pressed against wall. “It’s not wrong, to have thought about it. I would have thought it. But I also,” he reaches up, tracing a hand over your cheek, and you shrink back into your body. “Would never be so mean to something as pretty as you.” 

You swallow, tears still burning at your eyes. Jack’s breath smells like liquor, fanning over your face, and it’s making the room feel like it’s flipping and spinning. Not in the pleasant, dizzying way that Bucky’s body near yours does. 

This feels wrong. 

“Can you please back up?” You whisper, and Jack chuckles.  “Why would I do that, sweetheart.” The tears slide down your cheeks. “Please?”

Jack shakes his head, his lips brushing over yours. You try to lean back, but there’s only the wall. 

You close your eyes. He did want to see it. He begged to. 

“Jack.” Your voice slips into the other one. The sweet, musical one that’s almost floats through the air. Less of a voice. More of a call. “Can you please back up?”

He’s frozen for a moment. You don’t dare to breathe, in case it breaks the spell. 

Then he vanishes. His hands near your head, his smell, his lips and the sticky, suffocating heat of his body. You pull your eyes open, and let out a shaking breath. 

He’s just standing. Face entirely void of himself. Nothing more than a puppet. 

You hug yourself tight, voice almost cracking as you speak again. “Walk away. And- Please don’t speak to me or look for me, until the morning.”

Jack nods slowly, and turns away. His eyes stare at the floor, and he almost glides down the hallway, away from your room.  

You swallow, and slip into your room without another word. It feels like there’s a thin layer of grime over your skin, but no matter how you rub at it in the shower, it doesn’t go away. You sink to the floor, pressing your face into your knees, and cry in the safety of the burning water. If the veil it offers, to mask the sound of your sobs, to hide you in the steam. 

You don’t know how long you just sit there. You know when you go to bed, you’re still sniffling. 

And when you fall asleep, it’s like the tide dragging you under. 

Impossibly pain in your chest. A feeling like you can’t breathe, as you fold yourself into the cushion. 

Then just black. And a long, heavy sleep. 

Bucky didn’t count himself a good man. 

It wasn’t just that he’d done bad things, and he’d done… A lot of bad things. The kind of bad things that people, apparently, made documentaries about. The kind of bad things he shouldn’t be forgiven for, no matter what Sam used to say about it not really being him who did it. 

It had been his hands. His body. 

His mind, that had caved to the programming. That hadn’t fought back against Hydra, and let them use him as a weapon. 

He might not have chosen to do the things, but he still did them. And it didn’t matter anyway. 

He still wasn’t a good man. 

It wasn’t about only his actions. It wasn’t about everything he did to repent, and how people now looked at him like he was a hero, when he knew the truth. That he was tricking them, and if they saw the ugly beast under the surface—the part of him that was barely better than an animal—they’d shoot him in the goddamn skull. 

Because he thought things. Craved things. Was hungry for things he had no right to desire. 

One thing. 

Really, it was just one thing, that drove him out of his mind every fucking night. That made him glare at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to drill it into his stupid head that he was barely more than a mutt, and had no right to ask for something so priceless. 

Her. 

Bucky wanted Her.

He had to right to even want anything at all. Wanting Her felt like a crime. 

She was made of soft things he’d long lost to the bottom of the ocean, swept smooth and empty with the water of time. She had the kind of shine Bucky had only ever been able to dull, and the kind of gentleness that did go well with biting guard dogs. Bucky was a weapon. She was stained glass, casting the light soft and gentle through his life. He’d been gone the moment Valentina had showed them the picture of the new hire. 

Then She’d walked into the room, smiling and bright eyed, and Bucky had known. 

He wanted Her on his arm during events, smiling mostly at him instead of the cameras—Her real smile, not the well-polished, overdone one she gave the photographers—then hanging off his body as they drank and whispered in the corner. She’d sit next to him on missions, his hand on Her thigh and her foot bumping his under the table. They’d hold hands and… Do whatever modern couples did. Go for walks and eat food. Not dancing, because he’d seen where people danced now and it was pretty damn loud, but maybe just sitting in the living room together. His legs over Her’s, Her head on his chest, talking about nothing at all. 

And he’d have Her in his bed. Fantasies of Her lips on his, bodies pressed tight together and whispers soft and teasing, it was what he thought of in the shower. In his own big, lonelier bed as he groaned Her name to the dark. 

Bucky wanted Her like he wanted to touch the sky, when he was a boy. 

So much he dreamed about it. 

Impossibly, and desperately, and knowing fully well that if he ever did, he’d never want to go back down to Earth. 

Bucky was never going to want anything as bad. 

And under no fucking circumstances should he be allowed to have Her. 

He set distances. Made boundaries, less to keep Her away and more to keep himself at bay. Whenever he accidentally touched Her, she’d mold into him, and he’d have to rip his hand away like it was burning. If he didn’t, it might mold into Her, and he’d never let go. Or worse, She’d rip herself away, and he’d have to remember what it was like to touch Her, then lose Her. 

It was a fate he could tolerate, to watch from afar. But holding Her, having all that sweetness in his hands then letting it slip through his fingers, he’d never forgive himself. He saw how soft She got, how deeply she took everything, how much She glowed under praise. He wouldn’t be able to live with breaking Her heart, because she’d shatter. Hell, She pouted to herself when Yelena so much as told her she misinterpreted some intel. Her actually crying, and Bucky being the cause of it, that might destroy him. 

And he wasn’t being arrogant. He wasn’t blind. He saw how desperately she smiled at him, heard the extra light in Her voice when she spoke to him, basked in the extra attention she gave him, because it was a sliver of Heaven he got to steal, and keep all to himself.  But She didn’t know what she was doing. She was young, She’d develop feelings, and they’d pass once She found someone better. 

Then Bucky would just sit here. Alone in the dark, torturing himself with what could have been. 

At least they’d be friends. Bucky could live with friends. He tried to be nice to Her—even if he hadn’t been sure how to do that, in at least a decade—and made sure to give Her respectable friend distance and words. He bit down every inappropriate or slightly wanting comment on his tongue. 

It was most of them. 

Almost all his thoughts around Her had slowly become that he wanted and needed Her, that she was beautiful and kind and maybe the best person he’d ever met, and they were lucky to have Her on the team, powers or not. 

He didn’t want to send mixed signals. Didn’t want to get Her confused about what he could give Her, because it wasn’t much. 

One day, She’d find someone who could give her everything, and Bucky would just be Her friend. 

He’d been ready for that.  He hadn’t thought it would happen this fast. 

Jack’s eyes had glinted, when they’d stepped off the jet. Bucky had known that look. He saw it in the mirror, every damn morning. And She’d smiled at Jack. Stuck with him the whole fucking mission. Bucky had felt like he was going to drive himself out of his goddamn mind. 

She wasn’t his. He had no fucking claim to Her. It was his own damn fault, that She hadn’t been talking to him at the bar. The he hadn’t been the one touching Her, wasn’t the one who walked Her out. 

Knowing that hadn’t stopped the creeping rage and disgust with himself. The ice-like, almost painful hated of Jack, festering into a vileness that curled his fists. 

At one point, it had gotten so intolerable that he’d suggested they switch up the teams. He could put himself with Her. Steal just a little bit more of Her attention. 

She’d been drawing away from him a little big before the mission as well. Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d done, but She hadn’t even been looking at him. He’d wanted to ask, to fix it, to do anything that would make things go back to normal. He might’ve asked the night they landed, if it wasn’t for fucking Jack. 

And now they might be in Her room. 

Which Bucky was fine with. They were adults. She was smart, and could make Her own choices, and he didn’t deserve Her anyway. 

He still lingered outside Her room for hours, thinking about going in. Shouting his love to Her shocked face, then watching Her turn away from Jack and run into his arms. 

The last part was just in his head. There was no way She’d do anything but throw him out of his ass, after he waited so long to tell Her. 

If Jack was what She wanted, she deserved to be happy. 

Bucky still didn’t sleep that night, his mind racing with the idea of someone else touching Her. Having Her, how he wanted. 

Jack wouldn’t treat Her as well as Bucky would. He’d treat Her like a Queen. 

Then lose Her. That kind of closeness was always something he lost. 

He had to haul himself out of bed in the morning. He didn’t want to see Her and Jack standing next to each other. Didn’t to live in the world that was coming, where Her pretty eyes glazed right over him, like he was nothing more than a potted plant. 

It was only to desire to get the hell out of this job, that got him moving. 

But when he got to the group, She wasn’t there. 

Not just late. 

Missing. 

Jack was there. When asked, he just shrugged. Bucky narrowed his eyes—the man had been fawning over Her last night, he’d had Her on his arm, and she was pretty damn hard to lose sight of—but Yelena just sighed and stomped off to go grab Her. 

 They waited awkwardly, shifting on their feet. 

“Storm’s coming.” Walker muttered, and Bucky shot him a glare. “What? I’m just saying, we should be heading out-“ “No.” Bucky grunted. “Team first, John.” Walker sighed, and gave him a flat look. Somehow he was the only person who knew. About a month into Her being on the team, Walker had cornered him and asked what the hell his problem was with Her. He didn’t let up, until Bucky shouted that he might have some feelings for Her. 

He’d, shockingly, kept the secret. 

That didn’t stop the silent mocking and pointed looks. Bucky had learned to ignore them. 

“She does not feeling well.” Yelena announced, storming back into the room. “She wants to stay here.”

Bucky frowned. “She looked fine last night.” “You were across the bar, Bucky Barnes. You could not tell.” Yelena grabbed her baton, moving on before Bucky could protest. “We have to beat the storm. She will wait, but I left her gun. In case someone tries to mess with her, she can-“ Yelena made a mock gun sound, and Bucky’s frown only deepened. She never missed a mission. Once he’d been forced to bench Her, because she had a fever and was trying to join the field work. Even then, She’d talked him into surveillance and intel. 

It was probably a good thing Yelena had checked on Her. Bucky would’ve caved to damn near anything She told him, long as it didn’t put her in danger. 

But She’d volunteered to stay. 

It didn’t sit right. Bucky didn’t have a choice but to let it happen—the wind was picking up, the sky turning gray—but it kept turning, in his skull. 

He knew almost everything about Her, because he listened and watched and memorized Her like a song he wanted stuck in his head forever. He knew that She loved animals, and got cold fast, and enjoyed those romance movies but always liked books better. She didn’t like to feel useless, so he tried to remind Her of things she did after missions, and she liked learning so he’d throw in suggestions for how she could improve.

She never used Her powers, even if they could let Her take over the world in an afternoon. 

And She never just sat out a mission. Especially not one that would be really damn useful to have Her for. 

“Would be useful, for songbird to be here.” Alexei echoed Bucky’s thoughts, dragged the guard they’d knocked out over to the thumbprint pad. “Her song, soothe angriest man.”

Bucky grunted an agreement, but Jack- 

Jack scoffed. And rolled his eyes. 

Bucky wasn’t the only one who caught it. Yelena’s eyes narrowed as well. 

“What was that?” Jack waved her off. “What was what?” “That face. The one that you just made.” Yelena mimicked it. “What was this?”

“Oh. Nothing.” “No, it was something. Say what.” Yelena wasn’t suggesting. She was ordering. And it was hard, to be stupid enough to defy her. 

“It’s not a big deal. Just,” Jack said Her name, and Bucky’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like the tone, like She wasn’t something holy, gracing their tongues. 

“What about her?” His voice was lower than he wanted it to be. The fury felt like it was boiling over inside of him. 

“Nothing. She’s- I don’t know, why all make such a big deal about her, when she’s such a bitch.” Bucky saw red. Jack was still talking.  “I mean, she used her powers on me last night.” Jack looked around between them, lips curled in disgust. “Isn’t that fucked up?” He expected sympathy. Bucky could read that, all over his ugly, about to be flattened face. 

But Bucky knew Her. They all did. 

She didn’t use her powers on people. 

Not unless she was forced to. 

For a moment, Bucky wasn’t thinking. His body was reacting, without needing his mind to command it. His fist flew up, and collided with Jack’s jaw. There was a sickening crack sound, as the man fell to the ground, but no one lunged to help him. 

Bucky turned. The red behind his eyes was turning white, turning from wrath into worry. She was just alone, after what Jack had done. No one there to take care of Her, no one she trusted to talk to. 

He’d would be there. Damn the mission, the rest of the time could work it out themselves, then leave Jack to be buried in the fast-falling snow. 

Bucky was going to be there for Her. 

It had gotten so cold, so fast.  You’d been lying in bed, when Yelena came to check on you. You’d mumbled that you didn’t feel like doing much today, and she’d let it go. She knew you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really feel horrible. You’d gotten an awkward pat on the head, a feel better, and she’d left you to wallow alone. 

You’d twisted. Turned. Stared at the ceiling, then been unable to keep your eyes open to see your own body and flipped over. Your tears stained the pillow, so you flipped that over too, and the blankets on your body were suffocating but still couldn’t be heavy enough to make you feel safe and warm. 

Slowly, as the day stretches on, everything gets darker. Not just in your head, spinning around the hallway last night—Jack, Bucky’s apathy and cold stares, everything that had been bending all week set to snap any fucking second—but literally. It was 9am, when you had to turn a lamp on to see. There wasn’t any sunlight leaking through the curtains, and when you forced yourself up to shuffle over and check the windows, the world was gray. 

It was snowing. Snowing so heavily, you couldn’t see anything but the flurry an inch outside the glass. There was a chill on your face, just from being near the glass, and your fingers shook as you closed the curtains again. 

The team had left hours ago. The bunker was only an hour away, and if they did their jobs well, they’d be fine. 

There might be fifty percent chance they’re already dead. 

You drag out your personal computer, and turn on the local news to keep an eye for avalanches. You even keep your phone face up as you huddle in your blankets, in case they need to message you. 

The tears are still falling randomly and heavily, freezing on your cheeks like snowflakes and coming from a hollow in your chest. 

A part of you had expected that, from Jack. You hadn’t wanted to, when he’d been so nice to you, but people fascinated by your powers rarely seemed to care for you. For the weight of it on your shoulders, never able to understand that you weren’t just making people to do something.

You were stripping them down to puppet. 

You watched the person fade from their eyes, and become just a doll for you to move around. You could never bare it. The first time it happened, completely on accident, you hadn’t spoken for a week out of fear you’d do it again.

So you hate him for it. Hate Jack, for forcing you to use it, and hate yourself for not being able to find another way out. You could’ve said please again, could’ve shoved him, could’ve screamed. There’s no promise it would have worked—it probably wouldn’t have—but at least you would’ve tried harder.

He wasn’t doing something good. 

There’s an itch and crawl over your bones, because you did something worse.

This is why Bucky doesn’t want you. What you are. Deep in your core below the smiles and lies, you’re just a something Bucky would never want to touch, and you’re going to turn into a forgotten, hollow shell trapped in the cold, frozen in your own body and alone. 

You gather the sheets closer, pulling them up to cover your face. The news is nothing but a muffled mumble in the background, and your fingers are still shaking. 

Your phone buzzes, but it’s not Yelena. It’s a notification from the motel, informing you that the power has gone out and the heater is broken. They’re lighting a fire in the lobby. You can’t bring your legs to pick up and carry you out of bed. 

The sun is gone behind the storm, and time passes like snow melting. Slow and fast all at once, building up and up and up until you’re unable to move or dig yourself out. The skin under your nails is the wrong shade, and when you flip your camera on, so are your lips. You’re shaking under the layers, but it’s nothing to warm you up, and when you dig your fingers into your own sides, they’re like icicles. Maybe you’re still crying. Maybe your eyes froze, and you’re never going to be able to cry again. It doesn’t really matter because you can’t feel anything but that hollowness. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been more alone in your life. 

And your eyes are hooded and fluttering, when there’s bang on your door. 

Bucky’s voice calls your name, and a whine leaves your throat that’s too small to be heard. Maybe he wouldn’t even hear it if you screamed. You’re sure your voice would crack like ice, and he doesn’t even like you anyway. You’re not sure what he’s doing here at all. 

He calls your name again. He sounds urgent. 

Maybe you’re just dreaming. You’ve certainly had dreams like this before, where he swoops in and declares that he secretly loved you the whole time, and you laugh and kiss on a giant, floating pink cloud.

It’s more likely a nightmare. He’s going to storm in and turn to a monster, snarling and sneering about how useless and cancerous and wrong you are. 

He’s shouting now, and any second his voice with turn to a growl. You burrow further under the covers, another weak whine leaving your throat. 

Bucky slams against the door, and you cower. You’re too cold to even brace yourself, but at least you know you can still cry. 

It breaks open, and you’ve never heard Bucky use that tone before. It’s broken and desperate, strange for a man who can’t bear to look at you. He may think you’re dead, and is just upset nature got to you first.

He says your name again, and you feel strong arms wrap around you. He could just be trying to choke you out anyway or going to dump you out in the snow to preserve your body, because there’s no other reason for him to be lifting you up- 

“You’re- Why the hell are you so cold-“ He swears under his breath, and you feel the mattress dip down. 

He’s sitting. 

That can’t be right. 

“Can you say something, doll? Anything so I know you’re hearin’ me, ‘cause-“ A warm hand brushes over your brown, then lingers near your mouth. “You’re breathing. Shit, you’re breathing, but- Say something. Please.”

He asks so nicely. You pull a deep, ragged groan from your chest, and you feel him tense around you.

“Alright, that’s- Good. Can work with that.” He seems to mostly be talking to himself. “Basic hypothermia, nothin’ that’ll kill you. Not if I’m here, and- Gonna kill that ass, I swear- There are some tall building that don’t have very good safety nets, and- ‘m sorry about this, sweetheart.”

You want to frown and ask what—what could possibly be making Bucky sound frantic—but you can’t feel your tongue enough to move it. There are shuffling noises, and he disappears from your side. You curl further into yourself, trying both to dredge up a plea for his return, and shove it down so you don’t make a fool of yourself. 

Then suddenly, you’re cold, so so cold, so cold you think it’s going to drag you under something you can’t get out of-

And you’re warm.

The warm comes slower. You can hear muttered apologies, and shocks of warmth on your skin. You feel bare, and even colder, then there’s nothing but heat. 

It’s pure heat wrapping around you, tangling between your legs and dragging over your arms and spine. 

“Arm’s got a heater in it.” Bucky mutters, his voice somewhere near your head. “Wakanda, huh?”

There’s a dry chuckle, and your brain is slow to understand what’s happening. It’s dragging through the draft of the wind, the cold pushing back against you, and sometimes you’ll almost connect something, then the strings will fly out of your hands. 

But you get warmer and warmer, and there’s a pleasant sound that’s deep and vibrates near your chest, and- 

Bucky. 

Bucky’s in your bed. Stripped down, and holding you. You’re stripped, to nothing but your underwear, and in Bucky’s arms. 

He’s heating you up.

And this is a different kind of heat. It’s uneasy, staining shame for him having to do this for you. Shame and twisting guilt, for how you like it. You really have dreamed about this, and you’ve held sheets at night to pretend they’re the shape of his body, but it’s nothing compared to the real this. To the dips and curves of his chest near your cheek, the strength of his thighs and rippling arms around you. 

There’s shame for how the heat is pooling, slowly but steadily, near your stomach. It feeds the shame, and something in you likes the embarrassment—at least it means you have Bucky’s attention—and that just makes you more shameful, and it feeds into itself like a raging wildfire. 

You can speak again. You’re afraid to. 

You might moan. 

At last, breaking the silence, you pull the soft words from the hollow in your chest. 

“You came back.”

Bucky stops humming, then sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Jack. Knew he made you use your powers. Wanted to check on you.”

You frown against his skin. That doesn’t make sense. “Check… On me?”

Bucky grunts. “Make sure he didn’t hurt you.”

“He couldn’t-“

He says your name sternly, and your words die fast. “We both know you don’t just use your powers. Whatever he did to make you-“ Bucky cuts himself off, his voice straining oddly. “Are you alright.”

“Yeah.” You breathe out, voice still hung with confusion. “I- I’m okay.”

Bucky makes a low sound, and it rolls through your whole body. Between your legs. 

You shift against him, trying to relieve some friction. He holds you tighter. He smells good, like pine trees and something warm that’s just Bucky, and it’s intoxicating. You manage to twist so that you’re facing away from him, because being this close to him and keeping yourself from moaning—whenever his hand dips too low on your back, or his thigh flexes too close to your core—is almost impossible. 

“I punched him.” Bucky breaks the long silence.

“Who?”

“Jack.”

You swallow on a lump in your throat. That wants that to mean something, when you know it doesn’t. “You didn’t have to do that-“

“I did.” He grunts, and your lips press in a tight line.

“And then you… came back?”

He sighs, breath warm near your ear. Nods.

“Why?”

“I told you.” Bucky sounds heavy. It’s nothing compared to the weight of him on your ribs, over your heart. 

“No, I-” Your voice wavers. “Why for me? You- You don’t even like me.”

Bucky stills completely. His hands splay against you, branding your skin, and you can hear him lick his lips near your ear.

“What are you talkin’ about?” His voice is oddly rough, and you frown at the air.

“You- You don’t like me. Which is- It’s fine, you don’t have to, but-“

“I like you.” 

You blink, at the harshness of his words. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do, we’re-“ His voice is getting lower, like he’s trying to convince himself. “We’re friends.”

“No, we’re not?”

“Do you… Not like me?”

It’s so painful, the way the end of his sentence drops off. Hesitant. Unsure.

You really don’t understand what’s happening.

“I- I don’t-“ You’re stammering, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s not- You don’t like me, so I-“

“Doll, I-“

“You don’t like me,” your voice is rising. It’s not helpful, to have his bare body so close to yours for him. “You don’t, you- You’re always glaring at me, and we don’t hang out-“

“We sit in the kitchen together-“

“Yeah, but- You never talk to me!”

Bucky’s fingers are digging into your sides. “Yes.” He grunts. “I do.”

“Only when you tell me how I fucked up a mission-“

“I’m givin’ you tips, and- Fuck-“ His voice caves a little again, until it’s only a rasp. “Do you really not think I like you?”

He sounds hurt. As if you did something wrong, you always do something wrong to him, and- 

You’re crying again. The tears stream silently down your cheeks, and you can’t stop yourself from turning your face into Bucky’s shoulder to hide it. Everything is still so cold, and there’s confusion and dread building in your stomach that you’ve twisted something all wrong, and he’s so warm and safe. 

His hand flies to the back of your head, and he rolls over you, shielding you from the worlds. A metal thumb comes to your cheek, wiping the tears then trying to angle your chin up. 

“This isn’t- Shit- Can you look at me?” Bucky says your name, and you try to twist away. “No, don’t- I don’t hate you. I don’t. I- Fuck, I’m not good at this, but- Look at me-“

Something hotter enters his voice, and your eyes snap up to his. Bucky looks at you with such open relief, you’re not sure you didn’t die. 

“Bucky…” You breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “I- I’m sorry, you-“

“Don’t.” He grunts. “Don’t, I’m not- You never gotta apologize. Not to me.”

You shake your head, because that doesn’t make any sense, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I like you, doll.” He murmurs, dropping his brow against yours. Like something impossible to hold is on his shoulders. “I like you. Always liked you, I- Fuck, I used to be good at this-“ 

He stares at you like you’re something priceless. You feel exposed, completely Bucky’s with nothing to show for it, and he’s looking at you like you’re priceless. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. His voice is so deep, you can almost feel it in your chest.

“I like you.” He mutters, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “I like you, please.”

Something in you snaps, at the pure, open vulnerability in his voice. At how fragile you feel, and how if his heat doesn’t melt you, it will mend you together. You surge up without thinking. 

Press your lips against his, harsh and fast. The timing is all wrong, and it’s nothing but a bumping of nose and smashing of lips. He doesn’t kiss you back, until the very last second, when you’re already pulling away. 

He dives down after you, then recoils. 

Glaring down at you, an expression identical to what you’ve seen so many times on his face. 

The only difference is his mouth hanging open. And his heartbeat, under your hand. 

Fast. 

He stares at you. You stare back, tears pricking back at your eyes, and- 

Bucky almost falls over you. And this kiss is just as sloppy as the first, but it’s anything but awkward. Bucky kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something, that nothing but his body can say. His hands wander, as his lips move relentlessly against yours. He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and all the built-up heat floods you like a wildfire. 

Your arms fly around his neck, as you kiss him back. Bucky groans, doubling his force, and you’re pinned between him and mattress. Your legs glide apart to accommodate his space, and you shiver as his metal hand finds the base of your spine, pushing you up into the muscle of his torso. 

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gasp, and he growls against your mouth. “Oh- Oh my-“

Your hips roll, because it’s too much to bear. How much you need him, how consuming he is, how happy you’d be to drown if it’s under him. Your legs drag wider, and Bucky starts a warpath down your throat, lips burning every bit of skin he can find. 

Your back arches into him, your fingers flying to his hair. It’s wet and messy, a painful pleasure when you try to chase him but find nothing. His teeth graze your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine.  

“Please, fuck-“ You writhe below him, unable to keep still as he works you like an instrument. “More- I, I need you, so bad, Bucky, please-“

He crashes back up, kissing you until your toes curl and your head spins. 

“You are…” He pulls your head back, deepening the kiss. “Fuckin’ beautiful. You really didn’t know, did you doll. Just what you were doin’ to me, how much I wanted-“ He pulls your lip between his teeth, and you moan openly. “This.”

There’s a force, behind his kiss and his touch. It’s demanding, and you’re more than willing to give. 

Your legs are spread as wide as they can go, your hips humping up into Bucky’s body. His warmer hand slams down, right over your barely clothed core, pressing it back down into the bed. 

“Don’t do that. I’ve been tryin’ to keep it together, but if you-“ He groans, as he feels the damp spot on your panties. “Fuck, you- You’re-“

“Bucky,” you sound downright pathetic, lashes fluttering as you try to plea with him. “Need you-“

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes, I do.” Your voice breaks in a sob. He can’t just do this, then not give you more. He must really hate you, for him to torture you like that-

Bucky cuts your thoughts off with another, softer kiss. It’s impossibly sweet, making your heart flutter and a sigh escape your lips.

“Don’t cry, babydoll.” Bucky murmurs. “Nothin’ here to cry about.”

You disagree. “Please.” You whisper, holding his hooded gaze, and his tongue flicks over his lips. 

His hand presses harder, and a ruined moan escapes your lips. 

“James…”

You don’t know what makes you say it. But Bucky’s reaction is immediate. His breath catches, his eyes flashing, there’s almost a predatory focus on his face. He drags two fingers, slowly over the wet spot.

You shudder below him, moaning again, and his nostrils flare. 

“Say it again.” His words are firm, and you obey freely.

“James, please-“

Bucky kisses you again, cutting off your words into a moan. But this time, he builds up. His fingers apply a little more pressure, his palm rubbing back and forth against your clit. His tongue slides against yours, as he drags your underwear to the side, and teases his fingers over your pussy lips. 

You squirm below him, and he doesn’t break the kiss. 

“Be patient, pretty girl. Waited years.” He dips into your wetness, gathering it up before smearing it on your clit. “Gonna take my time.”

All you can do is scratch at his back and shoulders, trying to urge him on. Bucky just chuckles, rolling around your clit before moving back down, and notching his fingers right at your entrance. You aren’t strong enough, to move against him and pull him inside. Just blunt nails graze you, and your eyes roll back in your head. 

Then suddenly, he’s gone. 

It’s a split second, where your eyes fly open and you almost choke him, in an attempt to stop him from leaving. 

But he’s not even trying to. 

He’s just switching hands. 

The metal, now cool and biting against your skin, spanks your pussy lightly, and you go limp below him. 

“I’ve got you, doll.” He mutters against your lips, his eyes trained between your bodies. On where his hand is resting against your cunt. “So wet, for me. ’S for me?”

He glances up, and smirks when you nod. 

“I know.” He plants a mockingly sweet kiss on your lips. “Always knew, just thought you saw it. How much I dreamed about this, you and your pretty fuckin’ pussy-“

He slides a finger into you, and you clench tight around him, still managing to stare up at him and cling to his every word. He groans, as he pushes further in. Presses his cheek against yours, his breath hot on your ear. 

“Relax.”

You try to. You close your eyes, and let his body ease you down. Eventually you get it, and your body goes limp. You breathe heavy through your nose, as Bucky pushes his finger fully into you. Starts to pump it slowly, letting you feel him work open your walls, hitting that deep spot inside of you every time with ease. 

Bucky groans. “Knew you’d take me so good. Fuckin’- could smell when you got wet, smelled like candy, made me feel like a dog. I would’ve gotten on my knees for you, doll, but I like you like this, too.” He pushes up over you, finger picking up pace. Grins at your open, wanting expression, your arms wrapping around your stomach. “Wrecked on my fingers. Soakin’ the sheets,” he reaches up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “So damn needy, and mine.”

You moan, and Bucky smirks. His fingers pick up pace, and it makes you feel like you’re going to burst into starlight.

“Say it,” he grunts, and the glare is back. 

Not a glare of hate, you realize in your lustful haze. 

A glare of hunger. Desire.

And something dangerously close to adoration. 

“I- Bucky, fuck-“

“Say you’re mine,” he lowers himself back down, his lips brushing yours. “Please.”

He asked so nicely again. “I- I’m yours-“ You whimper, his thumb flicking against your clit. “I’m yours, Bucky, I’m-“

You moan into his mouth, as he kisses you open and desperate.

“I can’t believe you think I could hate you.” He mutters against your lips, and you swallow. 

“James-“

“Who the hell could hate something so beautiful?”

That does it. 

Heat rushes through you, and your vision swims as you cum hard enough to light you on fire. When you float back down, Bucky is still over you. His metal hand is stroking your thigh, and it’s so quickly clear. 

That’s not enough. 

He must see it on your face, because his brows raise. There’s the glare again. 

And a tension in his body, like he’s trying to hold himself back. 

“You need more, babydoll?” He mutters, searching your face. “You want-“

“Yes.” You moan, and you’ve never seen Bucky move so fast in your life.

He sheds his underwear like they were burning him, and in the split second you see him, your mouth falls open. He’s beautiful, but thick, and you don’t know if you can take it. 

Bucky makes it easy. He mutters a quick check about birth control, tapping his head on your clit. You nod, and he kisses your forehead, breathing raggedly as he slides into your dripping cunt. 

“Fuck…” He moans, fingers finding your clit to stop you from fluttering around him. “’S…  So good-“

Whatever suave words he had before are gone. Bucky bottoms out, and sits inside of you, chest heaving as he gives you a second to adjust. 

And when he starts moving, it’s controlled. Careful, pulling far out of you before slamming back in, his eyes fixed on the way your body reacts. He rolls his hips, grabs your legs and hikes it up, hitting a sweet, deeper angle that makes you see stars. 

A broken James falls out of your lips. 

And he snaps. 

Bucky grabs your hands, from around your body, and pins them over your head. His hips start to drill into you, his cock slamming against every deep and sensitive part inside of you. You can only blink up at him, too cock-drunk to speak, sparks seeming to fly up your spine as he fucks you into a wrecked, blissed-out oblivion. 

He’s trying to talk to you, broken praise falling from his lips, but it all comes out in feral sounds. You’ve never seen him like this, his brow pinched and lips parted, body flushed and movements sharp and wild. Almost nothing he says makes much sense, and every single grunt seems to mean the same exact thing that’s lost in the friction of your bodies.

Then his mouth lands over yours, his thrusts turning short and desperate. You’re so close, seconds from tipping over the edge, and- 

“Love you,” he chokes out your name, taking a deep breath as he ruts into your g-spot. “Love you so much.”

You cum around him, arching off the bed from the full force of it. Bucky groans, swallowing your every cry of his name with his mouth, and pulls out with a groan. 

He fists himself, the head of him still tapping against your clit, and he moans your name as he paints your thighs and abdomen white. 

Bucky leans down, the kisses sweet again. Soft. 

Taking time. 

You’re too boneless to do much but return them, one hand moving up to cup his face. He grabs it, and kisses the inside of your wrist. Stands and grabs a towel from your bathroom, cleaning between your thighs in a comfortable silence. You feel like you’re floating, somewhere higher than heaven. Your head is empty, except for his touch. 

You only really know two things.

It’s so cold, while he’s gone. 

But warm again, when he slides into bed at your side. 

Safe, and warm, and loved. 

“I don’t,” he mutters in your ear, voice still rough. “Hate you.”

You smile at the air, rolling over to press your face into his chest. 

“Okay.” You hum, wrapping your arms around his chest. “I believe you.”

And as he kisses your hairline, lips soft and delicate, you really do. 

✦End note: What is fanfic for if not indulging delusion.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦ ✦divider by @/kitsunecafe✦

[roosterforme]

The Wingman | Bob Floyd x Reader

Summary: Bob never did this sort of thing. Talking to girls and flirting and romance. It's not that he didn't want to, he just didn't really know how. But you were different in all the right ways, and you made him feel confident enough to try.

Warnings: Fluff, smut, angst

Length: 5200 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female Reader

Check my masterlist for more!

"I need your help," Jake said, forcefully removing the cup of peanuts from Bob's hand. "Right now. Come on."

"With what?" Bob asked quietly as Jake hauled him to his feet and started pushing him away from the pool table and toward the bar. Bob wiped peanut shells from his uniform as he went, perplexed about what was going on.

"See those two girls?" Jake asked, pointing to the end of the bar. "Kinda cute, right?"

Bob's jaw dropped open. Kinda cute didn't quite cover it. Gorgeous was more like it. He swallowed the last peanut he was chewing on and murmured, "Yeah. Very cute."

"Great. The one on the right has a perfect looking rack, and she seems kind of mean. She's for me. You can have the one on the left. She's sweet. Not my type," Jake said as they drew closer.

Bob was practically stumbling along now. "But why do you need me?"

"You're going to be my wingman."

"But.... we aren't flying?" Bob asked, so perplexed.

Jake sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Focus, Floyd. It means you can hang out with the friend for a bit so I can get laid. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Bob muttered, and then he was being thrust up right next to where you were standing. He had to catch the wall so he didn't slam into you, and then you looked up at him slowly as you released your straw from your lips and smiled.

"Hi." Your voice was breathy and soft, the perfect juxtaposition to the noisy bar. And you looked even more beautiful up close, something Bob would have thought impossible. "Are you Jake's friend?"

"Uh, yeah," he replied, swallowing hard as your bright smile took his breath away. "I'm Bob," he managed to say without sounding like a complete idiot.

And then you gave him your name, and something told him he was going to remember it for the rest of his life. "It's nice to meet you, Bobby."

He nodded, heart thudding. "Nice to meet you, too." 

You called him Bobby, and he liked the way it sounded on your lips. But nothing compared to what you said next. 

"I noticed you before," you said, looking down at your drink, suddenly shy. "Last weekend when we were here. And the weekend before that. I can't believe you're talking to me."

You had noticed him before? Bob couldn't formulate real words. You were surprised he was talking to you? But you were so far out of his league, it was ridiculous! He just watched your straw brushing against your lips as your gaze slowly moved up his chest and neck until your eyes met his again. You were just so pretty.

You cleared your throat and pressed your lips together. "Of course, if you don't feel like talking to me, you don't have to." And you quickly turned to face the bar, taking a few steps away from him. That's when Bob realized he'd been staring at you instead of talking to you at all. 

"No, no, I do want to talk to you," he said, wondering if it was okay to touch you and decided to go for it as he reached out to let his fingers brush your arm. He said your name and you turned to look at him again, but you didn't come any closer. "Sorry, I-I just got distracted by how pretty you are."

You laughed, and that smile was back now. "You know, that usually sounds like a line when a guy says it, but for some reason I believe you, Bobby. I even told my friend Alli that you looked handsome and sweet at the same time." You gestured toward your friend who had her lips glued to Jake's, but Bob barely glanced in their direction.

"Nobody really calls me Bobby, but I like it when you do."

When you closed the distance between your bodies and ran your fingers along his collection of insignia pins, Bob let his left hand rest lightly on your waist, and you didn't stop him. He couldn't believe you were letting him touch you. 

"What do you do in the navy?" you asked, meeting his eyes before examining his pins a little closer. 

"I'm an aviator," he replied. 

"You fly a jet?" you asked, eyes wide now. And this was what Bob hated more than anything; having to explain to someone that he was just a backseater. 

"No, I'm a weapons systems officer, actually."

"Oh! So you're in charge of a pilot! Do you fly with Jake?"

Bob smiled at your simple and yet surprisingly accurate description of what a WSO did. "No, I fly with her," he replied, pointing across the bar where Phoenix was gaping at him with a pool cue in her hand. 

You turned to look before turning back to him and saying, "That's so fascinating, Bobby."

"What do you do?" he asked, wrapping his hand a little further around your back and nearly gasping as he felt the swell of your butt. He let go of you like he'd been burned, but you reached for his hand and placed it right where it had been. 

"I'm a kindergarten teacher."

Bob's mouth went dry. Phoenix told him all the time that he was destined to marry a sweet, pretty kindergarten teacher and have six kids and a golden retriever. 

"Do you like kids, Bobby?" you asked, your fingers back on his pins. 

"Yeah... six of them," he murmured. 

"Hmm?"

"Oh. Nothing," he told you. "Yes, I like kids. Sometimes I volunteer to read at the library when they need military personnel for story time. Hey, how do you feel about golden retrievers?

"Your lips parted slightly as you looked at him, and Bob could feel his cheeks flushing with color as you leaned up. The way your eyes fluttered closed should have been enough warning for him, but nobody had ever done this to him before in the middle of the Hard Deck. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of girls he had ever kissed at all, anywhere.

But the soft touch of your lips to his was enough to have his right hand wrapping around you as well. And then everything felt perfect as he touched you while you kissed him. 

The kiss didn't last long, but you kept your body pressed right up to his while you assured him that golden retrievers were your very favorite type of dog. Then you told Bob about your classroom and your school and the kids in your class. You told him how much you liked when they played movies in the park by your apartment. You told him that you always went with some of your friends to the food truck festivals. And you told him how much you liked his glasses. 

"You really like them?" Nobody liked his glasses. Women frequently asked him if he ever wore contacts. He supposed that would make him a bit better looking, but he hated poking at his eyes when he needed to use them for work.

"Like is an understatement," you assured him with a smile. "You're so cute. Can I kiss you again?"

Bob nodded helplessly, already kind of pathetically in need of your attention. This kiss was a little more forceful, and Bob could feel your tongue touching his.

And then Alli threw her drink on Jake, and you gasped, backing out of Bob's arms. "Maybe I should go check on her," you said as your friend stormed toward the exit. But you didn't move. 

"Well, Bob, your wingman duty is no longer needed," Jake drawled, wiping what appeared to be rum and coke from his face before he wandered away.

You groaned and tipped your head back before you met Bob's eyes. "Jake made you come over and talk to me, didn't he?"

You looked completely distraught, and Bob thought he might die if you left right now. He didn't even have your number, and he hadn't asked you out on a date yet. "Don't go," he begged, reaching for you as you set your empty glass on the bar. "Please. It took literally no persuading on Jake's part to get me to come over here. And you're so pretty, I would have been too scared to ever come over on my own."

You looked at him for a beat. "You seem sincere. Are you being sincere?"

"Of course," he swore, panicking inside. "I don't want you to leave. I'm hoping you'll give me your number and let me take you out tomorrow."

To Bob's relief, you pulled him over to the one empty bar stool and pushed him down to sit. Then you were on his lap, perched on his thigh, and he was handing you his phone. You saved your name and phone number and texted yourself so you could have his number too. "Where are you taking me tomorrow, Bobby?" you asked him.

"Anywhere you want," he promised. And you ran your fingers through his hair, teasing them along the back of his neck as you kissed him again. He wrapped his hand around your waist and pulled you a little closer. Then he felt you reach for his other hand, guiding it to your bare knees where his fingers skimmed the hem of your dress. 

You were good at this. You knew what you were doing. But Bob wasn't good at romance, and he didn't have a lot of experience. But he knew he was already addicted to your kisses. And he should have understood what you meant as soon as you said it, but he really didn't.

"You could take me out for breakfast," you whispered as you kissed your way along his jaw and tasted his neck.

"Okay," he muttered. "I'd love to pick you up tomorrow morning. For breakfast."

He was just thankful you didn't laugh at him when you pulled back. Instead you were biting your lip and toying with his pins again as you said, "Or you could stay over. And then you wouldn't have to come pick me up. Because you'd already be there."

Bob knew he was hard in his khaki uniform pants, and the way your thigh was nudging him wasn't helping him process the fact that you just invited him to spend the night with you. He didn't know if he could do this. He'd never done this sort of thing before. 

You were looking at him expectantly and a little apprehensively. He kissed you softly. "I don't usually go home with girls from the bar. I actually don't even usually talk to girls when I'm here. Or...anywhere, really." His face was flushed, collar too tight. He was uncomfortable now as you appraised him with your wide eyes.

"How is that possible? You're so smooth." Now Bob was the one with big eyes as you added, "I've never taken a guy home from the bar before, but you make me feel comfortable. And I think you're sweet. And I'm pretty sure we're going to date."

Bob nodded, so sure of it. "Yeah, we're going to date. And get a golden retriever." 

Your smile right before you kissed the tip of his nose made him squeeze you tighter. "Then let's go," you whispered, wiggling out of his arms to stand up. Bob had to try to discreetly adjust himself as you dug into your purse, but he managed to get his wallet out in time to pay for your drink before you could. "Thanks, Bobby," you muttered, taking his hand in yours. 

Bob watched the identical looks of shock on Jake's and Nat's faces as you looked up at him and lured him toward the door. He was going back to your place. He was going to take you out for breakfast. He was so excited. And so nervous.

As he helped you climb in his pick-up truck, you leaned down and kissed him softly, and he just knew you would never make fun of him for anything. Bob closed the door and walked around the truck, checking his phone which had been vibrating nonstop.

Hangman: I told you she was sweet.

Nat Trace: OMG BOB, have a great night! Text me tomorrow! 

He climbed into the truck only to find that you had buckled yourself into the center of the bench seat right next to him. "Hi," you said with a laugh, and then you let your palm come to rest on his thigh as he pulled out of the parking lot. 

"Where do you live?" he asked softly, and you gave him directions while you touched him so gently that Bob felt some of his nervousness receding. He parked in front of your building, and you led him inside. 

The elevator ride was filled with sweet kisses as you draped your arms around his neck. Either you could tell that he was out of his element and were being extra nice about it, or this was how you always liked to do things. Either way, he really, really liked it. Even the swipe of your tongue across his bottom lip as the elevator arrived at your floor wasn't too much for him now. When he nibbled gently on your lip, you moaned softly, and he pushed you back against the wall. 

"Let's go," you panted, pulling him toward your door. Bob kissed the side of your neck as you fiddled with your key, but once you had him inside, things started going a little too fast for him. 

You closed and locked the door, and then your fingers were on the zipper of his uniform pants, and your tongue was in his mouth. Bob let you slip your hand inside the waistband of his underwear, and then your hand was stroking him, and he was seeing stars behind his eyelids. It felt so good. He'd been touched like this before, but it had been months, and it had been with someone he was dating. 

He liked you a lot, and he didn't want you to stop. But suddenly, when your hand stroked back up his already throbbing cock, he pulled away from your kisses. "Can we go a little slower?" he asked between raspy breaths. 

You nodded with uncertainty at him and gently slid your hand out of his underwear. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "Guys usually like that."

"I do!" he insisted. "It's....just...maybe we can kiss more first?"

"Okay," you agreed. "How about on the couch?"

"Sure," Bob whispered. You pulled him further into your living room, fingers linked with his. When he settled back onto the sofa, you sat on his thigh, just like you had done on the barstool. 

"Is this better?" you asked, your lips brushing against his while you ran your fingers through his hair. Your cheek was nudging his glasses, and honestly, he was just as aroused as he had been when your hand was stroking him. 

"Yeah," he managed, and your mouth and his met in the best kisses he had ever felt. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but eventually you were straddling his hips, and his hands were wrapped around the backs of your bare thighs.

"That feels good, Bobby," you whined as he stroked his thumbs along your perfect, soft skin. Your lips found his neck, sucking and licking him, and he had to work hard to fight the urge to buck up against you. He could feel you occasionally rub yourself against the open zipper of his pants, and each time he was afraid he was going to finish before anything really began. 

He didn't know what to do now. Was he supposed to ask you if you wanted to move to your bed? Was he supposed to tell you it was okay to touch him anywhere? Was he allowed to touch you anywhere?

When he eased his hands up along your butt only to determine that you weren't wearing any underwear at all, you kissed him hard. And then you slid from his lap so that you were kneeling on the floor between his spread thighs, and Bob watched you lick your lips. You reached for his pants and underwear and guided them down his legs while you smiled softly at him. When his hard cock was just inches from your lips, he got nervous again. But then your mouth was on him, and he had never in his whole life felt anything this amazing. 

You kissed his tip before parting your lips and sliding your mouth around him. He grunted, hands fisted on his knees, veins bulging in his arms. You moaned softly as you wrapped one sure hand around the base of him, and he throbbed with need for you. 

"You're really big," you whispered, pausing to kiss along his length, nudging him with your nose. He tipped his head back against the couch, praying that he wasn't going to embarrass himself after ten more seconds in your hand. When he felt your tongue lick his entire length from his balls back up to the tip, he snapped his head back to attention to watch you take the bead of his precum onto your tongue. 

And then you smiled again as he gaped at you. "If you don't like it this way, that's okay. You can tell me what you like best," you whispered before turning your head slightly to kiss his left fist where it was balled up and shaking on his knee. "And you can touch me if you want to."

Bob swallowed hard and then immediately blurted out, "I've never had a blowjob before."

You stared up at him, brow creased in confusion, pretty lips pursed. He could feel his face flushing, he was probably bright red. You were still stroking your thumb along his penis as you cocked your head to one side. 

"What do you mean? Never?" you asked softly. 

He shook his head back and forth in short, jerky motions, and he was so embarrassed. He thought maybe he should just leave. He shouldn't have even come home with you. "Never."

Then your face relaxed a bit, and you kissed his tip one more time before climbing back onto his lap. Bob relaxed his fists and wrapped his arms around your waist as you sat with his hard cock at attention between the two of you. But you didn't look bothered by anything now as you asked, "How old are you, Bobby?"

He swallowed hard and met your eyes, "I'm almost thirty."

You nodded and kissed his nose. "Have you had sex before?" you asked softly, pressing your lips to his cheek. 

"Yes," he replied, melting into the feel of your fingers and lips on him. "I've had two girlfriends."

"Okay," you told him, smiling before you kissed him. "So here's the deal, Bobby. I really like you. And I'd really like to give you a blowjob. If you want me to. And then I'd really like to take you to my bedroom, and I don't care if we just cuddle and talk, but I want you to stay with me all night. And then we can go out for breakfast. And then we can go out again after that if you think you like me as much as I like you."

This time Bob leaned forward to kiss you. "I'm nervous that I'm going to embarrass myself."

You laughed softly. "How do you think you're going to embarrass yourself?"

He let his gaze wander all over your face before he looked down at the couch cushion next to his thigh. "You know... I'm not going to last more than a minute."

Your soft sigh as you ran your fingers along his penis had his gaze snapping back to yours. "Oh, Bobby. I don't care about that." Then you bit your lip for a beat before you added, "It's kind of flattering, getting to do this for you. If you want me to. And if you cum really fast...well, we can try it again later. But that would be flattering, too."

He nodded his head, and you leaned in to kiss his cheek as he said, "Okay."

And then you were kneeling between his legs again, and he ran his fingers along your cheek while you stroked him with your hand a few times. "Ready?"

Your mouth was warm and wet, and Bob was treated to the feel of your tongue swirling along his length. It was the best thing he'd ever felt. Until you sucked on him. "Oh my god," he gasped, watching your pretty eyes as you looked at him. When you started to move your mouth up and down his cock, he laughed softly. "You're amazing."

You moaned while he was deep in your mouth, touching your throat, and he could feel his entire body start to tighten up. He wanted to panic, but then you bobbed along slowly, and he could only feel pleasure as he wrapped his fingers around the back of your head. And with one more swipe of your tongue, he was ejaculating right into your mouth. 

He couldn't formulate words as he grunted and watched you suck on him and swallow his cum. When he touched your throat as you swallowed him down, he groaned softly. 

"Was that okay?" you asked before licking up a little more cum that dripped out like it was a treat for you. Your hand was still wrapped around him, and you were treating him like a lollipop now, and he already wanted you to give him another blowjob. 

"Yes," he managed to say, feeling quite boneless on your couch as you giggled. 

"I liked it, too," you assured him. "Let's go to my bedroom." You pulled him to his feet, and somehow his brain recovered the knowledge of the mechanics of how to walk. He pulled his underwear and pants up as you led him along. He barely had a chance to look around your room before your hands were gently undoing his shirt buttons. And then you undressed him down to his white briefs, running your warm hands along his biceps and shoulders with a look of awe on your face.

Bob wouldn't say he was self conscious exactly; his body was strong, and it did everything he needed it to, because he took care of himself. But he wasn't as handsome as Hangman and Coyote, and he wasn't as muscular as Payback and Rooster. But you didn't seem to have an issue with anything you saw as you folded up his uniform and then pressed a kiss to the center of his chest. 

When he reached for your dress, you bit your lip and immediately said, "My body isn't perfect like yours."

"Perfect?" he mumbled. You thought he looked perfect? That was impossible. You were so close to perfection, he still couldn't believe you'd even talked to him at the Hard Deck in the first place. And with each additional time he looked at your face, he was certain you just got prettier.

"Yeah," you told him as you ran your fingers down his flat abs and then along the waistband of his underwear. "Perfect."

But you looked up at him and reached for the hem of your dress before you pulled it up your body and over your head, dropping it on top of his uniform and kind of shrugging. You were completely naked now, and Bob hadn't been prepared. At all. He started stuttering at the same time his cock started getting hard again.

"I th-think... wow." He took a deep breath and started over again. "You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen."

"So smooth," you whispered. And then Bobby was in your bed as you reassured him that it was okay to just snuggle with you under the warm blanket. So he pulled you against the front of his body, and he was the big spoon as you kissed his hand.

He was sure you must have been able to feel the press of his erection against your back, but you didn't say anything about it. Instead you asked him all about himself, and you told him stories, too. And after a while, Bob's hands grew a little bolder, drifting over the soft skin of your belly and hips until it sounded like you were begging for him. Soft little moans filled the space while you whispered his name. He wasn't sure what to do next, but you rolled over to face him and started to kiss him. 

Yeah, this was really good. He liked this immensely. He liked the way your hands on his bare skin made him feel safe and grounded. He liked how you were going slowly again, because when you finally reached down toward his cock, he was ready for it. 

"Wait," he whispered, pushing you gently onto your back. "May I do to you what you did to me earlier?"

"Yes," you whispered, slowly spreading your thighs apart as Bob nodded. He'd done this a few times before. He'd liked it in the past. But when he put his lips on your slick slit, he moaned in pleasure which made you moan as well. He liked the way you tasted and smelled, and when he licked your opening, you were already gathering the sheets in your fists. 

That seemed like a good sign, so he just kept going. At each encouraging sound or gasped word from you, he went harder and faster. Soon you were loud. Like very loud. You were propped up on one elbow watching him. And you had one leg draped over his shoulder, heel digging into his back as you whined, "Bobby! You've done this before!" You were rolling your hips up against his face, nudging his glasses. 

When he slowed his movements to reach up and removed them, you gasped. "Don't you dare! You leave your glasses on!" Your eyes were flashing with need, and Bob did exactly as he was told. 

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered with a smile as he returned his mouth to your pussy. He licked and sucked until you were yanking on his hair and riding his face, and then you came with your back arched, whining his name so loudly, he thought your neighbors could probably hear. 

"Bobby!" you gasped before collapsing back on your pillow. And just when he thought things couldn't possibly get any better, you took his hands in yours and ran them along your breasts. "Kiss me," you demanded, and so he did. You licked his lips clean while he squeezed your breasts, and soon he was tasting you there as well. 

You were alternating between pulling him up to kiss your lips and pushing him down to kiss your breasts, and really there was no bad option for Bob. He could probably do this all night if that's what you wanted. But you seemed to want more, because you rolled him onto his back and pulled his underwear off in one swift motion.

"I'm going to go ahead and guess that you don't have any condoms with you?" you asked softly, kissing his bent knee. 

He shook his head, but at least he was pretty sure he wasn't blushing any longer. "No. Sorry."

"I have some," you reassured him. "But... I don't know if they're big enough." You scooted off of the bed and walked out of the room, and Bob got a little apprehensive. He didn't know his size could potentially be an issue? He didn't even know he would be considered big. 

But when you walked in a minute later, tearing open a small box with a smile on your face, he felt better. Bob tried to roll on a condom, but it broke immediately. "It's okay," you said with a laugh, trying a second one which also broke. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered with a laugh. But you managed to get the third one on him successfully.

"I'm on the pill anyway," you told him. "You know, in case this one breaks, too."

"Alright," he whispered against your lips as you straddled him and guided your pussy down around him, inch by inch. You kissed his lips and cheeks and neck, running your fingers through his hair as you set a slow, steady pace.

But Bob was almost immediately stammering and blushing. "It feels too good," he told you, but you silenced him with your kisses and went a little harder. You felt so tight, so perfect, and you were letting him touch you everywhere. Your breasts were soft, and you were arching your back, pressing yourself into his hands. 

"You feel good too, Bobby," you promised him, grunting softly as you rode him. He let his hands slide slowly down your sides until they were on your hips, and that was a mistake. Because he could feel the motion of your body taking his. He could feel the roll of your hips against his palms.

"It's too good," he groaned, and then he was coming inside you. "Sorry," he whispered, panting against your shoulder as his pleasure washed over him. 

"Don't apologize for anything," you told him, riding him with slower movements until he was breathing like normal. 

"I just want to be better for you," he promised, and when you adjusted his glasses for him, he smiled. 

"We have all night."

Bob frowned at you. "Can we have longer than that?"

You looked down at him with parted lips. "If you still want to?"

"I thought we agreed we were going to date," he said. "Breakfast is one thing, but I thought we could do all kinds of stuff together. Hang out and maybe I could be your boyfriend after a week or two."

Without another word, you kissed him. And you didn't stop kissing him. And late night turned into early morning, and there were a few more experiments with the condoms. And a few without. 

And instead of ever making it to breakfast, Bob ended up treating you to lunch instead. He wore his wrinkled, day old uniform that you insisted looked adorable on him while he sat with his arm around you. And then he took you to see his place, which consisted of lots of snuggling and another blowjob. 

"My friends are asking if I'm going to the bar again tonight," he told you, running his fingers along your arm as you rested your head on his shoulder. 

"Do you want to go?" you asked, pressing your lips to his neck.

"Only if you come with me."

And when Bob strolled into the Hard Deck again on Saturday night with your arms wrapped around his waist and your voice in his ear, he just smiled at the looks he was getting. It didn't matter if he thought he was as handsome as Hangman or as strong as Payback, because you kept assuring him that you thought he was. 

You spent another evening touching and kissing him, perched on his leg and laughing. And he made plans with you for the following day and the following weekend and the one after that. He wouldn't be surprised if he was making plans with you every day for the rest of his life. And he would let you name the golden retriever. 

----------------

I wonder what the dog's name will be. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls and @mak-32

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[geminiwritten]

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

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

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

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

He lives for it. 

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

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Bob is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

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

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

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

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

He blinks fast. “No.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

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

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

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

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

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

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

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

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

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

Well... almost everyone. 

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

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters. 

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

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

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

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

You swear your knees nearly give. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

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

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

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

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

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

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

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

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

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

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

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

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

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

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all look at you, confused. 

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

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

You frown. “What?” 

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone falls silent. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Bob - 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

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

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He barely sleeps that night. 

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

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

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

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

An hour passes. Nothing. 

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

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

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

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

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

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

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

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

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- You - 

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

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

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

“You heard me.” 

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

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

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

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

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trevor…” 

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

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

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

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

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

But deep down, you know the truth. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vex—” he tries again. 

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

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

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not going to make it. 

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

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

Then—freefall. 

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

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

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

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

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

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

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

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

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

Even if it kills you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brow creases. “You do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughs again, broken this time. 

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

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

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

“Love?” you whisper. 

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

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

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

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

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

He blinks. “What?” 

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

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

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

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

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

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

You nod. “Hangman.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END.

[callsignrandom]

Sunshine & Whiskey // Bob Floyd x F!Reader

Summary: 5.2k (21+) -- Bob is an idiot, but he's your idiot. Let the miscommunication and smutty FWB shenanigans ensue! Warnings: Serious smut, secret FWB, alcohol consumption, protected PnV, miscommunication, and Bob has a big dick (not a warning, but a promise). A/N: Two Bob fics in one week? I've been very inspired! ----------------------------------------------------------

Robert Floyd was an idiot. He was also so fucked.

From his spot in the Hard Deck, he watched you laugh with your teammates and flit about with a sweet little sundress on that Bob desperately wanted to get his hands under. His grip on his drink tightened as Hangman slipped behind you, toothpick swirling in that loud mouth of his, to “show you some moves.”

“Thanks, Texas, but your moves just aren’t doing it for me.” You’d teased, twirling right out of his grip. Bob smiled into his drink. Seresin laughed like you hadn’t just turned him down in front of the entire team.

You might not be his, but you certainly weren’t Jake’s. That was a fact Bob knew as well as he knew his own name.

Bob’s eyes were glued to your legs whenever he knew no one was watching him, which was pretty often. He had the uncanny ability to hide in a crowd, something he was thankful for tonight. Because your toned legs? They looked like sin.

Usually, your legs were hidden with a uniform or the basketball shorts he’d seen you wear when you did PT together. Baggy shirts and sports bras usually hid your figure, but tonight? Oh, you were playing dirty.

Your eyes flickered up from the bar where you’d been ordering another drink and met his, and he watched that flash of mischief cross your features.

So, yes, Bob was fucked and he knew it. You knew it too.

You’d been playing this cat and mouse game since Lemoore and the secret of it all was the most exciting. Because you? You were a little better at communicating with people, a little more out there with the team because you wanted their respect. Whereas Bob got their respect in other ways. And he’d gotten yours one night at a bar when you’d been out with some of your old coworkers. He’d complemented a particular call of yours that he thought was brilliant and you’d turned to him, whiskey in hand, and thanked him.

You had noticed him before, obviously. But there was a quiet confidence about him that really drew you in. There was more under the surface and you were determined to figure it out. So you’d invited him back to your place, slammed him against the wall of your studio apartment, and promptly had your way with him. Bob still jacked off to that night and the thought of it again was causing a problem the longer he focused on those memories and the way you looked tonight.

Almost as if you knew what he was thinking, you maintained eye contact at the bar as you drew one finger up and down the side of your glass, condensation dripping from your fingertips. And suddenly, Bob had way more than a little problem. He spread his legs wider on his stool to compensate and sent a quick glare your way, your laugh sounding in response.

No one else had noticed, and that was how he liked it. Because the both of you? There was no label. If either of you felt like it, you spent the night together. There was no domestic bliss, no strings, no morning regrets. You were both free to do as you pleased, but Bob couldn’t help but like that you’d been spending more time in his bed lately than ever before. He hadn’t really had the time to focus on it, but it was nice.

“Fellas, Bagman,” you greeted when you walked back over to the crew who were still hogging the pool tables, “I’m gonna call it a night. Phoenix, you’re in charge.”

“Hey, c’mon,” Jake smirked, stepping closer to you, and Bob decided he really wanted to snap that toothpick before it offended him further, “we all know Trace can’t keep these losers in line.”

“She’s in charge, Seresin, especially since she’s the only sober one left.”

“Baby-on-Board’s always sober and we don’t put him in charge.” Jake flashed a sideways glance at Bob to find Phoenix’s backseater giving him the most unimpressed look he could muster.

“Bob’s driving me home.” you said sweetly, patting Jake’s chest with such a look of false pity that it almost made Bob burst out laughing. Mickey did, and quickly hid his laughter into his beer. That was two for you, and none for Bagman.

“You’re letting Floyd take you home?” Jake quirked an eyebrow and you just knew he was making an innuendo. Bob watched your eyes roll.

“He’s my neighbor, you idiot. And he drove me here?” you sighed and downed the rest of your drink, leaving Hangman and Bob to watch the tepid water on the outside of your drink slide down your chin and onto your chest.

Bob quickly looked away, knowing the attention was turned a little too close to him and his reactions right now. Besides, he knew how to hide his feelings about you. He’d been doing it for a year and half and figured he’d probably be doing it for the rest of his life if he couldn’t figure out how to make your little situationship a bit more permanent.

“Ready?” he asked quietly, keys at the ready along with your flight jacket which you’d left beside him when you came in. Your smile was bright as you took it from him and waggled your fingers back at Hangman. It felt like a threat and the cocky man scoffed at your retreating form.

Bob didn’t say another word and neither did you until you got into his truck. He’d never been more thankful for a bench seat than when you started your little rendezvouses and you were next to him each time.

“God, Jake was insufferable tonight. Kept staring at my ass and trying to touch me,” you frowned, turning on the radio and settling on some station. It was just background noise.

“He wasn’t the only one.” Bob said, turning out of the Hard Deck and back towards your shared apartment building.

“No? See something you liked, Floyd?” Your grin was lethal as you slid all the way over to him on the seat and settled a hand on his thigh. It was far too close to where he really wanted it and he looked at the space between when he hit a red light.

“You’re playing with fire.” Bob muttered, jaw tightening. Because you always did this. You riled him up and let him get all hot and bothered, like you enjoyed when he lost control. He never knew how to feel about it, but he knew he loved being with you.

“Drive faster.” You warned him, fingers inching dangerously close to the bulge straining beneath his jeans.

He made the normally twenty minute drive in about fifteen, breaking at least two traffic laws in the meantime. You’d just smiled, smug like a cat, as you kept your hand on his thigh and drew circles on the denim. A fucking tease, Bob thought, teeth gritted.

And as he shifted into park and turned off the vehicle, he didn’t have to wait before you were kissing his jaw and spreading your whole palm over the crux of his jeans.

“Inside, now.” he snapped, his control hanging on by just a thread. There was that flash in your eyes again as you both climbed out of the truck and headed inside.

“Yours or mine?” you murmured, pressed against him in the empty elevator. You both lived on the third floor, right across the hall from each other, so it wasn’t like you’d travel far either way.

“Mine.” he bit out, key already at the ready. Your giggle nearly set every last ounce of his self control on fire.

He didn’t even get a chance to lock it behind you both before you were tearing into his button up, unbuttoning each one as fast you could.

“Off,” you gasped, trying to pull it away from his arms.

“Stop.” Bob trapped your hands and stopped your frantic movements. “I don’t want it fast tonight. Wanna take my time.”

Your eyes darkened and you resigned yourself with leaning against the wall, that fucking dress on full display. Bob’s eyes raked across the sight and let go of your hands.

“What’s gotten into you, Floyd?” Your smile was soft all of a sudden, comfortable, and he wanted to kiss it off. He needed to make you moan, hear those noises escape your lips like he needed air.

“You wore this for me.” Bob smiled as he dragged his fingers over the soft material of the skirt.

“Maybe,” you quipped, trying to drag him closer but failing. He stood just a step apart from you, but he was unmoving. “Robert, c’mere.”

Bob shook his head, staying exactly where he wanted. With you. Squirming and right where he wanted you.

“You teased me all night. Messing around with Hangman, flirting with the others, dancing around in this fucking dress. Made me want to take you outside and press you up against a wall at the bar.”

“Penny wouldn’t have liked that.”

“We’re not talking about Penny right now.” Bob groaned, finally giving in and leaning in to kiss you. The kiss was hot and messy and your tongue slid against his like a promise, tasting of whiskey and something else he couldn’t place. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

“Do your worst, Floyd.” You whispered into the dim light of his living room lamp, the one he always left on. It illuminated you both just enough and that soft smile came back. Bob couldn’t have that.

The dress was held up by a zipper on the side, not on the back, and Bob had realized that about fifteen seconds after he saw you at the bar. Because you’d Ubered in just so he wouldn’t see your dress until you were walking into the bar. And Bob had spent the next three hours figuring out exactly how he wanted to take it off you.

He undid the zipper in silence, watching intently as the fabric gave him enough space to then unhook the little eye at the top. The strap on that side was now draping just low enough that he could see the truth. You weren’t wearing a bra. The groan that escaped his lips was painful, and he didn’t waste any more time pulling it down to expose your chest to his wandering gaze. A quick kiss pressed between your breasts was all you got.

And then he dropped to his knees. Bob Floyd on the floor in front of you. Your breath caught, your eyes staring deep into his as he knelt before you and reached between your legs to pull off the skimpy bit of underwear you’d worn just for him, though you’d deny it if he asked. He removed it in ten seconds flat, chucking it over his shoulder. You’d have laughed if the sight wasn’t so hot. But Bob wasn’t done.

His hands, the ones you were so obsessed with. Not huge, but large enough to encompass parts of your body you didn’t even know existed. Those hands were on your hips and between your legs and then he was using his mouth. His tongue.

He was right there, beneath your dress where you couldn’t see him anymore, kissing and licking and his nose was pressed right where it needed to be. The pleasure was immediate, Bob knowing exactly what to do with your body, and he played it like an instrument. His movements were fine-tuned.

“Floyd. Robert,” you moaned, writhing above him. With one hand, he was pressing inside you, making sure you were ready for the main event he was mentally planning in his bedroom, and with the other he was holding your hips in place. He was strong, you remembered in your haze. And just when your moans reached their highest pitch, right before you fell off the cliff, he stopped. He pressed a kiss to your clit and stood up abruptly, glasses fogged.

“What—“

He cut you off with a wet kiss and promptly dragged you onto his bed. Your head was still reeling with the ruined orgasm when you landed on the plush surface. He abandoned his glasses on his bedside table and caged you in.

“Told you,” Bob grinned between kisses, “you’ve been teasing me all night. I wanted to take my time.”

You groaned as he kissed down your face, your neck and that spot that made you keen, and down your chest. He attached his lips to your right nipple, tweaking the other with his fingers and eliciting yet another deep moan.

“I don’t care,” you whined, “just want you.”

“Patience.” he chuckled and let you go.

Your eyes raked over his body and you shuddered. Bob looked dangerous like this. No glasses, gelled hair all messed up. His button up still hung from his shoulders and he still had his jeans on. The effect was sinful.

“Fuck it,” you snapped, launching yourself at him and knocking him over. You succeeded in straddling him and Bob settled in for the ride with a smile like he knew he wouldn’t let you do this for long. “Take these off.”

Your hands shoved the rest of his shirt off and your fingers flew to the buckle of his belt while you pressed kiss after kiss to his toned abs.

Finally, you got the buckle loose and unzipped his pants, gaining a hiss from the man beneath you when you brushed your fingers over the part of him you wanted most right now. And Bob Floyd was not tiny.

“Off off off.” you muttered, yanking the fabric down towards his knees. Bob helped, shoving his jeans and boxers off while you ripped your dress off your body. Both bare, you straddled him again and let yourself slide over his huge dick. He handed you a condom and you wordlessly stretched it over him.

You remembered the first time you’d seen his dick and how you’d fallen in love with the stretch. No man had compared since, which was something you didn’t want to think about right now when you had him under you.

“Not gonna let me take my time with you, are you?” he laughed, leaning in to kiss you again.

“Absolutely not.” you declared, reaching down to position him where you wanted. The head brushed your clit and finally slid between your folds. 

Then, he slid home. The first slide was always the most devastating as he filled every inch of you so deliciously. Your moans bounced off of each other as you pulled yourself up and down on top of him. Sure, every position was fun with Bob, but this one? It was a personal favorite. It never lasted long before he’d flip you and fuck you harder.

You decided to make it last by alternating thrusts and grinding, making him emit a string of curses you didn’t even know he knew.

“Y’know, I love that you wear your t-shirts all the time.” you gasped after a particularly deep and heavenly spot was touched on inside you. “Means I can leave as many marks as I want on you and no one but me will see it.”

To make your point, you leaned down and dragged your teeth over one of his nipples. Bob shuddered. Then you attached your lips just above his pectoral, sucking a mark just above his heart. That sealed the deal.

Bob’s eyes glittered as he flipped you over and pulled out, slamming back into you and sucking the breath from your lungs. Taking his time was forgotten as he rearranged your insides and smiled while he was doing it. Robert Floyd was dangerous and he took you apart so thoroughly that he ripped your orgasm out of you before you even sensed it coming.

“Oh, God,” you moaned, clutching onto his shoulders as he continued his punishing pace.

“I’m close.” he whined, reaching a hand between you to brush against your clit. You were still sensitive, but he launched you into yet another orgasm as he shuddered inside you and painted the inside of his condom, his moans settling deep into your skin. When he peeled himself off of you, you whined at the loss of contact until he smiled dopily at you and kissed your forehead.

He always smiled the same way each and every time after your little trysts, but this time the sight punched a hole in your very being.

Bob was right that you’d worn that dress for him. You had. You’d been hoping he’d be watching, had even contemplated not wearing underwear at all just to be able to flash him a peek and make him lose control sooner. Each time you teased him, you hoped he’d break and decide he didn’t want this to just be a friends with benefits thing and maybe he’d want more. But he never said anything. It still stung.

“Same time next week?” he laughed, climbing out of bed to get you both a glass of water. You threw on his button up and stumbled into the bathroom to clean yourself up. But as you looked at yourself in the mirror, you grimaced. How much longer could you keep doing this?

After you’d finished, you left the bathroom to find Bob who was clad in a new pair of boxers and his glasses, sitting on the edge of his bed with a glass of water for you in hand.

He stood up and handed you the glass, pressed a kiss to your temple, and entered the bathroom himself. As you sipped the water, you listened to his movements, sounds that were so familiar to you. You heard the shower turn on and he popped his head out to ask if you’d like to join, but you shook your head.

“Mav asked me to come in early tomorrow for a simulation exercise, so I’m gonna shower at my place and crash. This was fun, though.” You smiled, giving him a once over again. God, he looked good. He always did after sex when his skin had that sweaty sheen and his lips were swollen and his hair was all mussed. You missed the disappointed flash in his eyes when you turned him down, but he helped you gather your things anyway and lent you a pair of his boxers to walk across the hall in.

And when your own door shut behind you, you wondered just how you were going to get over this man when you never really had him in the first place.

----------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, you were determined not to make it weird. You’d caught feelings, but you knew Bob hadn’t and that had to be okay. So you’d do your job and let him do his. You’d turn down the flirting a bit and see how things went if you didn’t take Bob home for the next week. Or maybe a month. You weren’t sure how long you’d last without giving in.

And Bob? He was none the wiser. Back to his controlled state, he worked alongside Phoenix and made training plans with Maverick silently, just like normal. He didn’t notice anything might be wrong until you didn’t flash him your usual smile when saying goodnight for the day.

That caused him to pause, but he knew you were probably tired so he brushed it off.

“Still up for movie night later?” he asked, hoping you’d say yes. “I’m ordering pizza.”

“Sorry, buddy, but I think I’m gonna go to bed early. Mav wore me out today.” you shrugged, climbing into your own car and leaving the lot before he could try to reschedule. As he stared at the spot where your car had been, he frowned. 

You had never cancelled on him before, but maybe you just needed a night. Mav had run you ragged making you do a hundred pushups when you’d failed to master your training simulation. He decided not to let it bother him. But buddy? When had you ever called him that? He shook his head and climbed into his own truck.

Meanwhile, Hangman and Phoenix stared at the man from twenty yards back, coming to a conclusion both you and Bob would be mortified to know about.

“D’you think they’re fucking?” Phoenix asked, eyes bright with mischief. She’d had her suspicions, but she certainly never thought she’d share them with Bagman of all people. She wished it were Rooster.

“Oh, a hundred percent. Why do you think I fuck with them all the time? Haven’t you noticed they sneak off sometimes? Eight out of ten times, she drives with him. And, oh my god, he’s always staring.” Jake drawled, getting his own suspicions off his chest. While he liked to have a good time, he was very aware of when people weren’t on the market and you both were off the market. “Also, that little dress situation last week at the bar? Dude left with a boner and he kept smiling when I was flirting with her, like he knew she wouldn’t be going home with anyone but him.”

“Holy shit.” Phoenix swore. “Do you think they’re just fucking or are we all idiots and they’ve been together this whole time?”

“Bob’s a fucking idiot, so I think it’s just friends with benefits. He’ll never man up to that. Y’know, we could—“

“Get a fucking grip, Bagman.” Natasha cut him off with a fake gag thrown in for good measure. “Some of us have higher standards than you.”

“Whatever.”

It had been a week, and you’d somehow managed not to let Bob in your bed. A very difficult week. And not for lack of him trying, either. He was teasing you just like you’d teased him, hoping you’d break.

He showed up for PT in a tighter shirt than normal, a white Navy shirt that was just threadbare enough that you could see the mark you’d left on his chest right between the V and the Y. When he caught you staring, he had the audacity to wink. You walked away, guzzling your water.

At the Hard Deck, on karaoke night, he brushed a hand down your spine during one of Rooster’s songs that caused shivers to run down your whole body and almost drenched your khakis. He barely touched you and you reacted like that, and it made you leave early. You didn’t let him come with you, claiming a headache from the noise.

He texted you, and you didn’t want to make it weird, so you kept texting back. But absence was making this a whole lot harder instead of easier.

“So, how long have you been in love with my backseater,” Phoenix asked during your run the next morning. You pulled up short.

“Excuse me?”

She shot you with a knowing glance when she circled back to you, not expecting your abrupt stop. “Y’know, Hangman was the one to figure it out. I just started watching and the signs are all there.”

“Hangman thinks I’m in love with Bob, so you listened to him? C’mon, Phoenix. The dude’s demented.”

“No, he brings up some excellent points. Bob’s always staring at you and you’re together more often than you’re apart. It makes sense. And that’s not even mentioning that dress situation two weeks ago.”

“What about my dress,” you deadpanned.

“You left with Bob and he had a boner the size of Mount Everest. So either you’re fucking or you’re in love with each other and we’ve all missed it.” She finished with a smirk.

Your eyes widened.

“Oh my god, do you think he knows?”

And there it was, your almost confession. Natasha’s eyes softened.

“Knows what, babe?” She asked, sitting down on a bench in the park and patting the space next to her.

“I’ve never told anyone. But Bob . . . we’ve been hooking up for about two years.” you sighed, head in your hands. “At first, it was just fun. Everyone expected me to end up in the bed of these fucking hotshot pilots and I ended up in his. It was like an ego boost. I had a secret and so did he and we were just having a good time.”

“But then you fell for him.” Natasha finished.

You nodded miserably.

“I did. He doesn’t know. Or at least, I don’t think he does. I mean, who am I to try and break two years of some of the best sex I’ve ever had—friends with benefits basically—to tell him I’m in love with him? He’s always so careful and purposeful that I figured, if he really wanted me as more then he would say something, right?”

“Well,” Phoenix started, “I haven’t known him as long as you have, but I think we’ve all noticed that he doesn’t look at anyone else but you. When you turned him down for your weekly movie night last week and just left? He stared at your parking space for like five minutes while Hangman and I speculated. That doesn’t look like friendship to me.”

“I just can’t keep doing this. I want him so much, but I’m—“

“Afraid of getting hurt? Listen, in our line of work, I don’t think I need to tell you that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. You should tell him.” Natasha nudged your shoulder with a smile, “Just don’t tell anyone else for another week at least. I kinda made a bet with Bagman.”

“You’re the worst,” you laughed. But in your head, her words made sense. You needed to talk to Bob.

You sent the text before you could overthink it. “Still on for movie night at my place tonight? I’m making spaghetti. Garlic knots or bread?”

“Absolutely!” he texted back immediately with a second one coming right after, “garlic knots pls.”

The first part of your plan was now done, but now you had to ply your man with food and talk to him instead of him ending up in your bed or on the couch where your movie nights always ended up with him inside you. You never thought you’d be telling yourself that sex needed to be on the backburner.

The night started with him showing up freshly showered with a bottle of wine. That was normal. He wore an old Star Wars t-shirt and these grey sweatpants you usually couldn’t get him out of fast enough. Judging by his smug expression when you poured the wine, you knew he was thinking that too. You didn’t give in to his blatant teasing.

He picked some action movie to watch while you plated up the spaghetti and garlic knots, and you took them over to the couch where he was sprawled like he owned the place, bare feet on your coffee table.

“Heathen,” you sniffed like you did every week, and he grinned up at you. He took his feet off the table, but you knew they’d be right back up there as soon as the movie started.

“Food smells amazing, thank you. It’s been awhile since you cooked for me.” Bob’s smile was easy as he took his plate from you and placed it on his lap.

You shrugged, “I wanted real food.”

And despite your uneasiness about finally confessing your feelings tonight—if you got the chance—the night passed normally and comfortably. You both ate your food and stacked your plates on the coffee table, you ended up comfortably tucked into his side, and his quips about the inaccuracies in the film just endeared you both further.

“You’re thinking loudly.” Bob murmured during the film credits, dragging the back of a finger down your cheek. You turned in his arms to face him and your gaze slipped to his mouth. Big mistake.

He surged forward to kiss you, but you stopped him, hands splayed on his chest. He stopped, curious.

“We need to talk.” You stated, and you both winced at the way it sounded.

“Okay.” Bob let you go and turned to face you, knee bent and body leaned against the back of your couch. He looked like he belonged there all the time, and your heart did a painful little squeeze knowing he might not ever again if this didn’t go the way you wanted it to. “Hey, whatever it is, you can talk to me about it. Did I go too hard two weeks ago? Is that what this is about?”

“No, no two weeks ago was perfect.” You muttered, heat rising to your cheeks as you tried to find your words. “I’m just gonna say it.”

Bob looked at you expectantly, quietly, waiting for you. God, he was perfect. You hoped you didn’t ruin him.

“I’m in love with you.” The words left his mouth, not yours.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“It’s true. Took you not really being around for the last two weeks for me to figure it out, but I needed to say it before you ended whatever it is we’ve been doing for the past two years.” He said calmly, like he hadn’t just flipped your world upside down.

“I wasn’t going to end it.” Your smile was watery, “I was going to tell you that I love you.”

“Oh.” Bob said, the words not registering, “oh!”

“We’re such idiots,” you laughed. “Wasting all this time instead of just talking and—”

“Fucking more often?” Bob grinned. You slapped his chest, right over the mark you’d last left on him. He had the audacity to look wounded. “What? I’m just saying that, as my girlfriend, you have a few more perks than I’ve been allowing.”

“Allowing, hmm?” You smiled, and finally leaned in for that kiss he’d been angling for all night. He hummed into it. “You get so crude when we’re alone. Hangman’s really wearing off on you.”

“Don’t bring him up right now.” he groaned, head falling back on the couch cushions behind you. “If he touches you again, I now have the right to pummel him.”

“Well, babes, he figured us out before we did so . . .”

“Don’t you dare tell me Hangman is responsible for this sudden confession.”

“He’s not, but Phoenix is. And we can’t tell anyone about this for at least another week so Phoenix can win the bet they made. I’m sorry!” Bob leveled you with such an unimpressed look that you started pressing tiny little kisses all over his face just to make up for it. You could feel his smile under your ministrations.

“Fine, but I get to kiss you in the Hard Deck the next time he runs his mouth around you.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Your smile was brilliant as you nuzzled your face into his chest, both of you shifting positions so you practically laid on top of him on your oversized couch. Bob’s hands wandered towards your backside.

“Do I get to smack your butt during—”

“Don’t push your luck, Floyd.”

[laufeydottirs-writings]

“Eyes on me, soldier.”

pairing: Steve Rogers x Female S.H.I.E.L.D. Receptionist

warnings: | MDNI 18+ | small!dom big!sub, sizekink, mentions of reader character being self-conscious and having freckles lol, she/you are wearing a dress and makeup at the beginning of this one. striptease?, instructional sex, one bed trope, virgin!Steve tee hee, Steve begging you~, soft!dom reader, awkward sex a little bit, fluffy aftercare!!

word count: 14.9k (sorry i'm a chronic yearning yapper)

summary: Steve Rogers wasted no time asking you out on a second date, and when he found out Coney Island was still around you decide to make a day trip out of it- but you end up out too late and need to get a hotel for the night.

a/n: TECHNICALLY part 2 to “Still With Me, Soldier?” But you can read it independently~ PLEASE NOTE: Reader "character" is a petite girl, I left out all descriptors for her body other than that & her nose freckles (I'm a sucker for nose freckles i'm so sorry) because it's important to their relationship dynamic. I hope it's not too distracting!! I had to edit this one A LOT because half of it was my OC (now the reader character) showing off all her tattoos lmfao Stevie was written by Flora🌸🧡 , reader is written by Verdi🌻💜 based off my oc Jensen! editing & formatting also done by Verdi🌻💜

It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to ask you out on a second date, and you were ecstatic about it. But you tried to play it cool. It was spring, still a little cool outside, and you assumed it'd be even colder by the pier- so you picked your favourite wine red cardigan to wear over the short black sundress you were wearing. The cardigan that matched your Converse, of course. You didn't really like wearing dresses, you thought they were too frilly and not restrictive enough- but you wanted to...look cute. For Steve. You were hopeless.

At 9:58, you heard him knock on the door and happily buzzed over to answer it. He'd actually arrived early at 9:42 am, but he knew that was definitely way too early. He didn't want to rush you, so he waited outside on his bike until a more appropriate time to come collect you.

"Hi." He said, cheeks flushing as his eyes scanned you up and down. He felt shy seeing you in a dress. It was cute.

"Hi." You giggled, looking up towards his face.

Over your shoulder, he could see the flowers he'd brought you on your first date in a vase; it made his heart flutter to know you'd kept them and, at least, attempted to keep them alive. He smiled a little, mostly to himself, before your voice caught his attention again.

"Thanks for being on time." You teased, holding out your arm for him to take. When he'd mentioned wanting to ask you out again the other night, you (playfully) threatened him not to be late, so you were glad he (seemingly) took you seriously.

"I was going to take my time getting here, but I've heard you can be impatient," He joked back, happily taking your arm in his. Your cheeks flushed as you rolled your eyes, pulling his arm to your chest as you held onto him tightly. You let Steve plan the date, and when he found out Coney Island was still open, he immediately decided that's where you guys would go. It wasn't too far of a ride on the bike. Once you got down to it, he handed you a helmet and helped you get on the motorcycle. You didn't really need the help, but you liked how he liked to dote on you.

Your arms couldn't fit all the way around his torso, which made you a little nervous- but the spot between his shoulder blades felt like it was made for you to rest your head, which made you feel a lot more comfortable. Steve drove carefully, with intention, not even daring to go 1mph over the speed limit. He kept his distance from other cars, driving especially carefully with you on his bike. He was always a careful driver, but he was definitely a little more aware since he had a special gal with him. His heart was fluttering the whole time, feeling your small, warm body pressed against his back. He thought that your head resting on his back like that felt great. Perfect, even. He was becoming obsessed with the way your body felt against his.

"Ta-da!" Steve said when you arrived, pulling his helmet off his head and holding his hand out to help you off the bike. Taking his hand, you hopped off the side of the bike before stretching your arms up high. Steve smiled happily when you took his hand again, holding it in his like it was his prized possession. It may as well have been. You checked the time on your phone, 2:30. Wow. He really didn't speed- not like you did on your bike. “That might’ve been the longest four hours of my life, Stevie. I almost fell asleep.” You teased, looking up to his eyes with a smile as you slid your helmet off. "What? You didn't enjoy all the scenery?" Steve joked, looking at the park in the distance, fond memories coming to mind. He was certain Bucky was cheering him on from above.

You noticed Steve was holding his hands out towards you again, waiting to take it from you. You blushed just a little. You were obsessed with just…how nice he was. Once the helmet wasn’t in your way anymore, you took a proper look around, before looking back to Steve with your smile unwavering. “It’s cute here.” You declared, eager to do whatever Steve wanted to show you. This was his turf- and you were so excited to see it all. He took your hand in his again, starting to lead you towards the entrance.

It had been ages since he'd been here last. Did he still fit in the seats? He would be devastated if the serum beefed him up too much that he couldn't fit on a Ferris wheel.

"Buck used to take his dates here all the time. He would buy them little candies from the shops. And they would ignore me." Steve let out a little laugh as he rubbed circles into your palm. If he had known that all those girls snubbing him back then would lead to him being with you, he wouldn't have let it bother him so much.

“Are you gonna buy me little candies?” You teased, following him closely with a grin as you kept a tight hold on his hand. “Unless you don’t want me to ignore you, I guess.” You both laughed at that. You teased him, but he didn't mind it. He actually...liked it. Only from you, though...

Much to his delight, Steve did still fit on almost all of the rides. He ended up being more worried about you fitting on the rides due to your petite, short figure. He kept telling you to hold on extra tight on every single ride.  You'd never imagined that you'd be able to have fun in a place like this, but you kind of thought that anything could be fun with Steve. Ew. You were getting sappy. Yuck.

He did end up buying you the little candies, among some other things: a tacky Coney Island keychain, a stuffed bunny wearing a Coney Island t-shirt, and the matching Coney Island t-shirt that the bunny wore. You said he didn't have to, but he didn't mind. He'd buy you the world if he could. His favorite part was the Ferris wheel, as it always had been, and he kissed you at the top of it. When you started to leave the park, his heart and head were both buzzing with joy. You couldn't think of a single moment of the day when your cheeks hadn't been super flushed. Steve prides himself on being a gentleman, and he didn’t let you forget it all day. However, you couldn’t help but to notice how much he’d been doting on you all day. You were convinced that if it were anyone else doing it, you'd be mad. But it was Steve, so you were fine with it.

Uh oh. He didn't realize how late it had gotten. It was dark out, and it was certainly not suitable for him to take a gal all the way back home on his bike. Way too dangerous. People don't drive well in the dark. Maybe you'd been enjoying yourselves a little too much. You followed him back to his bike, your hand still tightly in his as you walked. “Was it everything you remembered, Stevie?”

"No..." Steve began, turning to face you. "It was even better." Cheesey, but still sweet. He had a little smile, but it seemed distracted. "Do you...have a randomly scheduled day off tomorrow?" He asked. He knew that your job was a regular 9-5 Monday-Friday, but he also knew you called out sick today to come on this date with him.

“Oh, any day you want me can be a randomly scheduled off day.” You grinned, setting your new plushie onto the seat of the bike so that you could grab both his hands in yours instead. "I'll let Fury know you said that," Steve joked as he happily let you take his hands. He was just joking, really; he would never compromise your job like that, and honestly, Fury probably wouldn't care if his front desk worker called off a few times. “Oh, please do. He already doesn’t like me.” You laughed.

"He doesn't like anyone," Steve joked, though it was kinda true. Fury was picky about people he liked; Steve wasn't even sure he even liked him, despite saving the world a few times. That's besides the point, though.

You pulled him closer, bringing both his hands up to your mouth so you could kiss his knuckles. As you went to speak, your voice lowered to a whisper. “Why? You want me all to yourself tomorrow too~? You’re getting greedy, Steven~” you laughed a bit. His face went red as you pressed kisses to his knuckles. His hands were practically the size of your face. It made him think of other things that looked big next to your face...

"Um," He cleared his throat, trying to focus on you again and not the indecent thoughts he kept trying to shove away. "It's late and...it's not safe to drive you home in the dark like this. We can find a place to stay nearby." You watched him as he fidgeted, getting shy as he thought about something he wouldn’t share with you. You smiled, biting at your bottom lip a little as you did. But then...your thoughts wandered. An overnight stay? Your cheeks flushed. He must be testing you. There’d be so much more room than in the car for…activities…with an entire hotel room to yourselves. The thought flustered you a little. Now wasn't the time for those thoughts.

“Yea…that’s fine, Steve.” Your cheeks stayed pink as you kept your eyes on him. “I can pay…” You offered shyly. “You’ve already paid for everything else today…”

He was starting to find himself feeling a bit greedy and wanting you all to himself. He wanted to spend as much time with you as possible. Could you get home safely tonight? More than likely. But why risk it when he could spend more time with this really cool gal who seemed as interested in him as he was in her? He noticed your flushed face, and it made his the same. If he was being honest, he was also a bit...nervous, about the idea of having an overnight stay with you like this. It would be so personal, so...intimate. Should he book a room with separate beds...?

"No, don't worry about it, sweetheart. SHIELD overpays me," He flushed a little; the endearment had just slipped out so naturally. He hoped she wouldn't mind it. Steve didn't want you to have to worry about spending your money on him. He'd seen your apartment, not that it was bad, but he definitely had more money than you did, and he really didn't mind.

You laughed. “If you insist, I’ll just pay for coffee in the morning.” You got on your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so you could kiss his cheek. Steve's face was flushed as he let you pull him down for a sweet kiss on the cheek. Dang, he was really whipped for you. He wondered if you liked him as much as he liked you.

Pulling away and taking your phone back out, you found a nearby hotel and, with Steve’s approval, booked it. When you got on the bike, you made sure the bunny was placed securely between your bodies as you held onto him. If you lost it on the ride, you might kill yourself. Ok, not really, but still. You liked it too much to lose it so quickly.

The hotel you'd booked wasn't too far, so the drive was short, sweet, and safe. Did it take Steve 5 extra minutes or so to get there? Yes, but that's only because he was driving extra extra careful this time. After all, it was so dark. You held onto his hand tightly as you wandered up to the room. Steve wasn't sure what to expect when they got to the room; he wasn't really paying attention to what you picked, but his face lit up red when he saw there was only one bed in the room. Not that he really minded.

Once they got in, you noticed the flush of his cheeks immediately. “Oh…is this okay…Stevie?” You asked, loosening your grip on his hand as you looked up to him, backing away from him a bit as you walked closer to the one bed in the room. You were a little worried he didn’t like it, judging from his reaction. “Y-yeah! It’s fine!” Oh boy. He was really going to have to calm himself down. His mind kept drifting back to what you'd done in the car, and there was so much more room in here… No. You were a lady, and it was only your second date. He could swear he was never this dirty-minded before...

Walking over to the bed, you set the bunny down against the pillows as you took a seat on the edge. You weren’t planning on staying the night, so you didn’t have any sleepwear with you. Maybe you could convince Steve to give you his shirt again. “Bunny seems to like the bed,” Steve said, a smile returning to his face as he watched you set the plushie down on the bed. It made his heart flutter — he was so glad that you liked it. “I can call the front desk, ask for more pillows and blankets to make myself a little spot on the floor…” Steve wanted to share the bed, but it wasn’t great second date etiquette. Not that your first date had been…conventional, but still. He wanted to be a gentleman, and he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

“On the floor?!” You laughed, getting back up immediately and running back over to him. “Don’t be stupid, Steve. I made sure the bed would fit you and all your muscles when I booked it.” You grabbed his arm, holding it tightly to your chest as you pulled him over to the bed. Once you reached it, you turned him around and pushed him onto the edge where you'd been sitting. “See?” You asked with a little giggle, still standing before him. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

Steve did feel a bit relieved when you denied him sleeping on the floor. He had slept on enough floors for a lifetime, plus...he really wouldn't mind spending the night curled up next to your tiny warm body. He had wanted to from the moment you walked in, really, he just didn't want to get ahead of himself or make you uncomfortable. "Heh," Steve chuckled, feeling a little shy, but still really happy. With a smile, you grabbed his hand again, holding it with both of your hands. His hands were so big, you were obsessed with them. Well, really, you were obsessed with him. You gave him another kiss on his knuckles before letting go. "I suppose we'll both fit in the bed." He smiled towards you, his face flushing a deep red as you pressed kisses to his knuckles again.

You were at his eye level as he sat on the edge of the bed, which made you a little more flustered. Obviously, you knew he was way taller and bigger than you, but damn.

“Now, Stevie.” You looked into his eyes. “I didn’t bring anything to wear, and I’m not sleeping in my dress. Do you want to give me your shirt or…do you want me to sleep naked?” You ended her words with a sly smirk, sliding the cardigan off your arms and tossing it onto the table where the TV was as you waited for his answer. God. Teasing him was so easy. It was becoming your new favourite hobby.

"What am I supposed to sleep in, then? Your dress?" Steve joked with a small smirk, but he was already moving to shrug his jacket off and pull off his shirt. He'd do anything for you. “You’re a guy! You can sleep shirtless….I certainly wouldn’t mind it.” Maybe you were a little too honest sometimes. Oh well.

The flush on his face was definitely apparent now, if it hadn't been before, when you mentioned how you wouldn't mind seeing him shirtless... Gosh. It nearly gave him a little ego boost, knowing you liked his body so much. He'd never really cared for it - he still felt tiny half the time - but if you liked it...maybe he shouldn't be too hard on himself.

"As I can recall...you still haven't returned my last shirt," Steve blushed again at the memory, teasing a little bit. “Oh…you’re not getting that shirt back.” You laughed, grabbing his shirt out of his hands as soon as he took it off. “You probably won’t get this one back either~” Before he could stop you, you ran over to the bathroom and shut the door.

"Thief!" Steve laughed, calling out after you as you shut the bathroom door. He stayed sat on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped in his lap, patiently waiting for her to come out of the restroom.

Normally, you certainly wouldn’t mind stripping in front of people you liked, but you figured you should attempt to be respectful. You already pushed it on your first date. And you were already kinda pushing it now. After a few moments, your voice rang out from the bathroom behind the closed door. “Okay, I can’t stand crunchy eyelashes, so I took my makeup off. Don’t stare too hard, okay? I’m self-conscious..!” You really did take a while debating whether or not you should- but with the amount of eyeliner you wore, you'd look like a raccoon in the morning. So you figured it’d look less crazy if you just took it all off. Only a little bit less, though.

He nodded as he heard your words, then realized you couldn't see him (which was embarrassing), so he called out a "Okie dokie!" as he sat and thought about you. You wouldn't look that much different without makeup, right? Not that Steve cared either way - he was certain you were stunningly beautiful with or without.

You opened the door slowly, peeking out at Steve before it fully opened, just to see if he was staring or not. You came out and tossed your dress on the other table before walking back over towards the bed, standing in front of him. Your hair was down, your makeup was off- now he could see the freckles on the bridge of your nose. The shirt was hanging off your shoulder and far past your knees. You felt more nervous for him to see you bare-faced than to see you naked, you thought.

Despite you telling him not to stare, Steve couldn't help himself when you finally walked out of the bathroom. Not only did you look [bleeping] adorable in his shirt, literally swimming in it, your face was...perfect. Your hair was falling in subtle waves around your face from how the wind had mussed it, your eyes even more bright & colourful looking without the thick lashes framing them, and his favorite part: small, tan freckles that spread from your cheeks across your nose. You were utterly adorable. "You look...um-" Steve cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. "Beautiful." He admitted, meeting your eyes.

Your cheeks flushed instantly. Steve was so kind, so gentle. Never in a million years the type of guy you thought you'd go for. Maybe that just made him more likable, though. “And you’re cheesy, Rogers.” You giggled, coming closer to him and wrapping your arms around his neck loosely. Steve couldn't help but chuckle a little. He was really cheesy, but he couldn't help it. Growing up in the 40s sorta automatically made you a cheeseball. His face was already as red as it could be, but he swore it felt darker as you wrapped your small arms around him. Everything about you was so small, well, besides your personality. It made him want to eat you up.

“Uhm…” You began, your cheeks flushed as you looked away for just a moment. Your gaze returned to his as your words continued, though. “I told you if you…were good for me…” You stuttered a little bit thinking of the other night in the car. “I would let you touch me.”

"Oh...was I...g-good for you?" He stuttered out, feeling shy as he said it. Goodness. He was never like this before you, but you really brought out another side of him. And he loved it. It was like you took pride in teasing him…probably because you did. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be upset by you being forward. Although he should know better by now not to expect you not to be.

You would be a little bummed if Steve didn’t want to have sex; it would be a waste of a hotel room if you didn’t, you thought. You'd live if he told you to stop and just go to bed, though. Maybe a little pouty…but still alive.

“Do you…want to see under the shirt, Stevie?” You tilted your head, looking at his eyes with a little sly smirk on your lips.

"O-oh..." Steve's eyes widened as he realized what you'd meant. Even though you'd done those...nefarious activities in the car, and you had seen him shirtless, he hadn't actually...seen you like that yet. And...he really wanted to. He swallowed, his adam's apple visibly bobbing in his throat. If he thought about it, really, it was sort of the perfect opportunity to...well. Do stuff with you. You were alone, you had a room all to yourselves, and who knows when you'd be alone like this again without your crazy roommate around?

He nodded, his cheeks red hot as he let his eyes drift down to scan your body. The shirt looked great on you...but he thought it might look even better off. "I...do want to see," he said, his voice low and a little shy. Gosh.

Jesus Christ. He was so cute. You loved getting him all flustered. “Sorry…I know it’s not very traditional of me.” You spoke quietly, keeping your eyes on his. “I think I’m a bad influence on you.” You giggled, leaning close to kiss him softly. “Maybe that’s why we mesh so well,” Steve said with a little chuckle as you pressed your lips to his. “Traditional and untraditional. Opposites attract.”

It was strange how nervous he made you feel. Almost like you were shy. Your hands gripped at the hem of the shirt gently as you began to pull it up, exposing the lower half of your stomach and the small, lacy black panties you had on. He couldn’t help but stare as he watched you shyly pull up the bottom of the shirt — his shirt — that you were wearing. He watched you intently, studying every inch of skin that you uncovered. The sight of your underwear made him blush. He wondered if…you chose a cute pair just for him. The thought made his heart race.

Before you lifted up the top enough to expose your breasts to him, you spun around. Turns out your panties were actually a thong. Steve cleared his throat quietly as he watched you spin around, noticing how tiny your panties were. Cripes! He wasn't expecting that. He let his eyes linger on your bottom for a moment...it's not like you could see...

You finished pulling the shirt off and held it against your chest as you spun back around to face him. It was the only thing covering your torso now, and it wasn't even on. Your cheeks were flushed. You weren't really sure what made you think you could do a striptease, but at least he was easy to please, it seemed. He reached out to grab you, letting his hands run up and down your sides, just lightly. He couldn't help himself. You were so small and soft and warm that he couldn't help but want to touch you.

You giggled a little, coming closer still as you crawled into his lap, still holding the shirt against your chest. You thought you might think about that night at the drive-in more often than you didn’t at this point. And thinking about that got you excited to think about what you might do tonight in the hotel room… You were a bit of a pervert. But wouldn’t anyone be if they were sitting on Captain America’s lap while he was shirtless? Oh.

“Thanks for letting me steal another shirt.” Your cheeks flushed as you kept your eyes on his face. His eyes were on your now bare shoulders, his cheeks red. He cleared his throat again, bringing his eyes back up to yours. It was rude to stare, but he was so flustered now.

"You owe me..." Steve said, his voice low as he changed the subject. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. You were so cute, he had to. “Oh?” You raised a brow, a mischievous smirk coming to your lips. “I owe you, Rogers?” You leaned back a little bit, moving your hands down to his chest. “And…what is the payment for this debt?” You teased.

"Yeah, for stealing all my clothes. I only own two shirts, you know," a playful smirk was on his face as he spoke. That wasn't entirely true - he owned more than two - but his closet was pretty bare bones all things considered. He owned his suits, of course, and then a few pairs of casual pants and a couple of button-ups. So, you'd only stolen like...1/4 of his closet. "Hmmm..." A little smirk came across his face. He'd been pretty shy so far, but now, being with you...he started to feel a little more confident in himself. "Maybe...a kiss, or two..." He said, tilting his head to be a bit closer to yours. Gosh. You were so fun. He really liked you. He almost felt ready to be going steady with you...but he wasn't going to bring that up yet.

You laughed, louder than you'd meant to. You didn’t really mean to, but he was so cute. ‘A kiss or two.’ He was so innocent. “I think we can arrange that, Stevie.” A flush crept across his cheeks again with that nickname. He had a feeling you could call him Stevie every day for the rest of his life, and it would still make him flustered every time. He didn't mind, though.

One hand slid up from his chest to his shoulders, then up to cup his cheek. You had a soft smile on your lips as you leaned into him, kissing him gently as your eyes closed. You thought you might never tire of kissing him. He really was just too cute. If he had asked you what payment you wanted in this made-up scenario, you probably would’ve told him to let you sit on his face. You laughed into their kiss, thinking about it. He all but melted into your kiss, kissing you back passionately. Your lips were soft and warm against his, and tasted almost sweet. Did you have cotton candy at the park, or were you just like that? Steve was pretty sure you were just like that...He let out just the softest groan into the kiss, feeling a little embarrassed. He hoped you wouldn't notice, but he couldn't help it - he was entirely weak for you. His hands tightened on your hips, holding you steady against his lap.

“Mmm…” You moaned into his kiss softly, your shoulders pulling forward towards him a bit as you did. Feeling him tighten his grip made you smirk a little, and you pulled away so she could speak. “Is there…something else you want..?” You tilted your head, looking into his eyes. “Or…” you leaned back towards him, closing the gap as you spoke against his lips. “Just my kisses…?” Fuck. He was way too easy to tease. Hopefully, he didn’t think you were too much of a slut. You wouldn’t blame him if he did, after how you acted around him, though.

"Oh..." His grip tightened even more on your hips; this time, it was out of nervousness more than stability. You were so...forward. He'd never met a gal like you before. Don't get him wrong, he loved it about you, it just made him feel a little bit shy and flustered. It was the perfect time, though. Alone, all to yourselves, in this nice hotel room with a soft bed. "What else...are you offering?" Steve said, his voice low and soft against your lips. He kept kissing you, pulling back only to breathe, like his life depended on your lips being against his.

You couldn’t help but to keep giggling into his kisses. He was too sweet, and you were obsessed with everything about him. Every time you giggled, it made him feel giddy, and it caused him to let out a little chuckle too. Everything you did made his heart race - you were so cute and cool and everything he could ever want. He almost thought he might love you.

You pulled away again, putting your hand on his shoulder. “You should know by now, Stevie…that I don’t like saying no to you.” You smiled towards him, and it was almost shy this time. “Whatever you want…” Your voice lowered to a whisper. “I’m all yours.” Normally, you wouldn’t be so…submissive, but you really liked him…and if he wanted to pursue anything tonight, you could be more dominant then. It was just a little embarrassing, you thought, that you basically just admitted you were so down bad for him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind…he didn’t strike you as the type to.

His face was flushed as he stared at your face, almost level with yours, even though you were still sitting on his lap. You were just that small; even the added height wasn't enough to make you taller than him. Cripes. It was enough to drive a grown man crazy. His breath was shaky as he exhaled, his grip on you tightening again just a little bit more as he lay down on his back on the bed, pulling you on top of himself. He wasn't usually so...bold, but you had said it was okay, right? Hopefully.

"I'm...all yours." He admitted, staring up into your eyes. He could already feel himself getting excited. You gasped as you were pulled down to his chest, but then you laughed. “Steven…!” A little chuckle escaped Steve's lips as he watched your cute reaction when he pulled you down on top of him. You were so gosh darn cute, it made his heart melt.

You hadn’t anticipated him doing anything like that. You quickly recovered, though. You’d think he’d stop making it so easy for you to tease him. “Oh, baby…” You cupped his face in your hands again, letting go of the shirt as you leaned down to kiss him softly. He shivered a little, feeling your small hands cup his face.

“I already know you’re all mine.” Your voice was low as you pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. That seemed like a good hint, as any that he wanted you to keep being dominant for him, and you had no problem obliging. Your teasing words made his heart race, but honestly...it was true. He'd been all yours from the start, and it was pretty obvious. You moved your hands back down against his chest again, squirming your way up just enough so that you could comfortably lie on his chest and still have your lips reach his easily as you continued kissing him. From what he could tell, you liked where this was going, so he kept his hands on your waist, helping you shift further up onto him as he kissed you. He wasn't...entirely sure how exactly to lead the way with this, but...if you really wanted him to, he would try. He moved your hair to one shoulder, pulling his lips away from you just to kiss down your jawline. Cripes. You were so soft. He might lose control if he wasn't careful. But then he thought...you might not mind that.

“A-ah…” Another soft gasp escaped your lips as he began kissing your skin. You tilted your head to the side, giving him more room. “Stevie…” Your tone was already so teasing. “You wanna take charge this time…?”

“O-oh, I don’t…” His voice was quiet and shy, and he hid his face in your neck, pressing soft kisses to your skin. Dang. You smelled so good, and you were so soft. He might go insane for you. At the mention of letting him take charge, he got even more flustered. He barely liked initiating kisses first, let alone leading the way for anything past that. If that was what you really wanted, though…

You giggled a little, closing your eyes as you let yourself enjoy his touch. “I guess I did say I’d let you touch me next time…and I guess this is next time…” You mumbled. Your hand moved up to his neck, holding onto him firmly. You lowered her voice to a whisper again, moving your mouth a little closer to his ear as his kisses continued. “Do you know…how to touch a woman..? Or..” You bit at your lower lip as you began to squirm just a little. “..Do you need me to teach you..?”

“U-um…” Damn. You were straight teasing him - you knew full well he was a virgin, of course, he didn’t know how to touch a woman. He wanted to learn, though, for you. “I might…need your help,” Steve admitted, still pressing shy little kisses to your warm neck.

“Yea, baby…?” You bit your lip again, moving your hand up to his hair and gripping softly. God. You were already getting so wet for him, just from his kisses and your banter. “Y-yeah…” Gosh. You were amazing. He was still feeling a little bit nervous, but the way you reacted to him, the words you were saying…you really wanted him. And that boosted his confidence just a little bit.

You pulled away, reluctantly, and got off his chest. Instead, you sat on your knees beside him, then grabbed the shirt he'd let you take and tossed it onto the floor. “Let me know what you want to use, and I’ll show you how to use it.” You offered a soft flush on your cheeks as you reached your hand out for his. You really weren't strong enough to help pull him up, but you wanted to pretend to be helpful anyway.

He took your hand, pulling himself up to a sitting position next to you. Cripes. You were so small compared to him…he loved it. It made him wonder what you would look like under him, with his… No. He was getting ahead of himself. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

His eyes darted down to your now bare chest, the tips of his ears burning before he flicked his eyes back up to meet yours. The sight of your breasts alone could’ve made him climax. “Maybe my hand…” Steve said, his face red hot as he looked at you. “Or my…” His eyes darted away from yours. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say…but he knew he wanted to be inside of you. Gosh. He never used to have thoughts like this about women. What had you done to him??

“Y-yeah, my hand…” His voice trailed off, his eyes meeting yours again as he bit his lip shyly. His heart was beating so fast…you might be the death of him at this rate. With his hand still in yours, you yanked him closer so you could crash your lips into his again, and you did so with another mischievous giggle. He relaxed a little when your lips met his — how could he not? It felt like pure bliss, like the best feeling in the world. Your giggle into his mouth made him shiver.

“Mhmm…your hand?” You smiled, bringing your other hand up to hold onto him. When he looked away so shy it drove you crazy. You lifted a hand to his cheek and forced him to look to you again. “What’d I say about doing that?” Your lips had curled into a bit of a smirk as your eyes met again. “Eyes on me, soldier.”

“S-sorry,” Gosh. He was even more flustered now, the way you were forcing him to look at you. Jeez. Not that he minded, though. Steve could stare at you for days on end.

You'd decided going slow would probably be good for him. “The most important thing to know is when to be gentle, and when to…not be.” You took his hand in yours again and placed it over your heart. Baby steps. Your heart was beating kind of fast, and there was a little warmth coming from your cheeks. You seemed to be just a little shy as well. Not nearly as much as he was, though.

“H-how do I know…? When to be gentle…and when to be…not gentle?” His heart was racing, his hand trembling as he held it against your bare chest. He felt a little relief, feeling your heartbeat though — it was just as fast as his. You could feel his hand shaking, so you pressed yours on top to keep his hand flat against your skin. Steve swallowed, trying to will himself to calm down as he let you press his hand further against your chest. “You’ll learn…don’t worry about it too much, Stevie…” You paused for a moment. “Actually, you should maybe worry a little more than normal people, but not too much.” As you said this, you glanced at his biceps before returning your gaze to his eyes. “The beginning…” She started, lifting her other hand to his chest. “Is all gentle…anticipatory.” You trailed your fingers along his skin, just barely touching, moving them from his chest to his shoulder, back down to his abs as you began to trace them with your nail.

Jeez. This was…wow. It was so slow and teasing and intimate — he could already feel himself getting…excited. He felt entirely lucky that he was able to be with someone like you — not because you were beautiful and funny and cool — but because you didn’t seem to mind…teaching him the ropes to this stuff. In fact…it seemed you might enjoy it. “The longer you go, the rougher you can get. A girl loves to feel when you’re desperate for her touch.” Your cheeks were fully flushed now as your eyes followed your hand dancing across his skin. “I think that sometimes, your hands can be more intimate than your mouth…depending on how you use them.” The hand atop his moved him again so that now his hand covered your whole breast.

He was silent, just watching you move his hand on your body. His face got even more red somehow when his hand covered your breast. He carefully, lightly squeezed your breast just the slightest bit. It felt good under his large hand, though. “Is this…okay?” His breaths were heavy, he was hardly moving his hand on your breast, he was trying to listen to your words, and be gentle.

You were getting really excited watching all his reactions and seeing how shy he was being. “Mhmm…” You nodded. “You’re doing good, baby.” Oops. The endearment just slipped out. Hopefully, he’d be okay with it. Oh well. You moved your gaze up to his eyes, moving your hands down from his chest to his waist as you let your fingers rest against his waistband.

Baby.

Baby?!

Baby.

Holy moly. If he wasn't about to burst before, he surely was now. You hadn't called him that yet, and damn, if he thought nicknames like "Stevie" were going to kill him...this might drive him insane. His brain lagged for a moment - finally remembering how to think after being so flustered by the name. Good god. You were...amazing. Unlike anyone he'd ever met - and he was entirely obsessed. He shivered a little, feeling your small hands rest at his waistband. He was already straining against his pants, getting excited from just this. Maybe he liked being told what to do, liked being given a walkthrough. Maybe he just liked whatever you did to him.  

“You can be a little rougher now.” Your cheeks were pink. This whole instructional thing was really doing something for you. “The slow and steady is supposed to get you excited…once you get your partner excited, then you can show them what you really want.” Hopefully, you were making sense to him.

"L-like this?" He let himself grip at your breast a little firmer now, and gosh, you were so tiny. Your breasts were small - but they fit your tiny body perfectly. He moved his other hand to grab at your hip - slightly rougher than he'd been touching you before. Steve couldn't keep his eyes off of you - staring at you as you moved around him. You were so pretty in ways he couldn't describe - he'd never seen anyone like you before. If he thought about it too much...it could've felt like love.

Your cheeks flushed a little more, your eyes becoming half lidded for just a moment as you let yourself enjoy his touch. God. He was a good learner, too. You pushed your chest forward into his hand, letting out a soft moan as you did. You bit your lip and nodded as you looked into his eyes again.

“Yea…just like that, baby.” Your voice was so quiet, your thoughts quickly becoming thinned out at the idea of being pleasured by his big, strong hands. “You can be a little rougher than that. I can handle it.” The flush on your cheeks remained as you admitted that. But really, at this point, you weren't so sure he’d figure that part out on his own. “You can push me down…or pull me to you…whatever you want.”

He twitched when he heard you moan out for him, and again when you called him baby. If he wasn't careful, he could already orgasm soon, despite not even being touched. Good golly. "Is that right...?" Steve teased you a little bit, pulling you closer to him by your hips. He wasn't being as gentle as he usually was - which felt wrong, he didn't want to hurt you - but you'd been insisting. His grip on you tightened as he spoke, trying to be as confident, despite still being shy and nervous. "You...like it...rough?" His face was flushed, and he was entirely embarrassed as he said it.

You couldn’t help the smile that came to your lips as he pulled you closer. “Yeah…that’s right…” You laughed a bit, looking at his eyes again. God. He had pretty eyes. And the way his cheeks flushed when he was nervous was enough to make you want to keep pushing his buttons. Every time you looked into his eyes, it made his heart melt.

Talking him through it was something you both seemed to be into, but it was getting harder for you to resist dominating him as quickly as you could. Fuck it. You moved onto your knees, grabbing his face gently and pulling him into a kiss again. Christ. You loved his lips. They were so soft, and it felt like they were just for you. He let out a soft moan into your mouth, suddenly feeling desperate for her. Feeling desperate for your touch, for your kiss, for you. Cripes. He was really head over heels for you, huh?

“I’m…excited.” You mumbled against his lips before pulling away slightly and looking into his eyes again. “…to help you find out what you like.” You laughed. He was still so new to this that much was clear. You just really wanted to know what made him tick. Or rather…what made him twitch.

"I think...I'm excited...for you to help me..." Steve was flustered as he admitted it, but it was true. He had no idea what he liked when it came to...well, stuff like this, but if anyone was going to show him...he was glad it was you. He was twitching at nearly every word you said now; he knew he was probably already leaking at the tip. Gosh.

You brought your lips to his again, wearing a big smile as you did. “I think you might just be excited…” You mumbled into his mouth with a giggle. You loved teasing him, and he made it impossibly easy for you to do. Steve couldn't get more flustered if he tried. It was hard to ignore how…erect he was. His dick was fucking huge. Who could ignore that? Pulling away from him slightly, you readjusted yourself to be sat on his lap instead, straddling his thighs as you looked up to his face again. Of course, you'd noticed his...excitement; he wasn't particularly small, and you were directly on top of him. You didn't seem to mind, though.

“Where else…do you want to touch me..?” You asked quietly, almost shyly. You bit at her lower lip, not breaking your eye contact. It was hard though…well. He was hard, though. And you could feel him against you now with how you were sitting. It was enough to drive you crazy- the way he was pressed up against the heat of your core like that.

His brows were furrowed, his lips slightly parted as he stared at you. He could almost finish already - just from the sight of you on top of him like this. Where did he want to touch you? You were better off asking where he didn't want to touch you, because he wanted to touch you all over. Could he tell you that? Surely he could, right? "Everywhere, sweetheart..." His voice was low and soft, and he licked his lips as he stared at you. "I want to touch you...everywhere." You laughed a little. “Go on then.” You encouraged, looking into his eyes still. “I certainly won’t stop you.” You laughed again, leaning forward to give him one more kiss.

“Touch me…everywhere.” You seemed almost nervous to say it, but regardless, you were excited. Your cheeks were pink as you stared up at him. You were planning to watch his hands closely; you could probably get off just on watching him use them.

Steve gulped again, hoping it wasn't too audible. You had just given him full permission to touch you, anywhere and everywhere, and the thought was so exciting. You were so small and slender, he almost thought he could touch you everywhere at once with both of his large hands.

But, the place he wanted to touch you the most, was...well. In between your legs. He still hadn't felt you yet, and he thought he might die if he didn't get to soon. He twitched again at just the thought of your wetness against his hand. He still really wanted to touch you...there, but he didn't want to be too eager. He was a gentleman, he should take his time and go slow...

He moved one hand to your hip, gripping you tightly, and with his other hand, he snaked it around you, gently cupping your behind. He let out a shaky breath as he felt your cheek under his hand - firm and small and soft. He gave it another squeeze, his breathing already ragged.

"Damn..." Steve whispered out, his voice shaky. Every time he squeezed or gripped at your skin, he would twitch violently, uncontrollably. He thought it would be embarrassing if you noticed, but...maybe he sort of wanted you to notice. Maybe he sort of liked you seeing him get so riled up for you.

You couldn't ignore his twitching- his excitement. You giggled again, moving your hands to cup his cheeks as you pulled him into another kiss. God. You'd never kissed anyone this much before. He was just so addicting. Steve had no problem with you pulling him back in for another kiss - he kissed you back just as passionately. Kissing you had to be the best thing he'd ever felt in his life. Thank God for that ice. If he hadn't been frozen for 70 years, he would've missed out on you.

“Mmmm…good boy.” You muttered against his lips, your smile still big. You pulled away just a little, your eyes lingering over his body. He seemed so nervous, so shy. You definitely understood why, but it was still fun to watch him fidget.

He let out a whiny little moan into your mouth and immediately felt embarrassed. Good boy. He hadn't really known he was one for praise, but golly...if that didn't work him up even more. He was twitching violently now, uncontrollably, as you spoke and pressed yourself against him. You moved her knees a bit, causing you to lower against him a little more. As you did, you let a small soft moan out, your cheeks blushing more. You were already so sensitive, so wet that the fabric of your panties was sticking to your skin now because of it. You thought he might be able to feel it through his jeans as he sat on him. As you shifted, he couldn't help but buck his hips up into you just the slightest bit. He had to - he was becoming desperate.

“…this okay, baby?” You mumbled, still not breaking away from the kisses you shared. You almost…sounded drunk. Really, though, you were just so worked up already. He shivered when he heard you moan, letting out another quiet one himself. Damn. He was going to burst soon; his pants were getting so uncomfortably tight. "Y-yes, doll," Steve mumbled, still kissing you.

Every time he moaned, your breath hitched, just a little. You weren't sure if you'd ever felt like this with a partner before…you couldn’t remember a time. He wasn’t just perfectly submissive…he was so innocent. It made you want to ruin him…just a little bit. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him as you kept kissing- pressing your chest to his as you did. His chest was toned and warm and already glistening with the soft sheen of sweat.

You seriously couldn’t get enough of him. Fuck. Pulling away just a little, you ground down against him as your eyes met his again- half lidded with fully flushed cheeks. “Your hands stopped…” You mumbled. If it were up to you, he’d have been inside you 10 minutes ago. But you were going to behave. You didn’t want to rush him if he wasn’t ready for you yet.

Steve decided to stop being shy about his moans - he couldn't control them anymore, and it seemed like you liked them anyway, so why should he try to hide it? Plus...it felt better when he moaned, when he let himself truly enjoy how good your mouth felt on his. Another loud moan left his lips as he felt you push yourself down on him. Good god, he was not going to be able to control himself much longer. He was aching for relief, pressed so far against his pants that it hurt as he throbbed. "Oh, s-sorry..." Steve had been so focused on kissing you and trying not to finish in his pants that he'd stopped roaming his hands across your body. He started moving them again, keeping one on your hip for stability, but the other...He inhaled a shaky breath before moving his hand to your inner thigh...closer to the place he truly longed to touch you. He was becoming desperate.

You shuddered, feeling his light touch drag against your sensitive skin. God. “Steven…” Your voice was low and quiet and shaky.

When you said his name, his eyes met yours again. He cupped your face with one hand, stroking your cheek gently for a moment before pulling you in for another kiss. When you felt his warm hand against the skin of your cheek, you instantly melted into his touch. He felt so…safe. You decided that you'd trust him with your life if you ever had to. You returned his kiss eagerly, keeping your tight hold around his neck as you did. He flicked his tongue against your bottom lip, shivering at the contact. You parted your lips for him a little; like with most of the encounter, you were fully letting him lead the way. You didn’t want to scare him off. Christ almighty. Steve might not survive the night. As soon as your lips parted, he let his tongue explore your mouth, licking up every inch he could like a dog. His heart was racing, his face was flushing, his...was throbbing. He was going absolutely wild.

"You're beautiful," Steve whispered into your mouth. He knew it was corny, but he didn't particularly care. Nothing would make him think otherwise. Hearing his compliment, your face got dark red. You'd heard that a lot, but…coming from him…it was different. It made your heart flutter, your stomach knot. "You're all I think about, you know that?" Steve admitted as he kept his lips on yours, his hand inching closer and closer to the spot between your legs. “Y-You…you’ve taken up most of my thoughts too.” You admitted shyly, quietly, her lips still pressed to his as she did. Feeling how his finger trailed so gently against you, you laughed a little, finally pulling away from the kiss. “Stevie…has anyone told you just how adorable you are?” You teased. Of course, your reactions weren’t much different from his. His hands were so big…all you could think about was how he was going to feel right up against you- touching the spot where you were aching for him. The thought only got you more excited.

He let out a shy little chuckle at your words. Steve had definitely never thought of himself as adorable before...but he thought he might not mind if that was how you perceived him. "Only you..." Steve breathed out, his chest heaving with heavy breaths.

He finally, finally let his hand make contact with you, and that was enough to get him to let out a quiet:

"Fuck." A word Steve never said.

You kept her eyes on his hand, biting at your bottom lip as he began to touch you. You let out a shy, breathy whine, grinding yourself down against his hand. Fuck.

You were so warm, and he could feel how your panties were all soaked through now. The feeling made his spine shiver again. You had only reacted well to his advances, so he had started to feel just a little more confident in his movements. The grip he had on you tightened, almost possessively, as he traced his fingers gently against your underwear. The fabric was so thin, and it was already so wet from you...it was making him moan out so loudly. And he wasn't even touching your skin yet. Hearing you moan out for him...seeing you like this...it was enough to make him lose his mind. Your face was flushed, your eyes full of lust, and he was sure he was probably the same. He stared at you intently, like he was studying for a quiz, as he watched you push yourself against his hand. Cripes. It would be a miracle if he got through this without cumming in his pants.

He pressed against you a little harder, keeping the cloth as a barrier between you two for the time being. “Th-that…pressure is good…baby…” You moaned out as your chest heaved, taking deep, heavy, steadying breaths between each word. “That…feels good…” There was no denying he’d never done this before, but that was part of what got you going...Damn. You're an even bigger pervert than you thought.

He felt another little boost of confidence at your words - it felt good. He felt good. He was doing it right, despite being entirely new to this. He was so thankful that you didn't mind.

“S-Steve…” You moaned his name out gently, moving your hands to his shoulders as you gripped tightly onto him.

"Oh, sw...sweetheart," Steve panted out after you said his name. Gosh. Hearing you moan out his name for him nearly had him finishing in his own pants; he was worried you'd hear how loudly his heart was beating now. The hand that was gripping your hip inched down slightly to the band of your...very skimpy underwear. They didn't leave much to the imagination, but he was dying to see and feel what they were hiding. He tugged on the string slowly, beginning to slide them down as he met your eyes, almost as if he were silently asking for approval.

As soon as you felt him tugging at your panties, you moved enough so he could slide them off of you with ease- lifting yourself up off of his lap for just a moment as you did. You didn’t break the eye contact as you squirmed around, either, biting at your bottom lip lightly. Steve was almost impressed with himself at the speed at which he removed your underwear. For someone who’d never done it before, it must’ve been a record time — they were off in seconds. And good god. His heart nearly stopped. Your name slipped out of his lips, a soft and pleading moan. Hearing him say your name like that…with the same desperation that you'd been moaning out for him… God, you were so wet now. You lowered yourself back down onto his lap, eagerly awaiting his next move. He really didn’t know what he was doing yet, but that just made you more excited to talk him through it.

“Now what…Stevie…?” You were still breathing heavy, your face still red. Your voice wavered just a little, only bogged down by your attempts to stop yourself from panting in front of him. Really, what you wanted now was for him to get rid of his jeans so you could start riding him…but he was still in charge, so you'd let him be…for now.

Now what? He had no idea. If he thought too much about it, he’d stress out, overthink it, overcomplicate it. So he decided to think with his body instead of his brain, giving in and letting the lust control him almost entirely. He lifted his hand to your wet skin again and slowly dragged his fingers against your slick arousal. Oh, sweet heavens. He let out his loudest moan yet, nearly effeminate, when he felt how wet you were against his hand. He couldn’t help but let his mind wander — you were going to feel amazing when he was finally inside of you.

You chewed at your bottom lip, muffling a loud moan as you did. Jesus Christ. He had barely started and he…honestly…wasn’t even good. But just the fact that it was him…god. You could burst already. Leaning back, you put your palms on his knees as you pushed your chest up. You let him lead still, but you moved your hips and kept grinding yourself down on his hand as you did. God. Jesus Fucking Christ.

He circled his fingers against your clit with the same pressure he’d been using before. His fingers were so thick, so warm...so big. Watching your reactions, your flustered face, and your heavy breathing just made him that much more desperate. “Is this…good?” Steve asked between heavy panting breaths, watching you intently.

You were doing your best not to slide his fingers in yourself with your movements…but it was really hard. “Mhmm…mhmm…yea.” You panted out, closing your eyes and hanging your head back. Without much thought behind your actions, you grabbed at the back of his neck again and pulled his head to your chest. With his face pressed to your chest, he let out another groan, kissing your breasts softly. You were so soft, so warm, so small - it was enough to drive him completely insane. You let your hand tangle in his hair, gripping gently as he kissed at your chest. “Yeah…just like that….”

Steve felt like a wild animal - the way he was reacting to you was completely involuntary. He couldn't help but let out moans and groans for you that were increasingly growing louder. It felt like he couldn't think with anything else except his body - and his body wanted you more than anything. He mumbled a string of incoherent words as he watched and felt you grind yourself into his hand. You laughed, hearing how he muttered to himself and feeling his flustered actions. He was adorable. “S…Stevie…” You were so wet, he almost thought that maybe his finger would slide into you easily...and he sort of wanted to test it.

He kept his fingers circling you, and with a shaky hand, he slowly, carefully, slid one finger inside. He immediately shuddered as he did - you were warm and wet and tight and felt like nothing he'd ever felt before. It just made him twitch that much more. Feeling him finally enter- you let out a loud gasp as you tightened against him completely, your walls fluttering around him as your breath caught in your throat. You almost thought you were imagining it, just for a split second. You kept riding his hand, only getting more and more worked up as you did. Feeling the way you immediately clenched around his finger nearly made him finish right then and there. He slowly began to move his finger in and out — he still wasn’t sure what he was entirely doing here, but he thought this was right based on the way you were moving yourself on his hand. Looking at you like this, sitting on his lap, pleasuring yourself on his hand…it was the best thing Steve had ever seen in his life. Your hair undone, your makeup off, all of your body exposed for him…Gosh. You were so beautiful. His heart raced at the sight. "Still...okay...?" He managed to breathe out.

“Fuck…Stevie…” your moans were way louder now, but your voice was still low. “Y-yea…I’m okay.” You laughed again. “Worry about…yourself, baby…” Soft moans and gasps escaped your lips with almost every movement he made against you.

With his other hand, he moved it to the waistband of his pants, sliding them down just enough to expose himself in his boxers. It was getting extremely uncomfortable to be so pressed up against his tight pants. You felt him fidgeting and finally pulled your head up again to look at him, opening your eyes just barely. And what you saw was him. Exposed. Hard and throbbing and already glistening at the tip. “Mmhmm…?” You giggled. “Eager..?”

“Y-yeah…” Steve said, his voice a little shaky. He felt a little shy about the way he had eagerly pulled his pants down, but really, it had gotten incredibly uncomfortable. “It…was getting really tight…” Steve said shyly into the skin of your chest. He let out another groan against you as he felt your small hand tugging at his hair. He kissed your breasts some more, gently licking and lightly sucking on them.

Fuck. He was so cute. So adorable. You couldn’t let him be in charge anymore, though. He didn’t know what he was doing, and you could tell. Maybe you were just a bad teacher. Oh well. “Stevie…” You took your hands onto his shoulders, pushing him onto his back flat on the bed a little rougher than you'd meant to. It caused you to giggle. “Oh~ Sorry…” You apologised, but there was a smirk on your lips still. Steve had a feeling you weren't sorry at all - and that was perfectly fine with him. He'd never thought he would like a woman handling him like this, but then again, he hadn't really...thought much about it. He never thought he'd get this far with a woman, frankly.

Your hands trailed down his torso slowly, making their way down to his waist. If you weren't so aggressively horny already, you might’ve given him another blowie first. You paused, realising you might be pushing it a little fast now. You looked back up to his face. “…is this…okay? Can I..?” Your cheeks were flushed as you asked, your hands hovering before you'd let yourself touch him.

His eyes squeezed shut, turning his head to press his face into the bed. "Y-yes, please," Steve breathed out. He was more than willing to fully submit to you - to give in to any demands you could want from him. "P-Please." He must've looked so pathetic and desperate, but...he didn't care. He was too riled up. It was hard not to buck his hips into you. He wanted to feel you so badly.

You reached your hand up to his face, trailing your nails lightly against his skin as you took his chin and made him look back to you again. “Eyes on me, Rogers.” You reminded him softly.

Cripes. You're so dominant, so beautiful, so sexy...he was almost worried he wouldn't last long. He immediately obeyed, opening his eyes and meeting yours again. He loved the way you were commanding him; not only was it attractive, but...it was nice to have someone to tell him what to do for his first time. "P-Please..." He breathed out again, voice soft and broken and whimpering.

Hearing him beg like that…Christ. You bit your lip and giggled a little again. “Please~?” You teased. Ugh. He might be the perfect sub. Gently, you took him in your hand, shuddering a little as you did. He was so big…God. Your hand barely fit around him properly.

Gosh. It really was his first time. Hopefully, he would last, hopefully he would make you feel good and help you...finish, hopefully before he did. He usually lasted a decent amount of time when he...pleasured himself, but the last time he'd done it, his mind was filled with images of you between his legs in that car - he'd only lasted minutes.

Still sitting upright, you moved to straddle him before gently lowering yourself against him. You had your hands between his stomach and his hips, digging your nails into his skin a little bit. “…fuck, Stevie.” You continued biting at your lower lip as you rubbed your arousal against him gently, his swollen tip catching on your entrance in the most deliciously teasing way. You closed your eyes, hanging your head down as you continued teasing him. A loud moan came from your lips as you did, he was just so big…and he felt so good already- not even inside you yet, just slipping against your slick and pressing against your clit.

Your name came from his lips again, a loud and desperate and pleading whine. Steve couldn't form his words when he felt you touch him, and he let out his loudest groan yet when you rubbed yourself against him. He thought he might explode - his chest was heaving with heavy breaths as he twitched against you. You were warm, you were wet...he was longing to be fully inside of you.

"sw..sweet...sweetheart..." He breathed, his voice pleading. He couldn't take the teasing anymore - it was driving him nuts.

“Hold on to my hips again…and don’t move until I tell you to.” You warned. He was huge- and if you were going to do this, you'd need a little time before letting him go crazy. Steve happily obeyed again, moving his hands to tightly grip at your hips. He tried not to hurt you, but he couldn’t help but grip you almost harshly, his nails digging in to your soft flesh. Hopefully, you wouldn’t mind. You moved your hips around, lining him up before you slowly began to slide him in. “D-doll…” Steve breathed, his voice low and breathy. He sucked in a breath as you began to sink down onto his throbbing cock. His breath hitched already, and he hardly even was inside yet.

Fuck. It helped that you were so wet, but still. The way he stretched you out with just his tip- the way it burned in all the best ways...you might finish before feeling any real friction. Going slow would be best, you thought. You kept pausing, your face contorting a little as you winced every time you took him in deeper. It didn’t stop you from gasping out your little moans, though. Holy….You were so warm, so wet, so tight. He felt like he was stretching you out; that's how tight you were. Your face looked as if you were in pain a bit, but your moans were saying otherwise.

“Mmm…doing….okay…?” You lifted your head so you could look into his eyes, your chest heaving as you tried to keep yourself steady while on top.

“Y-yeah…you…still okay?” Steve felt like he could barely speak; the pleasure of being inside of you after all the teasing was almost overwhelming.

It took you a short while longer, but you finally got him all the way in- burried to the hilt in your throbbing cunt. Your chest still heaving with your staggered breaths. “F-fuck Stevie…” You whined, your words slurred and your pitch high, as if you were already cockdrunk just from how he stretched you out. “Y-you’re fucking…huge.” You gasped out. Your hands balled into fists against his hips, your knuckles pressing into his skin harshly. You took a few more moments to let yourself get used to it before you started moving your hips slowly. Every time you moved, you moaned out louder than the last. You could definitely get yourself off just like this.

Steve’s fingers were gripping your hips so tightly, his nails digging into your flesh, he wondered if he was hurting you. He couldn’t help it — the pleasure was unlike anything he’d ever felt before — he felt as if he didn’t grip onto you, he would explode. He felt like his brain was short-circuiting; he couldn’t focus on anything except how you felt around him. He couldn’t even be flattered by the compliment about his size; he was too focused on how good you felt. And you felt amazing. The grip Steve had on your hips would probably leave you sore afterwards, but you weren't really focused on that right now. You were much too entranced by just how fucking good he felt inside of you. Christ.

“sw...sweetheart...” Steve breathed out. He kept himself still, not moving, just as you'd asked. So it caught him by surprise when you slowly began to move yourself against him. “O-oh…” Steve let out a loud groan, pushing himself as far as he could into the bed. It was taking everything in him to not thrust into you uncontrollably — he needed to go at your pace so he wouldn’t hurt you. But the way you were going so slow…it was almost teasing. “Fuck,” the profanity accidentally slipped from his mouth again. Between the way you felt and the sounds you were making…he’d be surprised if he didn’t swear like a sailor by the end of this.

You laughed. “I didn’t know…you even knew…words like that…” your face was fully flushed, your hair messy and hanging in your face as you panted out between heavy breaths. It was true, Steve never spoke like that. He still found it odd how many people openly spoke like that these days anyway. But right now…he couldn’t help himself. It was like he couldn’t control what he was saying, his naughty actions causing a naughty vocabulary.  

You wondered for a moment about how quickly he’d finish…this was his first time after all. You needed to get all your pleasure out of the way before that, for sure. You kept moving on him slowly, and then once you got used to it, you unballed one fist and tapped at his side a couple of times. “Okay…it’s okay now.” You gave him an almost shy smile, biting at your bottom lip as you did. “You can move now.”

Steve opened his eyes as you tapped at him, looking up at you, and he almost came right then. You looked so good like this, on top of him — taking him — with your hair down, a slight sheen of sweat on your skin. He knew he’d be dreaming about this moment every night from now on. Steve nodded, his face still contorted in pleasure, as he slowly, carefully began to move his hips under you. You were so tight around him, and you were so, so wet. His eyes immediately rolled back as he began thrusting into you gently. Steve tried his best to keep his eyes on you — you looked too good not to — but his body was betraying him. His eyes kept rolling back or closing, despite his efforts. It almost seemed as if he had no control over his body anymore.

“A-ah…Stevie…” You moaned out, gripping at his waist and digging your nails into him. “Stevie…f-fuck…” You panted out. You kept moving your hips against his, grinding your clit against his base, your eyes rolling back as you hung your head back. “D-doll…” Steve groaned out, his voice low and gravelly. He was already so close, but he was trying his best to hold it off for you. He might die of embarrassment if he finished before you.

’Doll.’ You giggled a little. He was so cute. You almost couldn’t stand him.

“Y-you…feel…” Your voice trailed off, your words instead being replaced by more soft moans. You took a deep breath and pulled your head back up, looking down at him again. You lifted one hand to cup his cheek softly, rubbing your thumb against his skin. “Y-you’re doing…so good…baby…” Your lips curled into a little smirk. “Good boy…” You gasped out. God. You might not last that long either at this point.

“You…” Steve said weakly, using his hands to cup your cheeks as well. His pace sped up ever so slightly, still trying to be slow and gentle despite the possessive, animalistic feeling growing inside of him.

“You feel…good…” he breathed out between shaky moans and groans. Good boy?!?! Holy…he might die. Those words were enough to make him finish on their own, but he gritted his teeth as he held back the orgasm that was beginning to bubble up. Cripes. He’d never known he was one to enjoy being praised…he didn’t know anything he enjoyed in this context before you. “Yea…baby~?” You teased, your voice still high and whiny. “Tell me…how good I feel…for you…” Fuck. You didn’t think you could get any wetter than you already were. If he were any smaller, he could’ve accidentally slid out by now. “You…” You lowered your voice a little, breathing heavy between each word. “You feel good…for me too…Stevie…”

He moved a hand down to your swollen clit again, gently rubbing against you. Not that he wanted it to be over by any means, but the sooner you finished, the better, because he was not going to last much longer at all. Holy cow. The way you looked, combined with the way you felt, combined with the dirty words you were saying…it was enough to make a grown man blush. And he was.

You kept your hips moving in rhythm with him for a moment, but quickly sped it up instead. He was being too delicate…and you wanted to give him the best orgasm of his life. You could feel him twitching & throbbing inside your cunt, and it caused your hips to buck rather violently.

“A-ah, sw...sweetheart…” Steve couldn’t form any words, let alone sentences. Once you quickened your pace, his jaw went slack, his eyes rolling back once again. He thrusted into you at the same pace, still keeping a hand rubbing against you.

“Fuck…” you muttered out. “Are you close..? Are you gonna cum~?” You giggled again, but when you felt him press against you, you gasped out loudly- feeling as if the air was nearly knocked out of your lungs. You definitely hadn’t been anticipating that. The hand you had on his cheek instead moved to hold onto his hand as he worked at pleasuring you. “Fuck Stevie~!!”

“Mhm…” Steve hummed out, his voice low, almost a growl. “You…have me close…” Steve couldn’t control the way his body was beginning to tremble and shudder against yours. He was going to finish any second now. When he spoke, your body clenched a little harder, as if it were the natural response. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “B-baby…” Your head was hanging, your hair trailing against his chest as you crunched forward.

“St-Steve…” Your cry was pathetic and whiny and breathy now.

Steve was praying to anyone that would listen that you would finish soon — he was mere moments away from finishing himself. You felt so good around him, you looked so good, you sounded so good…it was a wonder how he didn’t finish yet already.

You had really wanted him to cum first, but now you weren't so sure you could hold yourself off much longer. It was a little embarrassing; you never finished so easily or so quickly. Something about him made you lose all your concentration. Were you really going to finish yourself off faster than the virgin? If she told your roommate about this...she’d never let you live it down, that’s for sure.

You leaned down, putting your head to his chest as you came undone, moaning against his skin loudly as your hands gripped roughly at the skin of his stomach.

Steve groaned loudly as he felt you tighten around him, feeling how your orgasm felt against him. The way your slick walls were fluttering and contracting so harshly into him. Cripes. He was going to lose it. He tried to hold back more, to let you ride your orgasm out on him, but as soon as he felt you finish, he began to as well.

He lifted you off of him as he came, holding you tightly to his chest as the semen pumped out of him in thick, heavy ropes. “F-fuck, Honey…” Steve said, his breath panting and heavy as he desperately held onto you, his body trembling as he came.

You yelped when he moved you, not expecting to feel his hands that way- or the fact that he moved you as if you weighed nothing. But also...no one had ever done that before. This was his first time, though, so he must not know. Once he was holding you to his chest, you lifted a hand to his cheek and kissed him desperately. When he was done...unloading... and you'd managed to catch your breath, though, you pulled away a bit and looked up to him.

Steve held you tightly, sweat dripping from his brow, as he let himself come down from his orgasm. No words could describe how good it had felt — it was the most amazing sensation he’d felt in his life. His breaths were heavy and panting as he stared into your eyes, a soft smile on his face. Cripes. If he wasn’t careful…he might think he might love you already.

You didn’t get very far, though, with how tightly he was holding onto you. You kept your hand on his face, gently stroking with your thumb. You both were panting, your face and shoulders had turned fully red. There was a little sweat on your face, making your hair stick to your forehead. God. You couldn’t remember the last time an orgasm felt that good.

“…you moved me.” You laughed a little, leaning close to kiss him again.

“Y-yeah, sorry, I…” Steve’s face was flushed. He moved his hand to brush the stray hair from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear. You smiled big, pressing your cheek against his hand as he trailed it across your skin. He didn’t exactly know how to word it…but he didn’t want to finish in you. “Wouldn’t be…gentlemanly of me…to get you pregnant on the second date.” He said between heavy breaths that were finally starting to regulate.

“…oh.” You laughed, you couldn’t help it. It really helped to put into perspective just how out of time he really was. “You are truly a gentleman.” You said between giggles, kissing on his cheek a couple of times as you did. “They invented this pill in the 70s. I can’t get pregnant while I’m taking it.” That was a bit of an oversimplification, but you didn’t need to be a science professor right now. You kissed him again and again and again, and then finally you stopped, resting your head next to his and looking into his eyes. Fuck. You might be in love. You wanted to tell your roommate immediately, but also kinda didn’t want her to ever find out. Steve kept your body held close to his, smiling at you, his heart leaping every time you pressed a kiss to his skin. Cripes. He was entirely enamored with you.

Oh. So, that’s what “the pill” meant. He’d heard of it in recent media — books and movies and TV shows — but wasn’t quite sure what it was. He still wasn’t entirely sure of how it worked, but technology was wild these days, so he figured if it really worked that well, then that was all that mattered. “Oh…that’s…pretty neat,” Steve said, his face flushed. He could’ve got going again at the thought of…not pulling out next time. If there was a next time. He sure hoped there would be a next time.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever had feelings quite like this before. “So…that was…okay? Are you…okay?” Steve asked, his face flushed. He was still feeling a little shy - he wanted to make sure his performance had satisfied you.

Your cheeks flushed, still looking into his eyes. “Y-yea…it was okay.” You giggled a little, still smiling. It was cute when you looked so shy, especially considering how confident you normally were.

“I’d ask if it was good for you too, but…I have a feeling it was.” You laughed a little, cheeks fully flushed. “Y-yeah,” Steve said, his face still flushed. It was probably very obvious that it was good for him. How could it not be? He was a virgin, and you felt so…so good. Just the thought of it was almost enough to make him go again. Even though he’d moved you off of him, some of his mess still had gotten on your legs. There was just so much of it that it would’ve been nearly impossible not to get it where he hadn’t meant to.

“I was going to try really hard to behave myself tonight…I hope I’m not that bad of an influence on you, Stevie…” You bit at your bottom lip a little, not daring to break their eye contact yet. “Oh, you are,” Steve said with a little chuckle as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re a horrible influence. I think I’m going to start calling off work,” Steve said playfully. He had finally caught his breath and figured out how to speak again. “Oh..?” You raised a brow, a mischievous smirk tugging at your lip. “Well…if you’re calling off work to spend more time with me, then I’ll have to allow it.” You teased.

Steve laughed again, his heart leaping as he watched the smirk spread across your face. It looked so good on you. You looked good. Always. “Hopefully they won’t fire me for playing hooky with you,” Steve joked.

He noticed his…mess was still between them. His face flushed again as he realized. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up,” Steve said as he sat up, keeping you on his lap. You were so tiny, so it was easy to do so. Your face got flushed all over again when he lifted you up. You decided to use the moment to be extra dramatic. “You’ll have to carry me to the bathroom. I simply can’t take myself there.” Your legs were still shaking just a little, so you weren't completely lying. You leaned against his chest, looking up to his face still as you let yourself relax. He really was something else.

Even if you hadn’t asked, he had fully intended to carry you to the bathroom. As he stood, he scooped you into his arms easily, holding you as if you weighed nothing as he walked you to the bathroom. A lady shouldn’t have to walk after…what they’d just done. He thought your body was probably sore and tired from your activities. Oh. He was actually taking you to the bathroom. Your cheeks flushed, heat radiating from them as you kept your head nuzzled against his chest. Most guys would’ve just thrown a T-shirt at you and told you to clean yourself off. You could do the most vulgar things in bed and not feel shy at all, but as soon as any real intimacy was present…anything romantic…it was like you didn’t know how to act. Part of you almost felt like you didn’t deserve it, but part of you was too selfish to do anything to try to get rid of him. You were completely enamored by him.

“You’ll carry me back to the bed, right?” Steve said with a playful smile, setting you down on the closed toilet seat as he turned on the bath faucet. Cripes. He was really head over heels for this gal...

“Hm..? Oh.” You laughed. “Yeah, totally.”

When the water got hot enough, he turned on the shower, grabbing the little mini bottles of shampoo and bodywash the hotel had to offer. “Go ahead,” Steve motioned for you to get in the shower. “Unless you need me to lift you into there too,” Steve said with a little grin. “If you wanted to carry me around like that for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t be opposed.” You joked, giggling a little as you finally brought yourself to your feet.

“I don’t know about that. I don’t think I’m strong enough,” Steve said with a small grin. Gosh. It was so fun being around you — you were so fun. You made him feel young, despite being almost 100.

As he waited for you to get in the shower, he grabbed two of the hotel towels, hanging them on the rack just outside the shower. His face was flushed still — he really wanted to shower with you. Not even in a sexual manner, but just to take care of you and wash your body and hair and be close to you. He always wanted to be close to you. He wasn’t sure if you'd want to shower together or not, though, so he let you step inside first. He could always shower after you were done.

You stepped into the shower, closing your eyes and hanging your head back so your hair would get wet from the warm water. You weren't really planning on fully showering, but you didn’t want to gross him out either- so if that’s what he wanted, that’s what you were going to do. Steve stared at you as you stepped into the shower, watching your wet hair fall over you like you were a work of art. Golly. He’d never seen a woman like you before — he was entirely captivated.

After a moment, you rubbed your eyes back open and looked over to him. “You just wanna watch? You’re messier than I am.” You teased, holding your hand out for him to take. “Besides, if you wait for me to be done, you’ll have no hot water left.” Of course, that wasn’t really how hotel showers worked, but you wanted him to stay close to you, so it was as good an excuse as any right now. The shower wasn’t all that large, but you were really small…so you figured they’d both fit.

“As much as I like the view,” Steve said with a flushed face. He figured it was fine to openly flirt with you at this point. “I’d like to get cleaned up as well.”

You smiled and leaned up to leave a kiss on his chest. It was the only part you could reach without him picking you up. You couldn’t get over just how sweet he was. You wanted to be like this for the rest of your life, you'd decided.

Steve put every other man you'd ever hooked up with to shame, and not just because he had a huge dick. But also because he had a huge heart.

Ew. What were you even thinking right now? Loving him was already making you way too sappy. But...you loved it. You loved him.

[kryptidfiles]

Curiosity Will Never Let Me Go

pairing David!Clark x girlfriend!reader summary Clark's from out of this world. Not in the abstract, romantic, larger-than-life way the rest of the world said about Superman. No, your boyfriend was factually an alien. Kryptonian. What you do not know, and unfortunately cannot stop thinking about, is how far that whole thing went. tags 18+, mdni, smutty ramblings (hot-n-heavy make out, thinking about alien dick, handjob, Clark cums on you, brief cum tasting), unedited, little dialogue, wrote in two passes just to put something out there wc 2k

Main Masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries

You knew everything about Clark before the dates, the kisses, the escalating intimacy.

The truth about who he was, where he came from, what he could do, what he believed he owed the world. And, said in that soft earnestness that always made your chest ache, what you meant to him.

Clark told you everything that mattered. Showed you, too. Well... almost everything.

Sure, Clark looked like an average human man. More than average, honestly. Smiled like one, laughed like one, talked like one, walked like one, blushed like one, held you like one. Still, your mind kept snagging on the same question:

Did what he fuck with looked human, too?

That was the mystery, and historically, your imagination always gone rabid the second it slipped off its leash.

What if his cock had bumps and deep grooves like a pine cone in late summer? Had tiered barbed hooks from base to tip? What if it curved as dramatically as a Harpy Eagle talon? Extended like a telescopic stick? Glowed the more he got aroused? Vibrated?...Pincers? You wouldn't have been mad about the vibrating, but what if this, and what if that, and-and-and-

It was one crude scenario after another, each worse than the last.

To be clear, different would not have been a bad thing. Far from a red flag.

If anything, curiosity was the root of the problem. Not fear. You loved Clark. You wanted Clark. If there was something a little ...unfamiliar...in the mix, that hardly felt like a reason to run.

Still, in theory, you could ask.

Hold Clark's hands, stare up into those striking baby blues, and bluntly put it out there: "Baby, what does your dick look like? Standard issue? Extraterrestrial surprise? You know I like to be prepared for surprises..."

Hm. Clark would probably blink at you with that open, guileless expression first. Then maybe laugh under his breath. Then maybe, because he was your Clark, answer with total sincerity. Reassure you. Drop trow?

That... somehow felt worse. More mortifying. You’d rather have lightning strike you on the spot than tempt that conversation.

So instead, you did what any normal, well-adjusted girlfriend would do when plagued by intrusive curiosity about her boyfriend’s possible alien anatomy: you spiraled quietly about it on your own.

Which was how you ended up mentally inventorying things. The cut of his suits. The weight of his body when he hugged you, leaned over you, sat next to you. The shape of him in motion. Over and over again.

And yes, fine, even saving a few blurry Superman bulge photos from social-media user @/supes-packing-meat, who had far too much free time and far too little shame! Tsk, tsk!

In all seriousness, things only got worse once your curiosity gained poor company. Half nonsense, half thirst, all conjecture. No answers. No clarity. Just enough to leave your skin hot, your vibrator undercharged, and your imagination even less manageable than before.

And that part really did make you feel bad. This was Clark, who trusted you with the biggest truths of his life. Clark, who kissed you breathless, like the world had dropped away beneath both your feet. Clark, who looked at you with that soft, tender devotion you had never seen before. It felt juvenile to lose your mind over this unknown when he had already given you so much of himself.

But curiosity, unfortunately, would never let you go once it sank its claws in.

So. Fine. Enough.

You had to put an end to it. Quietly. Organically. For the good of your dignity, your sanity, and maybe the general stability of your nervous system.

Which was, perhaps, how you got yourself into this particular position...

You were pinned beneath Clark on his leather couch, the cushions dipping deeper every time either of you shifted. The leather had gone warm beneath your back from the heat of your body and his.

Clark’s mouth moved from yours to your jaw, then lower, following the line of your throat with this unfamiliar hunger that made your pulse skip. His glasses were gone, his curls a little mussed already, and when he shifted between your legs to tug your shirt up and your bra down, the brush of his knuckles over your ribs made you twitch.

His attention went straight to your breasts. A hot, wet seal around your pert nipple, the gentle suck next, the teasing flick of his tongue last. You gasped and squirmed, arching into him, one hand catching in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

"Yeah?" he hummed against the swell of your breast, the vibrations shooting straight to your cunt. "Liked that?"

You only managed a meek, shaky "Y-yeah,", your grip tightening in his hair. Clark gave your nipple one more slow, gentle swirl that sent another shiver straight through you. God, he was good at this.

Your legs were tangled, one thrown half over the couch cushion, the other caught between his, and his obvious arousal pressed heavily against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. You shifted under him, pressing your hips up into his. He groaned, and his own hips rocked back, grinding against you. The friction was delicious, but you needed more.

More of him. More to love. More to feel. To know—

The opportunity to put these silly thoughts to bed was Right. There. Touch him. Feel him. Do it! Your mind screamed.

As one hand stayed tangled in his hair, the other took the metaphorical and literal plunge, grasping the waistband of sweatpants. Startled, Clark lifted his head from the valley of your breasts, cheeks flushed, and lips parted and damp, his breath still warm on your skin. There was a faint crease between his brows.

"Hon, what are you—?" he began, breathless and puzzled, but his words stalled the second you tugged the fabric again, rougher this time.

Clark sucked in a sharp breath the same moment his cock finally sprang free. Just like that, it was real and solid and alive within your grasp. Your mind, which had been so loud for days, so full of impossible scenarios and increasingly absurd speculation, went suddenly, wonderfully blank. A blank canvas.

You kept your eyes on his face at first. On the stunned pleasure in those wide blue eyes as your hand wandered, on the way his kiss-swollen mouth fell open a little as if he had not expected this from you and did not quite know what to do with the fact that he liked it.

"Oh," he said softly. "Oh, you’re—you sure you want to—"

Before Mr. Sweet and Earnest could finish what was bound to be something sweet and earnest and derail your nerves, you tugged him into a mind-numbing, sloppy kiss.

He made a muffled 'hmm?' against your mouth—surprised, then quickly, helplessly into it. One of his hands came up to cradle the side of your head, thumb pressing just behind your earlobe as he deepened the kiss.

It was enough to keep him quiet. Enough to start your blind investigation.

First impression: your breath caught when your hand, so bold two seconds ago, felt so embarrassingly small and failed to completely wrap around the unmistakably thick, heavy, stiff column.

Clark felt your hesitation, or your wonder, because when you pulled back just enough for air, he glanced down at you with both compassion and concern.

"You okay?" he rasped, searching your eyes. "You can— gosh, you can do whatever you want—" He swallowed hard. "At your own pace. Just tell me what to do."

The sweetness of that assurance nearly undid you.

“I’m fine,” you supplied your answer with a nod, though it all came out a little winded. "Just... curious."

That pulled a brief warm laugh out of him.

"Curious, huh," he repeated, cheeks dimpling. His eyes fluttered for a second when your hand shifted again. His forehead dropped to yours, and you tipped your head once more to kiss him.

Regaining composure, you explored slowly, stroking towards the tip at a pace that let your touch do what your imagination failed to. Mapping, learning, replacing nonsense with certainty. Clark's breathing changed between kisses, turning deeper, rougher, warm bursts of it feathering over your lips every time your hand moved.

No obvious ridges, nothing pine-cone-like, nothing telescopic...just warm, velvety skin.

Sliding...still sliding...still..Fuuuck!

You whimpered when you realized your sweet Clark's both massive and long. There was a slight upward arch, a curve to the right your hand naturally followed. Thank goodness nothing dramatic like a bird's hooked nails, but God help your soul and your hole.

Reaching the head was a surprise. No pincers... unfortunately, nothing vibrating. It felt proportional, a smooth, broad, rounded dome. Your undeniably slick cunt clenched when Clark involuntarily jerked into your fist while your thumb smeared what you assumed was pre-cum experimentally along the slit and over the rest of the crown.

"G-gosh," he gritted out, breaking mid-kiss with a shuddering breath against your mouth. He pressed his face against your cheek, the side of your neck, then into your shoulder as if he needed somewhere to put all these unfamiliar, but not unwelcomed, feelings.

Confident and fearless, you kept going despite the ache in your wrist. Tip to base, base to tip. Again and again. Faster and braver with each stroke, you found a rhythm. Lost in your curiosity's mesmerizing hold, you failed to realise Clark was losing himself, too.

He perspired at his temple, dampening his raven curls. Brows drew together in concentration. Nostrils flared. Lips parted to give way to labored pants against your collarbone. Back muscles corded tight. Tighs trembled above yours. The palm cradling the side of your head flexed for just a second before settling again. The hand at your hip gripped firm enough to anchor, as if there was a possibility of floating away.

Clark was so completely lost in the sensation you were giving him that he seemed to lose language piece by piece until all that remained was breath and instinct and praise half-formed somewhere in it.

"Hon—"

A groan.

"Gosh, that feels good."

A moan, louder this time.

"Just like that—b-beautiful—you're amaz—"

His voice gave out just as your slick hand grasped his balls on this next stroke. Soft, heavy, proportional, nothing...alarming. Before he could recover, Clark made a sound that was almost a whine, and immediately retreated into the crook of your neck.

Grinning, you kept worshipping him with your touch, lingering on every inch, every vein, every pulse of that magnificent cock. The wet squelches of your hand pistoning over his shaft grew louder as your pace turned frantic.

When you squeeze him a tad harder, a rushed, "H-hon, hold on! I’m… I’m close…gonna..." tumbled out of Clark's lips.

Merciless, you only spurned him on, "Cum f'me baby, been curious 'bout that, too," and didn’t let up. You wanted to see this till the end. You wanted to know.

His hips bucked, a wild, uncontrolled thrust. His cock twitched in your hand, a sharp, violent pulse. He stifled his groans by quickly claiming you in an open-mouthed kiss once more, a helpless surrender, just as it happened.

Hot and sudden, you felt thick ropes of cum shoot out, painting stripes across your exposed stomach. Some landing on your breasts, shockingly abundant. Each jet of heat painted your exposed skin, each accompanied by a choked moan, whimper, and groan.

The last of Clark's release seeped from his slit, dripping over the fingers still wrapped around his shaft and just below your navel. Your hand loosened its grip and reluctantly slid away.

Eventually, Clark collapsed against your side, heavy and warm like a pillow you'd hugged all night. His breathing was ragged.

"Holy…" he mumbled at last, trailing off.

"Shit," you finished, laughed softly. "Was it bad?"

Clark made a weak, scandalized sound, then lifted his face just enough to look at you with flushed cheeks and dazed blue eyes.

"That's hilarious, sweetheart," he gave you a pointed look, as if the answer should have been obvious. "You know it was incredible," before settling back down with a dopey sigh.

"I'll...gimme a sec," Clark muttered, eyes fluttering shut. "I'll get you cleaned up, sweetheart. Just...one sec."

You smiled, pressing a freather-light kiss along his damp forehead, and left it at that. Well, that should have been the end of it. Question answered. Curiosity settled.

Finally, you looked down. Your stomach, breasts, and hand were completely coated in streaks of Clark's sticky clear-white cum, quickly cooling on your skin. Tentatively, you brought your hand up to your face. Wiggling your fingers, strands of cum glistened like liquid satin between your digits.

Oh. There it was again—that dangerous spark in your mind, that same restless itch that had started this whole mess in the first place. Like a Hydra, one slain question only gave way to the formation of the next.

Pulse picking up all over again as a new curiosity took root, quieter than the last but no less insistent:

What did Clark's cum taste like?

Your heart hammered as you brought your fingers closer to your lips, hesitating for just a moment before your lips parted. Your tongue darted out, brushing against the tip of your cum soaked finger.

Salty...a little sweet... underlying metallic, but not unpleasant. You wouldn't mind swallowing it whole next time.

You took another cautious lick, intrigued by the complexity of it, right when Clark shifted. Glancing down, his cock settled into view, still a massive, hard weight against your groin. It looked impressively full, despite his climax. You swallowed hard at the fleeting thought of—

Fuck.

Maybe Clark was not nearly as finished as he ought to have been. He hadn't said much, and at this rate, the evidence of his persistent arousal was impossible to ignore.

Good God. Staring blankly at the ceiling, you had the sudden, dizzying epiphany that you’d been asking the wrong question all along. Bigger questions began to take shape, thrilling and faintly horrifying in its implications.

This was Clark after one orgasm. What about two? Three? ...Four? How did Kryptonian stamina differ? Would you be able to take it? His cock felt human, but did he fuck like one too? There was only one way to find out.

And just like that, the cycle of curiosity began again.

Refused to let you go.

"Hey, Clark? Babe? Instead of cleaning up, did you wanna try something? I'm curious."

.

Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!

.

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[crowdedimagines]

Next of Kin III (Final Part)

Bradley Bradshaw x reader

Summary: You and Rooster have spent years perfecting two things: flying impossible missions with ease and getting under each other's skin. When tragedy strikes and the unthinkable happens, everything changes. You don't agree on anything other than the fact that neither of you really knows how to be a parent, but walking away was never an option.

Part One Part Two Word Count: 8.1 K Warnings: death and angst enemies(ish) to lovers, SMUT

-

A few weeks later, you both had found something that looked a lot like a routine. Mornings weren’t a scramble anymore, not entirely at least. There were still moments, Sophia still refused the occasional bottle and Sawyer had the occasional tantrum, but it was less frequent. 

“Backpack?” You ask, grabbing Sawyer's lunchbox off the counter. 

“By the door.” Rooster answers, tying Sawyer’s shoes. 

The drop offs got easier, Sawyer didn’t cling as much. Each time the two of you walked back to the car it hurt a little less. Work started to feel a little more normal, but the squad was still down a pilot and a teammate. You and Bradley were still some of the best pilots in the air, but now there was a heavy asterisk to it. 

Phoenix had insisted the two of you bring the kids for a beach day this weekend. Hangman had claimed it was starting to look like Rooster forgot sunlight exists. So, you slathered the kids in the thickest SPF you could find and packed a bag of everything you would need for the day. 

Rooster spent the morning moving the carseats to the Bronco so the four of you could take that car instead. Sawyer loves the Bronco, but somehow your vehicle has become the family car. Bradley rolls down all of the windows, letting the wind take your hair by storm and making Sawyer’s giggles ring out. You turn around to look at him and Sophia, both with big smiles so you shake your head. 

The ocean stretched out wide and endless, waves rolling in under a bright blue California sky. The air felt warm as soon as the car stopped. Sawyer was already taking off for the water before you could even unpack the car. 

“Hey, slow down!” You call. 

Rooster catches up with him easily, “Stay with us, buddy.” 

“I’m right here.” he groans. 

Sophia is pressed into your side, you slide a white beach hat over her head and follow the two boys toward the group. 

Sawyer immediately gets Fanboy and Coyote involved in building a sandcastle with Hangman’s supervision. Phoenix steals Sophia from your arms so you can spread out a towel and get settled. 

“We’ve got them.” Phoenix nods.

You blink, “What?”

“The kids.” She nods back toward the group now, “We’ve got them. 

Rooster frowns slightly, “You don’t have to.”

“We know,” She rolls her eyes, “but we want to. Just sit down for a minute.” 

She turns back to the group and walks toward the water. 

You look at Bradley with a confused look on your face and he simply shrugs. The sun feels warm against your skin, the sound of the ocean is steady in a calming way that you hadn’t felt in weeks. You stretch out on the towel, laying down. 

At some point Rooster drops down next to you, one arm behind his head. His sunglasses block his face. 

“I forgot what this felt like.” You murmur, not even bothering to open your eyes.

Rooster huffs softly, “Not being needed every second?”

You squint to look at him, “You complaining?” 

“Not even a little.” He shakes his head, “But when was the last time neither of us wasn’t with them when we weren't at work?”

The sun was warm and without even meaning to, you fell asleep. It didn’t last long, maybe twenty minutes? Maybe less. When you woke, it was sharp and instant.

You jolt upright, “Oh my god,” 

You scan the beach frantically. 

“They’re fine-”

Rooster is still right beside you, calm as ever. The squad is still entertaining the kids by the edge of the water. You turn to him, still trying to catch your breath. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” You admit, “I just-I was just closing my eyes..”

“Hey, they’re okay.” 

He nods back toward the shoreline and you nod. Sawyer was laughing as Hangman chases him in the waves. Sophia is sitting in Phoenix’s lap, the edge of the waves just meeting their feet. 

You let out a breath and your shoulders relax, “Okay.” 

You sit back slowly, resting on your elbows now. 

“You’re doing a really good job.” He comments. 

You look over, waiting for the punchline. It never comes. 

“You are too.” 

He doesn’t respond right away, “I’m trying.” 

“I know.” You admit, “I’m glad neither of us has to do this alone.” 

“Really?” He smirks. 

You roll your eyes, “Seriously.”

He swallows, his eyes scanning down your body before forcing his gaze on the water. 

“I’m glad we have each other too.” His voice is soft. 

You both let the moment pass, a few more minutes pass before you stand and brush the sand off your legs.

“We should probably go rescue them.” 

“Yeah,” He agrees, “before Sawyer tries to swim out to sea.” 

You smirk, “You don’t think he’s already tried?”

Sawyer spots you both first, he yells your name as he runs towards you both. He wraps an arm around your legs. 

“You missed it!” He’s breathless, “The wave was this big!” 

He stretches his arm above his head and you exaggerate a shocked expression. 

“That’s impressive!” 

Rooster leans down to ruffle his wet hair, “Future Navy right there.” 

Sophia has now noticed you, her entire face lights up. She reaches out, her small hands reaching out to grab. You don’t hesitate, just scooping her up and settling her against your hip. 

“Hi, pretty girl!” You press a kiss to her head and she giggles loudly. 

Rooster reaches out to adjust her hat, pulling it down a little more. He tickles at her neck and she squeals which makes you laugh. 

“C’mon, Roo!” Sawyer pulls on his arm, “You have to come swim!”

“Oh, I have to?” He turns to the four-year old now.

“Yes!” 

He tries his best to pull him toward the water and you can’t help but laugh. The squad quietly watches it all unfold. 

Hangman folds his arms, “They’re awfully…domestic.” 

Phoenix cuts him a look, “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying!” He holds up his hands, “That’s a team right there.” 

“They’ve always been a team.” Bob comments.

Hangman simply raises a brow, “Not like that.” 

You let the waves roll in over your feet, Sophia still on your hip. Sawyer is explaining something to Bradley at top speed, whatever game he’s convinced him to play in the water. Eventually, you all made your way back up the beach to the rest of the group. 

“That,” Hangman announces, “Was adorable.” 

You roll your eyes and hand Sawyer a snack before getting Sophia her own.

“Hydrate.” Bob hands Rooster a water bottle.

“Speaking of drinks…” Hangman adds casually, “Hard Deck tonight?”

The words hang over the group. Neither you or Rooster react the way you would’ve over a month ago. No immediate yes, no teasing, no jumping to go. You simply glance at each other quickly before back at the group. 

“We haven’t been out in a while.” Coyote adds carefully. 

“That’s one way to put it.” You mutter. 

Phoenix sits down next to you, “I talked to Mrs. James.” 

“Our neighbor?” Rooster asks, brows furrowing. 

Phoenix nods, “Yeah. She said she’d be more than comfortable to watch the kids tonight.”

Sophia squirms, whining for another piece of strawberry and you’re grateful for the distraction. 

“It’s just a few hours.” Phoenix continues, “You guys could come by just for one drink, but I think it would be nice for you two to get out of the house.” 

Sawyer looks up at that, “Where are you going?”

You answer quickly, “Nowhere, buddy.” 

He nods, he focuses back on his snack again. 

“We’ll think about it.” Rooster says finally. 

Hangman holds up his hands, “That’s all we’re asking.” 

The conversation moved on, but it lingered in the back of your mind for the rest of the afternoon at the beach. The last time you were at the Hard Deck was the night of Miranda and Mason’s accident. It’s been over a month at this point, which didn't sound like much but before that you guys were there every other day. 

The kids were sandy, tired, and surprisingly easy to get down for the night. Bath time was full of lots of giggles and sand. Everyone had sleepy eyes at dinner so when you and Bradley had them both down for the night and it was still light out, you debated. 

“Do you want to go?” He asks, straight to the point. 

You hesitate, “I don’t know. What if Sawyer wakes up and neither of us is here?”

“Mrs. James will be here.” He says, “He knows her.”

“Yeah, but-” You shake your head, “It’s different.” 

“It is.” he agrees. 

“The last time she watched them was the night of the accident.” You remind, “That was the last time we were even at the Hard Deck.” 

You both pause, thinking. 

“We have to leave eventually.” He offers a small tight smile, “I’m not saying we should tonight, but we need to someday.”

You know he’s right. Today you practically gave yourself whiplash looking for the kids after turning it off for just twenty minutes. A night away from them, with them both already asleep, would probably do more good than harm. 

“I don’t want either of us to drive.” You admit. 

His head snaps up to look at you. 

“We can get an Uber.” He confirms and you nod. You look over at him and he’s studying you. 

“Just a couple hours.” 

“Couple hours.” He nods. 

“Okay, I need to get ready.” 

You take a hot shower and walk into the closet looking for something to wear. You know that realistically it hasn’t been that long since you were out with the team, but it’s felt much longer. Your entire life has shifted since then, you had new priorities. 

Bradley softly knocks on your bedroom door and you call out ‘come in’ from the bathroom. He does, finding you doing final touches in the mirror. 

“The car will be here in ten.” 

Your eyes find his in the mirror, “Thank you.” 

His eyes look over your form, he doesn’t hide it either making you freeze. 

“You look nice.” 

You almost drop your lip pencil. “...Thank you?”

He simply nods before leaning against the doorway, waiting for you to be ready. He doesn't say a word to rush you, he's just there.

The drive was strange. No kids, no bags, no schedules. The two of you sat in the backseat, the quiet hum of the car taking over until pulling into the familiar gravel lot. You hesitate for a split second before climbing the steps to the front door. 

“Hey,” He says quietly, “You good?”

You look up at him and exhale slowly. 

“Yeah, let’s go.” 

He holds open the door and the second you walk in, it hits you. The noise, the music, the energy is all exactly the same. You know it’s actually completely different. It'll never be exactly the same again.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Hangman’s voice calls loudly, cutting through the noise. You look up to see his obnoxious grin, “Mom and Dad made it out!”

Phoenix rolls her eyes, standing up to give you a quick hug when you both join the group, “Don’t start with them.” She warns.

“Oh, I am absolutely starting,” He raises his drink, “This is a historic event.”

“Start by getting me a drink.” You jab. 

Fanboy leans over the table, “We were taking bets.”

“On what?” Rooster asks. 

“Whether you two would show.” Coyote answers. 

Bob jumps in, “We’re glad you did.” 

Hangman actually does leave to go get you a drink, its the least he could do. Phoenix throws an arm over your shoulder. 

“You made it.” She smiles, “I’m proud.” 

You nod, “We made it.” 

The first drink was comforting in a way that you hadn’t expected. Minute by minute you and Bradley settled in more. You laugh, actually laugh at the stupid stories being exchanged. Most of them have been told dozens of times at this point, but they still get a laugh. Peanuts being tossed when the stories start to get more and more exaggerated. 

For a while it feels like before, but not quite. For a few drinks you can suspend your disbelief at Miranda and Mason being home with the kids, not making it out for the night. You know it isn’t true, even when the drinks get stronger.

Every now and then you would glance over at Bradley and he’d already be looking at you. It lingered, he didn’t shy away from it which was new. It wasn’t sharp or combative like it was in flight school. 

“Alright,” Hangman leans back, “I’ve gotta ask.” 

You groan, “You really don’t.” 

“Oh I really do.” He insists, “How does this even work? Do you guys have a schedule? Or a system-?”

“You looking for tips?” Rooster interrupts with a smirk. 

“God no,” He says immediately, “I’m just impressed that the two of you haven’t killed each other yet.” 

“Give it time.” You mutter but the group knows it has no real bite to it like it used to. 

“Seriously.” Coyote agrees, “Ace, I’m pretty sure you had him in a headlock last month.”

You snort, not able to help it, “Things change.” 

“Yeah.” Rooster agrees, “They’re different now.” 

You and Bradley have stayed longer than you thought you would, but Mrs. James told you to take your time and encouraged you both to enjoy yourselves. It was safe to say the team was making sure the two of you would, dropping off drinks all night to show their appreciation for your attendance. 

“I believe you owe me a game of darts.” Bradley recalls, nodding to the empty dartboard. 

“I think you may be right.” You stand, following him as he weaves through the crowd of people. 

Every time he passes by you to approach the board, your shoulders brush. Neither of you steps away, just staying in a tight bubble. 

“You’re staring again.” You remind, focusing your gaze on the board ahead of you. 

He doesn’t even deny it. 

“Yeah.” 

You look over your shoulder where he stands behind you. 

“Bold.” 

You turn back to the board, landing a dart in the center of the board.

“Just being honest.”

The same pull between the two of you from years ago fills the room. The tension that the two of you never dared to mention out loud. Only now it wasn’t reckless or fueled by ego and competition. 

“Careful,” You brush his shoulder again when stepping out of his way, “You keep looking at me like that and people are gonna start talking.” 

He leans down close to your ear, “They already are.” 

You keep playing and you eventually hand Rooster a defeat.

“Rematch?” He smirks, barely hiding it under his stache. 

“You sure your ego can take it?”

He rolls his eyes and walks back to the board to grab the darts. 

“Hey, Ace.” Bob says at your side, you turn to face him. 

“Hey, Bob!” You grin, feeling the drinks a little more than you thought.

“Are you having a good night?” He asks.

“I am, Bobby!” You throw an arm around his shoulder for a sidehug, “I missed everyone!” 

“We missed you, too.”

You smile back at him and turn back toward the dartboard where Bradley should be returning already. When you look up you can see what delayed him. A woman who has had her eyes on him all night has finally made her move and is standing between you two. 

He leans down to say something to her, but you’re already walking away with Bob giving him some space. He barely catches your eyes over her shoulder, but you’re already returning to the table. You jump back into conversation and do your best to forget about whatever was happening before. It’s not even a minute after you’ve rejoined the group that Rooster is at your side again. The music shifts to something slower than what’s been playing most of the night. You laugh at something Fanboy says when Rooster shifts closer next to you, subtle but very intentional. 

“Dance with me.” His voice is soft but confident. 

You blink, turning toward him. 

“... What?”

He doesn’t look away, or make a joke, he just holds your gaze. He doesn’t care that half of the group is barely focused on their own conversation now.

“Dance with me.” He repeats. 

You let out a short disbelieving laugh, glancing around the bar. 

“You know we will never live that down, right?”

He shrugs slightly, holding out his hand for you, “Probably not.” 

You raise a brow, “Hangman is going to talk about it the rest of our lives.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s done.” 

You laugh again, “That is not reassuring.” 

His hand is still out there, steady and certain. You look at it, then back up at him. You let your own teasing fade away. 

“You’re serious.” 

He nods, “Come on.” 

You should’ve said no. You should’ve cracked some joke and deflected, but instead you slip your hand into his. Across on the other side of the table, Hangman chokes on his drink. 

“I’m sorry, WHAT is happening?” He asks, watching the two of you walk away from the table. 

Phoenix doesn’t even try to hide her smile. Rooster leads you out to the small corner that passed for a dance space. It wasn’t as crowded as it was earlier in the night, there was a little room and Rooster takes advantage of it by spinning you once you reach the center. 

You let out a quiet breath and shake your head, “This is a terrible idea.” 

“Probably.” He agrees, his hands settling on your waist. You reach your arms up around his neck, letting them rest on his shoulder. You move slowly and it’s easy together in each other’s arms. It almost feels natural the way the two of you fit together. 

“Your first chance in weeks to go home with a girl, and you ask me to dance.” You comment. 

He blushes at the mention of the woman from earlier. 

“You're surprised by that?” He questions. 

“Honestly?” You look up to study him, “Yeah.” 

“I told her I wasn’t interested.” He admits with a light shrug of his shoulders. 

“Why?” You ask simply. 

“It’s the truth. I’m not interested in her.”

You let his answer sink over the two of you. You don’t really know what to say back to that. He takes your hand to spin you suddenly, you let out a surprised laugh before he pulls you right back in where you were before, maybe a little closer.

“Since when do you dance?” A smile tugging at your lips. 

He shakes his head, looking away from you for the first time. 

“Miranda was the only one who could force me. She would beg back in school when she had tired Mason out,” he lets out a laugh, “Always wanted one more song.”

You smile at him, of course she did. Miranda loved to dance, it was one of her favorite parts of coming out. You're sure you saw her dance with Bradley a handful of times over the years, but you didn’t realize it was something he enjoyed too. 

“She taught me it wasn’t so bad I suppose.” He looks back at you now, “She said one day I would be the one begging to spin someone around the dancefloor.” 

Your fingers curl just slightly into his shoulder, you guys are standing a little too close. 

“Yeah?” You murmur. 

He nods once, “Yeah.”

The air between you shifts. It’s not just an old memory, or Miranda, it’s you. Your hand tightens again and his grip at your waist follows instinctively, pulling you closer. Neither of you comment on it or dare step back. 

The music fades toward the end of the song, something louder and faster taking over but neither of you move right away. 

“You’re staring again.” You whisper, his eyes following your lips. 

“Yeah.”

Your pulse kicks harder now, coming fast enough you wonder if he can feel it. 

“Bradley.” His name slips out before you can stop it, it was meant to be a warning to cool you both off, but it would seem by the look on his face that it’s done the opposite. 

He leans his head low to your ear, “Let’s get some air.” 

You nod before you can think better of it. Across the bar the squad is absolutely watching. They had a hard time not watching every second since Bradley led you away. You both pass them as you walk to the door. 

“Don’t.” You glare at Hangman. 

“I didn’t say anything.” He calls after you, Phoenix smiling at his side. 

The second the door swings open, cool night air rushes over both of you. It’s quieter out here, the music and commotion trapped on the other side of the doors. Quickly it’s just the two of you. For a second, neither of you speaks. You turn toward him and he’s already looking at you. 

“This is a bad idea.” You say softly, but you don’t step back. 

“Probably.” He agrees, taking a half-step closer. 

One second. Two seconds. Three-

The tension snaps, his hand comes up to settle on your jaw without hesitation. He feels grounding and certain, and then he’s kissing you. It isn’t slow or tentative, it’s everything that has been building for weeks. Years. All of the looks. All of the teasing comments. All of the things neither of you said. 

Your hands fist his shirt to pull him closer without thinking, the space between you two disappearing completely. He backs you into the wall of the building, the siding pressing hard into your back. 

He tastes familiar and completely new. You’ve tasted him before, but it isn’t just heat and ego like it was years ago. This feels like more, like it could actually mean something. 

Your hands reach up to his hair, threading through the curls and tugging on them. You earn a groan and you can’t hide the laugh. He works down your neck, pressing hot wet kissing down your jaw, neck, and then chest. He chases your lips again the second you suck in a breath. 

Your heart is racing, you can feel his too. His hands slide into the back pockets of your denim shorts. You finally pull back enough to breathe, foreheads still close and lips barely apart. 

“Get us a ride home.” You murmur, your voice coming out more hoarse than you thought it would. He’s still close enough that your lips brush his when you speak. His breath hitches slightly before a small disbelieving smile appears on his mouth. 

“Yeah?” Still not pulling away. 

“Mhm.” You hum, lips buzzing on his. 

Neither of you move right away because stepping means acknowledging what just happened. Neither of you is ready for whatever this bubble is to burst. 

The Uber was a mistake. You barely made it into the backseat before Bradley’s hand found yours again. It wasn’t subtle or careful and the driver glanced at you both in the rearview mirror. 

“Behave.” You whisper under your breath, your fingers already curling tighter in his. 

He leans in, his voice low, “You started it.”

You turn, “I did not-”

His lips cut you off, pressing softly against yours. 

“Bradley.” You warn, but saying his first name was clearly not helping the situation. He pulls back enough to look at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. 

“You gonna stop me?”

The rasp in his voice was dangerous and addictive. Knowing you were the reason for it was warming your body all over. You exhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. 

“Not in the back of an Uber.” You shake your head, his hand slides along your arm. 

Your breath hitches and you kiss again. It’s short and stolen, every time one of you pulls back it lasts maybe a second before the other leans back in. You can’t help it, it’s like once the tension snapped, neither of you knew how to turn it off. 

You fumble for your phone at one point, pulling up Phoenix’s thread. You type quickly, Bradley’s hand pulling your face towards him a couple times before you can manage to hit send. 

Going home to the kids. Don’t wait up. 

Bradley rests his forehead against yours briefly, “Think they bought it?”

You huff a laugh, still breathless, “Not a chance.” 

“Good.”

The rest of the ride was torture. You were both trying to behave, but failing miserably. By the time the car pulled up to the house, Bradley already had two twenties out to offer as a tip. 

“Thank you.” You say quickly, already halfway out. 

Bradley follows right after you, the second the car door shuts it’s like the rest of the world disappears again. He catches your wrist, spinning you back toward him. His kiss is harder this time, less restraint behind it. You take slow backward steps, your back meeting the porch column lightly. Your hands pull him closer, like you need him to be pressed completely against you.

The front door opens and you both freeze. Mrs. James is stood there, blinking at the two of your with surprise and then immediate understanding. 

“Oh,” Her mouth falls slack, “I was just finishing my book, I thought I saw headlights-”

You pull back, trying very hard to look like you weren’t just seconds away from devouring him right here on the front porch. 

“Hi, yeah, uh-” You say quickly, clearing your throat, “Sorry, we just-”

Rooster clears his throat, stepping back a little more composed. 

“Thank you for staying so late.” His words come out better than yours. 

Mrs. James smile knowingly. 

“Oh, it was no trouble. They’ve been asleep the whole time.” 

You smile, nodding quickly, “Good. Thank you!”

A moment passes where all three of you just stand there. Bradley steps off the porch, “I’ll walk you to your door, Mrs. James.” 

“You don’t need to do that.” She grabs her bag by the door, “I’m just right over here.” 

“I insist.” He offers his most polite smile and she finally nods. 

You trade spots with Mrs. James and watch him lead her down the sidewalk. The second you get inside you let out a big sigh. What are you doing? You run a hand through your hair, feeling how much volume you’ve gained from Bradley’s hands filtering through it. 

“Jesus-” You pace, fingers hovering over your lips. 

Seconds later the door opens again, Bradley steps back inside and locks the door. He was back in front of you in a second, your hands find him immediately like you hadn’t moved at all. 

“Hi.” You sigh. 

“Hi.” He chuckles. 

His hands slide to your waist, and then you’re kissing again. This time there is no interruption, he pulls you flush against him and you laugh softly. He swallows it, kissing you deeper and pressing you into the front door. His hands slide down from your waist over your hips to under your ass, you take the cue and wrap your legs around his waist. 

“Upstairs.” You manage, barely pulling back. 

He doesn’t argue, just adjusting his grip to take you upstairs still wrapped around him. By the time you make it to your bedroom, there was no slowing down. His fingers find the hem of your shirt, sliding under to touch bare skin. You shiver at the contact and he slides the material over your chest so he can toss it over his shoulder. 

His hands are careful as he undresses you, reaching for the button of your shorts. Your hands reach for his shirt, pushing it back off his shoulders, the tank top he had under it going next. You lay back on the bed, it feels cold on all the bare skin but it doesn’t last long until Bradley is on top of you.

He presses kisses down your chest until he settles between your legs. The kisses wrap around your inner thighs, until he finally pulls your panties off and kisses you there. You moan at the direct contact, looking down to see his eyes still on you. His tongue traces over you, you reach down to get a handful of his curls. He works until your toes are curling, chasing back up your body back to your lips. 

“So beautiful.” He grins, pressing his lips harder against yours. 

You press a hand on his shoulder, forcing the two of you two trade positions. His back presses into the mattress, you press yourself against him. You kiss down his chest, when you reach his hip you pause. 

You take him into your hand and he hisses, you lick a long strip on the underside of his length.

“Y/n,” He sighs your name, sounding like heaven, “I don’t know if I can..”

He groans softly again when you press a warm kiss to his tip. 

“Find a will.” You tease, taking him all the way back into your mouth. 

He says your name again and you look up to meet his eyes in the dim lighting. His face is flushed, sweat building on his hairline while you work harder. His jaw is tight with restraint, fighting to hold on. He reaches for you, pulling you up until you’re straddling him again. You gasp at the contact, his head bare and brushing over you. You reach down between the two of you, grabbing him so you can slowly sink down onto him. When he’s all the way in you gasp at how perfectly full you feel. It makes your arch against him, he stills underneath you. 

He’s buried deep inside and more than anything he wants to flip you over and drive into you, but you feel so good. It’s intoxicating. He feels like he could die right here like this, the happiest man. 

“Fuck,” You groan, lifting yourself to sink down even more. He reaches out a hand for your breast, pinching your nipple making you clench around him. That does it. 

He flips you onto your back, not pulling out an inch. His hips press against yours, rocking into you before setting a pace that keeps building. Your nails dig into his shoulder, clutching onto him. His lips find yours in a messy urgent kiss, openly panting. You can still taste yourself on his lips and drives you even higher. 

You wrap your legs around him even tighter, the angle shifting in a way that makes you cry out. 

“Bradley!” 

“I know.” He pants, his pace relentless, “Fuck.”

Your climax builds, finally breaking over you like a wave. You tense around him and muffle your cries into his shoulder. He follows you over the edge in the same moment, his own release shuddering through him. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, passing sweat between the two of you. 

The room was quiet after that, except for both of you fighting to catch your breaths. He slowly pulls out of you and lays on his back right next to you. 

“Miranda would kill us.” You pant.

“Mason would be proud.” He sighs, his chest still rapidly rising and falling. 

You bark out a surprised laugh, lightly hitting his chest. 

The sweat is cooling on your skin, Bradley slowly slides off the bed to the bathroom. He comes back a minute later with a warm wash cloth to clean you up. He chuckles at how sensitive you still are when you hiss at the first contact. He goes back to the bathroom after that, coming back and climbing into bed next to you. You both stare up at the ceiling, still laying there without clothes. 

The heavy breathing slowed and adrenaline faded. You shift on your side, propping your head up on your arm as you look at him. He stares at the ceiling for a couple more seconds before turning to look at you. 

“Hangman is going to be insufferable.” 

He turns, leaning forward to press a kiss to your lips. Because he can apparently. 

“He’s always insufferable.” 

You let out a quiet laugh, “Phoenix too.” 

“Yeah,” He finally laughs too, “I have a feeling she’ll be worse somehow.” 

You shake your head, a small smile still lingering. 

“We didn’t even make it two hours.”

Rooster smirks faintly, “We tried.”

You roll your eyes, “Did we?”

He simply shakes his head, leaning in for another kiss. You can feel his smile. He steals one more before you get more comfortable, adjusting your pillow and covers. He does the same and you let him pull you into his side. 

“They would’ve loved this, you know.” 

Rooster doesn’t have to ask who you mean, he nods and presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Yeah, they loved us fighting all the time. This would’ve made their dreams come true.” 

You snort a sudden laugh, “They would’ve been placing bets just like the rest of them.”

You guys talk a little later, voices getting softer as it gets later until finally one of you falls asleep. 

-

Mornings were never quiet in this house, but this morning started differently from any other. Warm sunlight filters in from the curtains it would seem you were too lazy to close last night.

You shift slightly, pulling the covers tighter around you. 

“It’s morning.” A young voice calls out. 

Your eyes snap open, Sawyer standing at the foot of your bed. His blanket hanging loosely in his hands and dragging on the floor, he's fully awake and fully staring at you and Bradley in bed together. You clutch your bedding to your chest like it might save you. 

“Hey, good morning, buddy!” Your voice coming out a little too bright. 

Bradley groans beside you, blinking awake much slower than you had. 

“What-” He starts to sit up slightly, “Why-oh hey little man!”

Sawyer tilts his head looking between you two. 

You scramble, “We, uh-had a sleepover.” 

Sawyer considers it for a second. 

“Mommy and Daddy used to have sleepovers too…” 

Bradley coughs loudly to the side, hiding the smile and laugh threatening to break through. You blink a few times, trying to think of anything.

“Yeah,” You sigh, “That tracks.” 

“Can I have cereal?” He asks, moving on from the subject on his own. 

Bradley was already moving, reaching for his shorts and pulling them on quickly. 

“Absolutely.” You answer immediately, “Uncle Roo will help you.”

“Let’s go, buddy.” He stands, looking around the room for his shirt. 

Sawyer walks out and Bradley is still laughing under his breath as he walks to the door. You flop back on the bed, “Don’t laugh at me.” 

“I’m not…” He was definitely laughing. 

You drag yourself out of bed when you hear Sophia starting to wake up over the monitor. You throw on a big t-shirt that covers up your shorts. 

He glances up, hearing you come down the stairs. His heart beats harder in his chest and that feels different. He just left you in bed ten minutes ago, why is he so nervous? Why is his heart racing? Sophia is on your hip, still clinging to you half asleep. You walk straight into the kitchen and ruffle Sawyer’s curls when you pass by. 

Bradley turns on the stove to start some eggs, but all he can think about is how he could get used to this. You glance over, catching the dreamy look in his eyes. 

“What?” 

He shakes his head, “Nothing.” 

The smile doesn’t leave. 

The kitchen fills with quiet noise, cereal bowls clinking and Sophia babbling away from her highchair. Sawyer goes on about dinosaurs while you move around the kitchen to make coffee. Something new is in the air in the kitchen, Bradley leans back against the counter and you can feel his eyes follow you. 

“Milk’s almost out.” He reaches past you to grab another carton from the fridge. 

“Already ahead of you.” You slide one onto the counter in front of him without looking. 

He smirks slightly, “Of course you are.” 

Your hands brush, neither of you pulling away very quickly. He moves around you to grab Sawyer’s bowl and let him down so he can play with his toys in the living room. Sophia babbles on, picking up small pieces of berries off her tray. 

“Hi.” Bradley steps closer to you now, you take a sip of coffee. 

“Hi.” You smile, you look out the window ahead of you both, “It’s a beautiful day.” 

“Yeah,” He nods, “It is.” 

“We should take them to the park.” 

You look back at him, his focus had never left you and a small smile tugs at your lips. 

“Yeah, we should.” 

The air was warm, it was the kind of Sunday that seemed to move slower than any other day. You’re grateful, you want to soak up every second. The park was only a few blocks away so you loaded up Sophia’s stroller and walked to the park. 

Sawyer ran ahead as soon as the playground was within view. You guys walk up to the edge of it, finding a bench to sit on. 

“We should probably talk about… this.” He gestures between the two of you. 

“Yeah,” you nod, “we should.” 

“I don’t want things to go back to how they were.” He admits. 

You look back at him, “I don't either.” 

He exhales softly like he had been holding it in. 

“Oh, thank god.” He runs a hand back through his hair and you laugh softly. 

“Somehow…” You say with doubt, “This works, which is insane by the way.” 

“Yeah, a little bit.” He laughs. 

“We used to drive each other crazy.”

“Still do.” 

You smirk, “Yeah, but now it’s different.” 

It was and you both knew it. He turns toward you more, “I think we’ve always worked, we just didn’t know how to not fight it.” 

You look ahead at Sawyer who is halfway up the playground, tearing off the go down the slide again. You lightly push Sophia’s stroller back and forth, she looks up at the tree branches overhead. 

“We don’t get to mess this up.” You say quietly, he follows your gaze. 

“We won’t.”

You hesitate, looking back at him eventually, “Not for us, for them. Whatever happens, they still have to come first.” 

“I know.” He agrees, “So, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” You chose your words carefully, “I don’t want to pretend last night didn’t happen. It meant something and it was real.” 

He nods, his grin widening with each word. 

“I also don’t want us to rush into something and screw it up.”

“Because this is a normal situation?” He raises a brow and you laugh. 

“We are far from normal. How else would you start dating someone if you weren’t already living with them and raising two kids together?”

He laughs openly at this, reaching out a hand to your face. You lean into the touch. 

“We don’t rush it, but we don’t ignore it either.” He nods, “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

He leans down to steal a quick kiss and you can’t help but smile. Sawyer waves from the top of the jungle gym, calling out to both of you. 

“Good job, buddy!” You yell back. 

“Be careful.” Bradley calls, noticing what he thinks was an attempt to go down one of the slides backwards. 

“I AM careful!” He yells back. 

Bradley turns to look at you, “He’s more like you everyday.” 

“Hey!” You nudge his shoulder, “You too.” 

“We’re gonna ruin these kids.” He shakes his head, “They’re gonna be adrenaline junkies by the time they’re ten.” 

“Well, Miranda and Mason can only be blamed.” You joke, a small smile on your face. 

“To blame for all of this.” He shakes his head, “They knew this would happen, I’m sure of it.” 

You shake your head, leaning into his side. 

“They knew better than us. Before this, I never would’ve called us.” You admit. 

“I would’ve.” He confesses, causing you to snap up and look at him. 

“Really?” 

He simply nods, “Even when you were the biggest pain in my ass.” 

He kisses the pout right off your lips, the smile he gives you is starting to feel permanent with him around. You could definitely get used to this. 

-

Two months have passed since that day in the park, and somehow it worked. Everything has shifted, you guys stopped fighting the thing between you. You guys ended up telling the squad the next day at work, there was no hiding it after leaving the Hard Deck together like that. The reactions were what you had expected. 

Hangman nearly fell out of his chair, Fanboy immediately wanted details, Coyote clapped excitedly, and Bob just smiled unsurprised. Phoenix? She just looked at the two of you. 

“Finally!” She stands suddenly, pulling you both in for a hug, “Miranda and I talked about this for years!” 

From that point on, the team stepped up even more. Phoenix made a rotating schedule where two of them would watch the kids on a weeknight to give you two a night out. Somehow, two months in they had kept it up every single Wednesday. 

One night a week. Just the two of you. 

You got ready in separate bathrooms and you would make him wait downstairs until you were ready. It was the closest you two could get to normal and him picking you up for a date. 

Today however was different. Today the whole squad would be coming over as well as friends and family of yours, Bradley, Miranda, and Mason to celebrate Sophia’s first birthday. The house was covered in streamers and balloons.

“Babe,” Bradley calls from the doorway, “it looks great.” 

“It’s crooked.” You reach up trying to straighten a banner. 

He walks over, taking the corner from you and lifting it higher. You take a few steps back and tell him when it’s good. 

“Thank you,” You press a hand to his chest and tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips, “I just want it to be right.” 

His expression softens. 

“I know, everything is perfect.” 

You had gone all out for her birthday. The entire house and backyard was decorated and ready to host everyone in her life. Games filled the backyard to entertain the kids. A cake sits on the counter with a smaller smash cake next to it. 

“They should be here.” You add quietly, he didn’t need to ask who. He steps closer, a hand settling on your back and he presses a kiss to your hairline. 

“They should be,” he agrees, “but this is exactly what they would’ve wanted.” 

You nod, swallowing down the tears. 

“I just…” You let out a breath, “I want her to feel how loved she is today.” 

Bradley smiles softly, “She will.” 

The party started shortly after that, the squad being the first to fill in. Sophia is smiling at everyone from her spot on your hip. 

Hangman looks around, “This is aggressively wholesome.” 

You point at him, “Watch it.” 

“I’m just saying!” He holds up his hands, “You two hosting a kid’s birthday party and looking like a Hallmark movie wasn’t on my bingo card.” 

Bradley shakes his head, “And yet? Here we are.” 

Fanboy smiles, “It’s kind of adorable.” 

All of them could see the way the two of you moved around each other. You checked in without words and he handed you things before you could even ask. You lean into him without thinking about it. 

“Still weird.” Hangman mutters to Phoenix as you and Bradley help her ‘open’ gifts. 

She shakes her head, “You teased them about it for how many years? Now that it’s actually happening you’re shocked.” 

You lean in to say something to Bradley, he turns and kisses you quickly before answering. It looks so natural and easy. 

“Nope.” Hangman shakes his head harder, “Still not used to that.” 

The cake was messy, but you’re sure someone got great pictures of it. You were too busy trying to commit every second to memory. Sawyer laughed so hard at his sister he nearly fell out of his chair. You try to clean her up before her messy hands can do more damage. 

Decorations still lingered as the last person left the house, balloons drifting lazily on the floor. Sophia and Sawyer were both asleep. Sophia had crashed in Bradley’s arms a few hours ago, it was clear she didn’t get an afternoon nap with the party. Sawyer took longer, claiming he wasn’t tired for a full hour before finally a yawn escaped him. 

For the first time since the day began, there was a stillness as you do the dishes. A hand settles on your back, familiar and warm. You don’t turn, but you lean into it. 

“Hey.” He whispers from behind you. 

“Hey.” 

“You don’t have to do all that tonight. I’ll do them in the morning.” He looks over your shoulder at the remaining dishes in the sink. 

“Yeah,” You reply, “I just want them done.”

You look at him over your shoulder, “Plus then maybe we can sleep in a little.” 

“I love that idea.” He grins, his hand sliding around to pull you back against him. You finish the last dish and dry your hands before turning around in his hold to face him. He was watching you with the same look he had earlier. 

“What?” You give him a tired smile. 

He shakes his head slightly, a shy smile pulling at his mouth. 

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” You don’t press more than that, just wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Today was good.” He says softly, “You did an amazing job.” 

You nod, “I think Miranda would be proud. Although it’s a far cry from the parties we used to host.” 

He shakes his head, likely thinking of the messes you and Miranda would get into. He attended several parties at the apartment the two of you had that was way too small to host. They went down as nights not to be forgotten, and he supposes today was the same. 

“I think she would be thrilled you managed no jello shots.”

“Hey!” You smack his shoulder. 

“She would've loved it.” He gets serious again, “I think both of them are proud of us. I hope they are.” 

“Do you think they’re hanging out with your parents watching us screw up their kids?” You blurt, his chest tightens at the thought. 

“I hope so.” He laughs, “I’m sure we give them a good laugh some days.” 

Your heart hurts at the thought, but it doesn’t break you in the way that it used to. You still could feel Mason and Miranda everywhere. You could hear Mason’s serious attitude anytime Sawyer talked about trains. Sophia’s smile was looking more like Miranda’s each day. The house still felt like theirs in a comforting way.

You and Bradley still argued, getting overwhelmed at times, but it never lasted long. There were still days that everyone missed them. Every day. But they also had early mornings and messy kitchens. You and Bradley now had shared looks across the rooms, saying more than ever. You two found a rhythm no one ever expected you to find. 

Eventually, you push off the counter, “Come on.” 

He follows you upstairs without question, neither of you even pause at his door. You hadn’t in weeks, instead you moved down the hall into your shared room. He slides into bed next to you and you turn off the light after you both have settled in. 

“Sawyer seemed happy today.” You comment, neither of you is asleep yet. 

“He is happy.” Bradley looks down at you. 

“Are you happy?” You look up to meet his gaze. 

“Of course I am.” His grip tightens on you unintentionally, “Are you?” 

You nod immediately, “I just feel guilty too.” 

He reaches a hand out cup your cheek, his thumb brushes away a stray tear. 

“They would want us to be happy.” He reassures, “They would want us to fill this house with happiness and love, I think we’re doing exactly that.” 

You tilt your head up to press your lips against his, it’s a lazy and sweet kiss. You follow it up with three quick pecks, enough to make him smile. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

an// you guys i literally may still have extras for this bc this was getting SO LONG and i wasn’t even done with everything i wanted to add😭please let me know what you thought of them, i loved it

[reidsmemory]

ruin the friendship

bob floyd x fem!reader

summary: bob floyd was in a pickle. his ma and pa were expecting him to bring someone home for his older brother’s wedding. are you up for the challenge of being his fake girlfriend for the week? or will it ruin your friendship?

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral fem and male receiving (bob eating it from the back), male masturbation, roommates/friends to lovers (my fav trope sue me), no use of y/n

word count: 14.3k

a/n: bob is a total mama's boy in this, but in such a good way. can you guys tell i just love bob so much? i hope you enjoy!

masterlist

your call sign: bee

In a month, Bob was expected back in Montana for his older brother's wedding. But he stared at the most recent missed call from his Ma and grimaced. How was the wedding already so close? And how had he dropped the ball this badly?

A few months earlier...

"Ma, yes, I'm still coming," Bob spoke into the phone pressed against his cheek and shoulder. His hands were folding his fresh laundry as it lay out on his bed.

"And your older brother needs to know if you're bringing someone with you, honey. There's no shame in coming home alone again..." his mother said in a sweet voice, but Bob knew what the underlying tone meant. All his life, he never had anyone to bring home. It was like an ongoing joke inside his family at this point. No high school or college girlfriends seemed acceptable at the time, but now he was a Navy pilot and couldn't get a girl? Well couldn't get the girl he really wanted.

Before he even thought about what he was saying, he blurted out a response, "I'm bringing someone."

What.

"What?! Robert Floyd, you better not be messing with me!" his mother squealed over the phone. "Jim!" Bob had to pull the phone away from his ear with a grimace as his mother shouted for his father. "He's bringing someone!"

"About time," he could hear his father's gruff voice on the other end of the call. "Was gettin' worried about him out there in California. That boy's not built for the beach."

"Oh, you hush! Honey, I'll go ahead and let Mark know. I love you!" his mother's excitement could be felt through the phone, her voice all high and pitchy.

"Bye Ma, I love you," Bob huffed out. What did he just do?

"How's she doing?" Bob jumped at the sound of your voice, quickly turning to you. You lounged against the door frame of his bedroom, wearing nothing but a sports bra and some running shorts. He hadn't expected you to be home from your run with Phoenix so soon.

"Ma? Oh, uh, yeah, she's good. She's good, nothing new, y'know," he fumbled through a response, trying to not to look at the way the beads of sweat ran down your neck.

You hummed at him, "That's good. Are you still up for Thai food tonight? The new place on 4th?"

Of course, he was. When you first mentioned it last weekend, he had almost jumped at the opportunity. Sure, he liked Thai food, but sitting across from you and sharing a meal was what Bob really cherished. "Yep! Yeah, that sounds good. Ready in an hour?"

"You read my mind, Bobby," you said with a grin as you backed into your room across from his.

Present time…

“What’s wrong?” you saw the scowl on Bob’s face as he stirred the pasta like he had a personal vendetta against it.

“Huh? Oh, um, just thinking about my brother’s wedding,” he said like even the thought made him sick.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you said as you prepped the various vegetables on the countertop around you. “I love weddings. The outfits, the candles, the flowers! I can’t wait to get married. And I don’t want to have a big wedding, y’know? But like more of a backyard, summer barbecue type of vibe. Oh! And I want all my bridesmaids in different color dresses!”

Bob watched you as you described your perfect wedding, mentally taking notes. The way you had set down the knife to wave your hands around was adorable. You were always so animated, unafraid to show your emotions.

“But Bobby, the best part about weddings is…” you left the ending open for him, ushering him to fill in the blank.

“The cake?” he questioned. To be honest, he was trying to appeal to your sweet tooth.

“I mean, yeah, that’s pretty high up there. But no, it’s the look right before the first kiss. So many people say it’s the first look or the actual kiss, but for me it’s that moment where everyone knows what’s coming next and the purest emotions are on the bride and groom's faces,” you explained in pure joy and awe, like you had experienced this feeling yourself. It was sweet to watch. Your wonder and love for the simple things were something Bob loved about you.

“But, why is that moment better than the first look?” he asked innocently.

You sighed wistfully. "Just that moment when you can see the excitement on the groom's face, and he can barely contain himself. And the bride is usually so bashful, but always so excited. It's just so sweet, Bobby."

It did sound sweet. If Bob and you were getting married, he doubts he'd be able to contain his eagerness before the first kiss. No, he'd be way too focused on you to even listen to the officiant of the ceremony. Surely, he'd forget what to say, and he'd be a mess through his vows.

Bob was quiet for a minute or two, and you wondered what was going on in his head. You saw the way he had a small smile on his face, like it was hidden and just for him at this moment. And the way his shoulders relaxed, going more and more slack as time passed.

"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" you asked him with a teasing smile.

"Yeah, maybe," he chuckled and went back to stirring the pasta. Bob wanted to stay in this moment forever with you. It was so domestic. Cooking together in the kitchen you shared, laughing and throwing each other playful looks, talking about weddings. Maybe one day you'll talk about your wedding. Anything you wanted for the big day, Bob was sure to agree.

Living with you had been both the best and worst thing for Bob. A few months into the program, your lease was about to let up, and you were scrambling to find a new place. Bob hadn't known you prior to the mission that brought you all down to San Diego, but you had become close very quickly. Being two of only a few backseaters in the squad, you and Bob had spent a lot of time together in training and going over mission briefs. He had met a handful of WSOs in his time in the Navy, but knowing you was like a breath of fresh air. You never diminished your position or your knowledge, even when other pilots would question your place in the military. It was a learning curve for him to be around at first; seeing you go toe-to-toe with cocky pilots was daunting. He learned that's where your call sign came from, Bee. You were sweet, but could sting when you wanted. Soon, he got used to it, becoming more confident in himself in turn.

When you joked about bumming it on Phoenix's couch until you found a new place, Bob chimed in, "You can stay at mine. I have a spare bedroom, never really got around to using it."

"Wait, really?" you asked, fully turning your body towards him. You always did that, too, gave your full attention to whoever you were talking to. It was a bit intimidating. Bob was only now getting used to it, but still felt his heart beat pick up.

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind having a roommate," he said with a soft smile.

"Oh, Bobby, I could kiss you right now!" you said with a big grin, squeezing his forearm. He wished you had.

It wasn't until you had fully moved in that Bob realized the full consequences of his actions. You were horrible to live with.

Not in the way that you left dishes in the sink to "soak" all week, or you forgot to switch your laundry out for hours on end, or even in the way that you would blast music loudly at 2 in the morning. No, you didn't do any of those things. In fact, you always cleaned up after yourself, and Bob too, taking his plate right from his lap before he could protest. You cleaned the whole apartment, top to bottom, on Sundays. Your music carried throughout the hallways as you moved from room to room. Best of all, you baked! Every week! Trying a new recipe and being a little messy was your favorite way to unwind from a hectic work week, and lucky for Bob, he was your taste tester. Sure, you brought in your treats for the entire squad on Mondays, but Bob got to sit at the counter and watch you work. You would always gravitate towards him during this time, either letting him try the new brownie batter before you added more sugar or asking him how many chocolate chips are too many.

You were a great roommate. Always so courteous and kind. Anyone would be lucky to share a space like this with you. But it was torture actually living with you.

Too many times, Bob has caught a glimpse of you walking around in nothing but a shirt and some panties. To be fair, it was almost always after you had showered and were walking to your room. But as Bob watched you track down the hallway, he cursed himself for offering up the room in the first place.

And since moving in and getting closer, you had become even more touchy than usual with him. You were quick to give out hugs and other normal affectionate gestures to everyone on the squad, Bob included, even when he had only known you for a few weeks. But now, it was like Bob's personal space was your personal space. You always pressed into him when maneuvering around the small kitchen. Bob always held his breath, feeling you up against him, reaching for the oregano or paprika. Recently, too, your hand would work its way into his windswept hair after long days at the beach. The way your nails would drag against his scalp made him want to groan every time.

But worst of all were busy nights at the Hard Deck. On multiple occasions, barstools would fill up quick, only leaving the squad with two or three seats. It was fine for most of the night, with everyone so invested in the latest match of pool between Bradley and Jake. But after a few hours, you needed a break and always found your way into Bob's lap.

"I can get up, so you can sit," Bob stammered out the first time you sat on his lap. The rest of the squad shared amused looks, careful to hide them from both of you.

"It's okay, Bobby, I know you wanna sit too. Plus, you're comfy," you said, wiggling around trying to find the best position like he actively wasn't about to combust.

A bump of your hip snapped the man back into your kitchen. "Everything okay over there, space cadet?" you asked, tilting your head to look at him better.

"Mhm, yeah. I'm okay," he said in a small voice, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes.

Furrowing your brows, you wondered what was making Bob so distant tonight. "You know you can always talk to me, right?" you offered with a small smile. People say that but rarely mean it. But you meant it, and you wanted him to know that. He just nodded his head and continued stirring the boiling pasta. "Okay, Bobby. I'm here when you want to talk," you said as you rubbed up and down his back. You swore you saw a chill run up his spine.

You watched the way his face continued to fall as you worked on dinner. Bob was always quieter than you, so gentle and sweet. But you hoped whatever was bothering him would go away, or that he would talk to you about it at least. As the night continued, he gave you those small smiles, and your worry just grew.

જ⁀➴

"Why don't you just ask Bee?" Phoenix questioned as she grabbed the drink Penny put on the bar top. The Hard Deck was busy with patrons in all corners of the joint.

"I can't just ask her!" Bob squeaked out; he felt his cheeks flush at the thought of it.

"Why not? Because you have a crush on her? Come on, Bob," she teased him with a shit-eating grin on her face. She watched him slump against the bar as if she had just punched him in the gut. "If you won't take me, then why not Bee?"

Bob sighed, given that they had this conversation almost every day. Before training, after training, and even during training. Even the clear blue skies weren't safe from Natasha's questions. "It's not like I don't want to take you. But my parents know you. They're expecting me to bring someone home, y'know."

"Someone to give them grandchildren," Phoenix cackled as Bob groaned loudly. Penny placed his fizzy soda on the bar with a smile, knowing all about the man's debacle. Natasha thanked her, and they made their way back to the squad.

"Don't say that! I don't even, I can't even think- Oh jeez, Phoenix. No more talking about this. I've decided." The pilot swore she had never heard his voice that pitchy before. Bob shook his head as he wove through the crowd of people.

Once they had settled back into the fray of the squad, Natasha finally took to giving actual advice, not just teasing her back-seater. "I think you should just be honest, tell her. It's Bee."

"Oh yeah, let me just tell her I've been in love with her for months on end now. She's gonna think I'm a creep! Luring her into my apartment, making her live with me," he half shouted, half whispered at her. "And I also said, I didn't want to talk about this. Especially with her right there." Bob glanced at you laughing freely with Bradley, head thrown back. Your energy was contagious to the people around you, as he saw Bradley and Mickey spotting matching smiles. Bob found himself smiling to himself, too.

"She wanted to live with you, idiot. And I'm not saying confess your love. Just ask for this favor. You don't have to give anything away if you don't want to," she said matter-of-factly. If only it were that easy. Within minutes of you being in his childhood home, Bob would surely fold and show all the feelings he's been trying so hard to hide. One conversation and approving nod from his mother, and he'd propose on the spot.

The pair were too entrenched in their conversation to see you making your way over. You didn't mean to snoop, but you couldn't help overhearing snips of their chatter.

"I just don't know what I'm going to do. I have to tell Ma I'm not bringing anyone," Bob muttered, dragging a hand down his jaw.

"To the wedding?" You whipped around and saw Bob's eyes almost pop out from behind his glasses. Phoenix, however, let a mischievous glint dance on her face as she watched the two of you. Directing your attention back to Bob, you continued, "Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But if you need someone, I'll go."

Natasha let out the biggest cackle you had heard; it even caught a few of the other aviators' attention. She looked to Bob, who seemed to be frozen in time, and decided she would do her best friend a solid.

"His family is expecting a girlfriend. That's why Bob is having such a hard time," she explained. But you just furrowed your brows further at this.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said. At this, Bob nearly fell off his barstool. "I mean, I can be your pretend girlfriend for a week. I'm really good with parents and family and stuff. And we know each other well, too! I'm sure we'd be a convincing couple. So, yeah. If you need someone." Suddenly, you felt awkward under his gaze. You definitely gave it away. Who just proclaims they'd be someones fake girlfriend?

You met Jake's gaze from across the pool table and saw him biting down on his bottom lip, trying to suppress the grin on his face. Flashing a 'Help me!' face in his direction, the blonde man made his way over to you.

"Offering your fake girlfriend services again, Bee?" he asked with a raised brow. Both Phoenix and Bob shot him quizzical looks. "Bee came out to dinner with my folks when they were in town a few weeks ago. They were on me about not settling down, but she quelled those fears. Swear I've never seen my mom fall in love faster."

"Really?" Bob asked, looking between both of you. "You met his parents?" A flash of hurt crossed his face. You had missed it completely, but both Hangman and Phoenix caught the distress on his face.

"That's perfect! Right, Bob? Bee would be great," she hit his arm, trying to snap him out of what Jake had just said. The three of you looked at Bob, waiting for his response.

He nodded slowly before responding, "Yeah, I mean, if you're okay with missing the full week. I'd love to take you." Natasha grinned at his recovery, mentally noting to pat him on the back about it later.

"I can talk to Maverick about it tomorrow. I'd love to come," you said bashfully. Jake smiled knowingly at your response. He locked eyes with Natasha and winked. The woman just rolled her eyes but got the signal.

"When was the last time I beat you in pool Hangman? I think my trophy needs a little dusting off," she challenged, gaining the attention of the squad and taking it off Bob and you.

"Looking for a rematch? I'm happy to oblige," Jake said in a sickeningly sweet tone. He stepped closer so only she could hear the next part of his sentence, "I'll win this game, just like I'll win our bet."

"In your dreams, Seresin," she scoffed. "Rack 'em!"

જ⁀➴

Jake's couch had become a second home to you at this point. Its cushions surely remembered the way you would slump into them every weekend. Being Jake's back-seater was a challenge at first; you were never one to back down, and neither was Jake. It wasn't until you both had figured out that instead of going up against each other, you could turn your focus on the pilots around you. So as time went on, you bonded over your love for college football, dad rock, and surprisingly, the Great British Bake Off.

"Oh come on, Tom! No one is going to win with a ganache like that," Jake exclaimed from the end of the couch. There was no quippy response from you, and Jake raised an eyebrow in your direction. You had been like this all week. Mopey and weird. Your usual trash talk to other pilots or Maverick was replaced with a stone-cold face. It was just as intimidating, but Jake knew something was up.

Clutching the throw pillow in your arms, you couldn't even focus on the monstrosity that was Tom's cake on your screen. No, all that ran through your head was how you were going to contain yourself around Bob and his family. In just two days.

With a whack, fabric came flying on top of your head.

"Ow! Jake!" you exclaimed, immediately putting your arms up to protect yourself from further attacks.

"Jake! Don't Jake, me," he sassed you, only making the pout in your lips grow deeper. "What is going on with you? Is this still about Baby on Board?"

"Don't call him that," you grumbled, taking your pillow and whacking him across the chest.

He just rolled his eyes and continued, "Seriously, you need to get it together. Baby on Board and his family are expecting a perfect girlfriend, and right now, you're this."

You scowled at him as he chastised you. "Jake, that's mean. I just," you sighed before continuing. "I just don't know how I'm going to do this. A whole week? He'll know!"

Your dramatics were nothing new to Jake, but when it came to Bob, it seemed like you dialed it up tenfold. "This opportunity has been placed in your lap. I think you should take advantage of it, embrace it," he suggested.

"That's easier said than done," you mumbled.

This upcoming week made you queasy just thinking about it. It wasn't that you didn't want to go to meet Bob's family. No, you wanted all of it. But not like this. From the first day you met Bob, you knew you were in for it. His cute glasses and sweet smile almost had you confessing by the end of the first week.

When he asked you to move in with him, you had happily agreed. But as the arrangement unfolded, you realized what kind of agony would be in store for the near future. The way he always carried in all the groceries, not letting you lift a finger. How he always drove you, never letting you sit behind the wheel, no matter what kind of day he had. And he was so handy around the apartment, too. One day, the garbage disposal in your kitchen stopped working, and just as you were about to call someone, Bob brought over his tool kit and got down on his knees. It was way more attractive than it needed to be.

But these little daily pains were nothing compared to what you had walked in on about a month ago. You were about to go on your daily run with Phoenix when she called you from the car to cancel. Turning your keys and walking back into the house, you slipped off your sneakers and began padding down the hallway towards your room.

Just as you were about to head into your room, there was an odd sound. At first, you thought it was the apartment, settling, or something that people always say when a building makes noise. But as you paused, clutching your shoes and phone close to you, you knew it was something else. It was him.

His moans were unmistakable, so vocal and loud. And you froze. For a few seconds, you just stood there, listening. Listening to Bob falling apart. The schlepping of his hand against himself was unmistakable. The rocking of the bed, too. You had to peel yourself away from this. Away from his noise. So that's what you did.

You tried to forget it. But a part of you wanted to remember, as horrible as that sounds. You hadn't been able to look Bob in the eye for a few days after, and when you did, the heat in your tummy would start again.

The thought of sharing this week with Bob was more daunting than any mission you had ever faced.

"Hey! Are we going to watch this episode, or are you just going to sit and stew the whole night?" Jake's voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

"Sorry, just a little worried still," you said quietly. Jake had never seen you like this before, so in your own head.

He slid down the couch and placed an arm around your shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. Everything will be okay, I promise. Your biggest worries right now should be if Tom can figure out his presentation for the judges."

You giggled at his teasing. "Fucking, Tom," you murmured under your breath.

"Yes, fucking, Tom! God, he's selling it!" Jake boomed next to you, throwing you into another fit of laughter. "Seriously, Bee. Don't worry too much about this week."

"I will be texting you live updates every hour, I hope you know," you said with a grin.

"Wow, only hour updates. I was expecting every 5 minutes," Jake teased, poking into your sides. You just swatted his hands away, fighting off a smile.

જ⁀➴

Stepping onto the packed dirt and smelling the fresh Montana air was a relief to Bob. The picturesque mountain ranges were illuminated by the strong moonlight, and the sky was lit up by thousands of twinkling stars. It was something to get lost in, and that's exactly what Bob found as he turned to look at you. "It's so beautiful," you said, eye going a little wide, and your voice was quiet. Bob figured it was from your hours of traveling, maybe partly from the awe of the view.

Without looking away from you, he responded, "Very beautiful."

Bob's moment of peace with you was interrupted by a swift closing of the front door and a cheery voice. "Bob! Oh, honey, you made it safe!" an older, but spry woman ran up to Bob. You looked at the pair as they embraced and caught a look at them, side by side. Bob was much larger than the woman, towering over her. His arms stood out against her frame as your eyes trailed across his large muscles and hands without even realizing what you were doing. And his nose, it was the same as the woman who stood next to him. The cute button was something you always caught yourself looking at when tracing the map of his face.

A squeal snapped you out of your daze, and you were quickly met with a tight hug and a rushed introduction of Bob's mother's name, Pam. "Oh wow! You must be Bee! You are so gorgeous. I don't know why Bob kept you hidden from us for so long." She leaned back a bit and took you in, dragging her hands across your frame and face. You giggled at her ministrations.

"Thank you for having me this week. I'm so excited to get to know you all," you said with a sweet smile.

"Oh, we are so happy to have you, Bee! Such a cute little nickname, you don't mind?" she asked, but continued on anyway. "We were a little worried about Bob for a while there. Honestly, never thought he would-"

Bob's eyes widened, knowing the long list of stories his mother could tell you. "Alright! Alright, let's not talk about all that just yet," he cut her off with a blush that dusted his cheeks.

"Honestly," you started, gaining the attention of both Bob and his mother. "Bob is the best thing that's ever happened to me. You raised such a kind and thoughtful man. I'm so thankful for him." Your eyes met his as you spoke, sharing a look of genuine care. Pam caught the way you looked at her son and smiled knowingly.

"Well, you two had better head on up to bed. Your Pa is sleeping, but he'll be up bright and early. And everyone will be over tomorrow night to meet you, Bee," Pam said, finally letting you out of her grasp. Instead, she placed a hand on your lower back to guide you inside.

You turned to grab some of your bags to take inside, but instead saw Bob balancing all of your luggage in his hold, just the same as when you left the apartment and at the airport. He shot you a look, telling you to head inside. You rolled your eyes, but mouthed 'thank you' as you kept walking with his mother.

She led you to a small bedroom upstairs in the rustic-looking house. It was cosy, a queen bed with golden colored quilt, a small adjoining bathroom, and a small window with lace curtains. She gave you another quick hug and whispered 'goodnight' before heading back down the stairs to bed.

Bob set down your bags and let out a deep breath.

"You okay? Wanna shower first? You had a long day," you said, a hand coming to his shoulder and rubbing it sweetly. He melted into your touch, unconsciously leaning into you.

"No, no. You go first, I'll be okay," Bob said softly, trailing off a bit towards the end. You had been traveling since that morning, and you could tell how tired the man in front of you was. Your flight was a few hours long, and since his family didn't live in Bozeman or Billings, Bob had to rent a car and drive 3 more hours out to the small town.

"Bobby, go shower and get ready for bed. I'll unpack and lay out the clothes for tomorrow." You took your hands and placed them on both sides of his shoulder, pushing him into the bathroom as he chuckled lowly.

Bob gave you a tired, but grateful look before he closed the bathroom door carefully. Today had been long, but seeing the way you interacted with his mother made it all worth it.

Stepping under the warm stream of water, Bob felt his muscles relax instantly. He didn't want to take long in the shower, knowing you were waiting for him, but he also needed a few moments to himself. Reflecting on your day together, Bob felt himself getting half hard at the thought of you.

On the plane ride over, you had fallen asleep against his shoulder, your body angling into his. With your odd positioning, your tits were pressed right up against him for the majority of the flight. It took everything in him to keep his gaze straight ahead on the action movie playing on the little screen in front of him and not your soft, full chest.

His right hand drifted down, gripping himself firmly.

And your hair. You had been tucked right under his chin, and the scent of your shampoo was overwhelming. Sometimes, Bob would catch a whiff of it floating down the hallway after your showers, but now it was coming at him in waves. He felt like such a creep, but what was he supposed to do? Push you away from him? Bob didn't know the next time you would get so close to him.

Now, his cock stood proud under the stream.

In the car ride over, you had made it a point to keep him company since it was so late at night. Finding a radio station that played old country music, you began to sing along to almost every song that played. After the fourth song, Bob knew it wasn't a fluke that you knew all the lyrics so well. You explained that your college roommate was from Wyoming and was constantly playing her music in the dorms.

Bob knew he needed to keep his eyes on the road, but he couldn't help the way he looked over to your figure sitting beside him. Your lips moving along to whatever song was playing, your thighs pressed up against the leather seat of the truck, and the way your hand would occasionally find its way to his upper back, rubbing soft, smooth circles into it, all drove him to glance over at your sweet face.

His pace was steady now.

Bob felt so dirty, touching himself like this with you, only a thin wall away. But he knew if he didn't do it now, he wasn't sure when he would get a chance this week. So he hunched over the corner of the shower, trying to focus on anything but you. But like every time before this one, Bob's mind only wandered to thoughts of you.

What would you look like with water cascading down your tits? Or how your back would arch into the tile of the shower as he fucked you from behind. Best of all, how your face would twist with pleasure as he drilled into you, making you cum all over his thick cock.

That's what always got him to finish. Thinking about you, your pleasure. He caught the groan in his throat before it sounded, instead biting down on his free fist, whining lowly.

After cleaning up fully, Bob looked around the bathroom and realized he hadn't brought any clean clothes in with his. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped out sheepishly.

At the creak of the bathroom door, you looked up from your place on the ground. You were met with Bob's nearly bare form. Water droplets from his hair were dripping down his shoulders, finding their way down his chest and waist. As you tracked one of the droplets, your eyes stopped when they met his waist. Bob's v-line was even better than you had imagined, and you had thought about it a lot.

He had an aversion to taking his shirt off around others, and that was reasonable. Especially in front of a bunch of macho, testosterone-fueled Navy men. But you had always wondered what he looked like under the kaki uniform he wore so often. Seeing it up close almost had you drooling.

"Forgot a change of clothes," he explained in a quiet voice. You just hummed, not trusting your voice. Pushing up off the ground and padding over to the dresser, you opened a drawer, and Bob found all of his clothes folded and set perfectly. His heart warmed at the thought of your delicate fingers working across all the clothing he had packed for the week. You had obviously taken care of his stuff first, as your luggage was still open on the floor.

Bob grabbed a change of clothes and kept his voice at the same quiet tone, "Thank you, Bee." You smiled up at him, staring a bit too long. But quickly, you fumbled to grab your nightwear from your bag and made your way into the bathroom.

Bob dropped the towel from his waist and began to dress. He didn't miss the way your eyes trailed down his body, and honestly, it made his stomach flip. Just as he was about to lie down and call it a night, he realized you hadn't discussed the bed situation. Bob would never want to make you uncomfortable, so he shuffled down the hall and found his way into the spare linen closet, grabbing a fluffy comforter and some blankets to lie down on the floor beside the bed.

Not too long after, you emerged from the bathroom and furrowed your brows at the sight of the empty bedroom, expecting to see Bob knocked out on the bed from such a long day.

"Down here," Bob's voice startled you as his hand shot up in a lazy wave from the other side of the bed.

"Bob? What are you doing?" you asked the man, walking over to see him laying down on the makeshift bed he had set up on the hardwood floor.

He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. "Didn't want to make you feel like we needed to share the bed or anything like that."

"We've literally fallen asleep on the couch together," you said, narrowing your eyes as a teasing smile made its way to your face at his chivalry. "I don't mind sharing the bed at all, Bobby. And that can't be comfortable."

"No, no. Ma's got the best blankets. Feels like a cloud," Bob explained with a soft smile.

You narrowed your eyes at the man before speaking, "With you back? Do you remember earlier today when we got off the plane?"

Bob recalled the moment of weakness. He had stretched out a bit too far after sitting for hours on end and felt a tug throughout his body, wincing a little. You had fused over him for the next 30 minutes, almost refusing to get in the car if you couldn't drive. But Bob, of course, got his way.

He looked as if he was about to argue with you. Bob was hardheaded sometimes, but you knew just the right thing to say to knock him out of it.

"Plus, if your mom comes to wake us up and she sees you sleeping on the floor, everything would be ruined," you offered. Seeing a look of recognition flash across his face, he nodded slowly, like he was considering your words. "Come on, Bobby. I'll help you fold everything and put it back."

You giggled as he sprang up from the floor, a hand already coming down to his lower back.

"I knew your back was going to hurt! Comfy my ass," you said, smacking him lightly across the chest. He just smiled at you, joining in with some soft chuckles that warmed your heart.

Curling into bed, you felt sleep hit you almost immediately. Letting your eyelids droop, part of you wanted to stay up and think about tomorrow. To pick Bob's brain about who might show up. Worry about what they would think of you. But the sound of Bob's voice made your heart slow and breathing even out.

"G'night, Bee. Thank you again for coming with me," Bob told you, not even sure if you were lucid enough to hear him.

"Anything for you, Bobby. Goodnight," you said in the softest voice he thinks he's ever heard from you. Your words slurred a little and were definitely muffled by the pillow, but he still heard you. He saw your eyelashes flutter across your cheeks as you settled into sleep. The way your mouth opened slightly, lips parting so delicately. How your body seemed to curl into itself, making you look so small and fragile.

Wishing to hold you close to his chest like earlier today on the plane or to grasp your hand to hold in his sleep, Bob just stayed up for a few minutes longer to watch your sleeping form. Soon enough, his thoughts of you became muddy and distant as sleep took over, claiming you both now.

જ⁀➴

Bob had awoken to soft beams of sunlight streaming through the lace curtains. Everything was quiet, and Bob let himself lie for a moment, taking in the peace. Just as he was about to stretch and get up, he looked to his side and saw you.

Your cheek was still flushed up against the pillow, and your hair was in a bit of a mess as it rubbed on the fabric. It wasn't rare that Bob got to see you relax, but it was rare to see you completely void of all concerns. Usually, you were still holding some type of resistance in your shoulders or furrowing your brows slightly, even when lying across the couch at the end of the day. But now, you looked completely free. He smiled a bit at this.

Like you had sensed him mentally tracing the outline of your nose or the apples of your cheeks, suddenly your eyelashes fluttered, and you opened your eyes.

"G'morning, Bobby," you half mumbled-half whispered into your pillow. You weren't sure he understood you until hearing his telltale chuckle that was seemingly reserved for you.

"Morning, Bee," he said softly, voice a little deeper than usual. You chalked it up to the morning hours, but it still made your tummy flip. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mhm," you hummed. Bob saw that you made no effort to move from your comfortable position and chuckled again.

He often teased you for being so out of it in the mornings, but Bob had never seen you so unguarded. On the weekends you had off from training, you would usually pad into the kitchen, eyes still a little puffy and your movement still a little soft. There was one time Bob had to quickly intervene before you poured your coffee into your cereal bowl instead of your mug. But right now was different.

"Don't laugh," you grumbled. "Need like five more minutes. Or maybe ten."

Just as Bob was about to say okay and lie back under the covers with you, he heard a familiar pattern of steps making their way up the hallway.

"I'm afraid you're not going to get that, Bee," he spoke, seeing your brows fold in on themselves at his words. But soon, the bedroom door opened, and Pam was rushing to hug you good morning.

"I can see Bob has been soft on you, letting you sleep in," she joked as you shot up in the bed to meet her embrace. "We Floyds are early risers! Better start building the habit now."

"Oh, I know. Bob's up every morning at the crack of dawn, it feels like. Always hear him trying to be so quiet around the apartment," you said with a yawn as she drew away from you. Bob's cheeks heated at the thought of you being so in tune with his morning routine.

"Well, I won't rush you this morning, but breakfast will be ready in 20 minutes. Then we'll head into town afterwards, alright, Bee?" she said with a fond smile on her face. You nodded your head, saying a quick thank you as she closed the door and left.

The room was silent for a few seconds as you and Bob shared a small smile and knowing look at what had happened. "I'm only getting up early for her this week, Floyd. Don't expect any new habits when we're back home," you joked, a teasing smile on your face.

"Oh, I know. Wouldn't want to disrupt your morning routine of inside-out jeans and backwards shirts," Bob said with full seriousness as he pushed the covers off his body.

"Whatever that happened like one time," you said, pursing your lips. Hearing his laughter fill the air made your face flush with embarrassment. "One time! It was one time!"

Your protests at his teasing had no effect. Instead, Bob's laughter seemed to increase ten-fold as he doubled over in the bed.

"Bob, stop! It was one time!" you whined now. "You said it wasn't that bad."

His laughter subsided as he began to speak, "I know, I know." There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds until he spoke again, "But it was so funny, Bee." With that, Bob burst out laughing again as you half groaned, half laughed loudly.

From the kitchen, Pam smiled to herself, hearing her son's laughter carry throughout the house.

જ⁀➴

That night, like Pam had promised, Bob's extended family was over. Honestly, Bob was a little worried for you. His family could be a lot, and given that this was the first time he had brought anyone home, he expected everyone to poke and prod at you. But as his family filed into the house, your bright smile had never faltered.

Sometime after dinner but before dessert, Bob had lost you in the crowd of Floyds. He had walked through the house about ten different times at this point, looking for you, but you were nowhere to be found. Seeing the worried look on his face, his father gently grasped his son's shoulder to gain his attention.

"She's outside," he said lowly. Bob nodded and walked with purpose towards the back porch. His mind racing, thinking of all the possibilities that would've pushed you to escape outside. Were you crying? Was this all too overwhelming? Did someone ask you a rude question? Had you finally gotten sick of him? Sick of this role you were playing?

Right as he was about to push the door open, Bob paused. He saw you outside, but you weren't alone.

Gathered around you in the grassy field was a gaggle of small children, all laughing and smiling. Bob couldn't tell exactly what you were playing with the children, but after one of his younger cousins ran up to you and tapped your hip, he understood immediately. Bob smiled to himself, seeing you take off into a run as all the children screamed joyfully.

"She's sweet. Reminds me of your mother." Bob was snapped out of his trance as his father spoke. "Good job, son," he added, hand coming to clap softly on Bob's back.

Bob felt his heart race watching you. He knew you were perfect, living with you and being best friends had proven it to him. But he had never seen you like this, so carefree and thoughtful. Sure, there were nights when Jake or Bradley would get a bit too carried away at the Hard Deck, and you would be right by their side, taking care of them. But it wasn't even close to this.

Bob saw you chase around the children, never gaining too fast on the younger kids, but still giving the older ones a run for their money. He watched as all the kids gravitated towards you, all of their smiles and laughs being thrown your way. And Bob understood this feeling deeply. He had always felt a pull towards you. It came out in various ways, like always finding your eyes when Coyote would say something outrageous during training. Or bursting out into synchronized laughter whenever Jake would ultimately lose another game of pool to Nat. And his favorite was the way you would find your way over to Bob whenever you were in a large group. You could talk to Jake or joke around with Bradley, but whenever the full Dagger Squad was together on a crowded night at the Hard Deck, you were glued to Bob's side. These moments let him know that you were undeniably in each other's orbit.

Finally, Bob pulled open the door and walked out to you and your new friends.

"Uncle Bob!" one of the children exclaimed. You whipped around, seeing Bob walking up to you with a small smile on his face.

"Thought I lost you in there," he joked. You smiled, not speaking but walking closer to meet him in the middle. He met your kind eyes, but upon looking into them further, he squinted a little at you. Just as he was about to step back, you lunged forward.

"Tag! You're it!" you blurted out, giggling as you sprinted in the opposite direction. The children seemed to follow your example, all shrieking and laughing as Bob took off.

Suddenly, you heard little cries of your name. Turning around, you saw Bob gaining on you. Before you knew it, his hands grasped your waist, picking you up a few inches off the ground, bringing you into his chest.

Tucked close into him now, you felt his breath on the back of your neck. The heaving of his chest against your back had you squirming. "Can't get away that easily," his voice close to your ear. Biting down on your lip, careful to not let the whine out, you felt your tummy flip at the position he had you in.

You had come outside to escape, yes. But not from Bob's never-ending list of uncles or aunts. From him.

During dinner, he had been nothing but kind to you. Caring. Attentive. And it had been like that all day. From when you left the house and went into town with him and his mother, you hadn't as much as blinked before Bob made sure you didn't have to lift a finger. Sure, he had done this to a certain extent back in California, not letting you open the door or always opening glass jars for you when in the kitchen together. But today was a different level.

Pam insisted on getting you a pair of real, genuine cowgirl boots. She marched you into "Jesse's Boots & Shoes" and immediately sat you down on one of the little benches. After gathering what seemed like half the merchandise in the store, she came back to you with stacks of boxes full of different types of boots.

As you began to bend down to untie your shoes, Bob suddenly appeared in front of you. On his knees.

"I got it, don't worry," he said, before delicately unlacing your shoes. His large, warm hand flew up underneath your calf, and the other shimmied off your shoe. Then he looked up with that sweet smile and repeated the whole process on your other foot. You could've sworn you saw Pam snap a picture.

Later in the day, you made it back to the house and were helping Pam fix up some lunch. She handed you a big yellow onion and a kitchen knife, but before you could even take hold of the wooden handle she had outstretched to you, Bob had rushed into your view. Stealing the onion out of your right hand and gently pushing you out of the way of the cutting board, you looked at him incredulously.

"I know how watery your eyes get. I got it, just go sit down," he offered with that same sweet smile.

"I can cut one onion, Bobby," you said, playfully trying to grab the onion from his hand. He just raised his hands above his head, ensuring you wouldn't be able to reach him.

"I got it, Bee. Don't try to argue," he challenged, raising his brows. Huffing, you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the small smile that was creeping on your face.

Pam once again snapped a picture. This time, giggling to herself a bit like she knew this was going to happen.

The third time was right before everyone had arrived. You were upstairs, checking your hair one last time and making sure your outfit looked okay, when you noticed you had forgotten to put your necklace on this morning.

After retrieving the delicate piece from the bathroom, Bob had seemingly appeared. Seeing the jewelry in your hand, he walked forward with purpose, holding out his palm. You raised an eyebrow at his actions.

"Seen you do it a million times," he started. "Let me."

You nodded, not trusting your voice once again, dropping the piece into his hand. Softly, his free hand came down to your hip, guiding you to turn around.

Then, you felt his arms go around your shoulders, not touching, but there. It was so quiet in that moment. The only noise you could hear was the creaking of the old house and Bob's soft breathing close to your ear. It was distracting. Maddening, after the day you had.

Clasping the necklace around you, his hands dropped. Turning back around, you were met, once again, by the same sweet smile.

"You look beautiful, Bee," he told you before backing out of the room. "I'll be downstairs whenever you're ready."

Driven outside, you had wanted to sit on the porch for a bit. Think about what this weekend really meant for you. For Bob. For your friendship. But your plans were quickly interrupted after feeling a little tug on your leg and hearing a quiet invitation to a game of tag.

"Robert Floyd, you'd better let go of that girl! We've got apple pie coming out the oven!" Pam's voice drew you back into the heart-racing position you were in. Bob was quick to set you down, smoothing his hands over your hips in an effort to fix the creases in your dress that his hold had caused. But you saw the raging blush that crossed his face and burst out into a fit of giggles, and soon, all of his younger cousins were doing the same thing.

"I think this might be your inside-out jean moment," you teased with a smile, seeing the blush turn to a darker shade.

"Not funny," he said sternly, but you could tell he was trying to hold back a laugh.

"Mm, I recall saying something earlier this morning like that." You grinned at him, walking closer to the house, but your body was still fully facing the man in front of you. "But Bobby, it's so funny!" you laughed, throwing your head back. Bob couldn't help but smile, even if it was at the expense of his own actions.

What neither Bob nor you realized was the crowd of onlookers peaking through the windows, watching as Bob Floyd was struck with a look of love.

જ⁀➴

You had been right. The look before the first kiss was the best part of a wedding. Bob doesn't remember the last time he'd seen his older brother so giddy.

You, on the other hand, had missed it completely. Looking at the man who sat next to you instead. You saw the way the corners of Bob's mouth pulled upwards, smiling brightly.

The week had gone smoothly, both of you getting away with touches that were a little more lingering than usual or looks that called for a deeper conversation. To Bob's family, this looked like restraint, manners, and control. To you, this was torture, heartache, and suppression. You didn't know how many more instances of Bob's big hand on the small of your back you had in you before you broke completely. His gentle guidance and care throughout the week had been something that you reveled in. Returning to California, returning to normalcy, it all seemed so distant.

Sipping some champagne, you sat with Bob at the reception. Stringed bulbs lit up the night. Bright colors popped from all of the flowers that seemed to be placed on every table. And sweet music filled the air, inviting everyone to dance.

Bob studied your face under the night sky and limited lighting. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Dread filled his heart, though. The thought of this week just being a glimpse into what life would be like if he got up the courage to ask you to be with him weighed heavily on his heart.

Going to bed with you every night was something Bob didn't even know he was missing, but now he craved it so deeply. Being able to talk to you and share his thoughts with you right before bed. Getting to hear you ramble on, either about your worries or joys, was something he began to love more than anything. The way your voice would begin to taper, become gentle, when you were truly tired and ready for sleep. How you supported your face under your small palm while talking with him in the dark. How your eyes would become glassy and glazed over as you finally hit the pillow. These moments became precious to him.

"All couples! Head to the dance floor now! Tell your partner how much you care about them, and let's dance!" The DJ's voice broke Bob's train of thought. Without thinking, he rose out of his seat and offered you a hand.

Sheepishly, you took it, letting him guide you.

A soft, slow melody filled the air as you began to take your place with Bob. His hands brushed your hips, stiff, like he was in middle school, and it was his first time slow dancing. You chuckled a little under your breath.

"What's got you laughing now?" he asked, soft and sweet. Eyes searching yours with intensity you had only seen from him this week.

You looked at him for a moment and just grinned, like you knew something he didn't.

"Just so stiff, Bobby. Relax," you told him, pushing into his space a little more. Your hands found their way around his shoulders, palms settling on the broad plain of his back. Now, your face met his chest, and you melted into him.

Bob felt the sway of your hips and the light movement of your feet. If it wasn't for you, he would've stood still, not knowing what to do with you like this. Sure, he had danced like this before. But it was never this intimate. This deep. This connected.

At any moment, Bob felt like he was going to let the words spill out of him. Tell you how he was really feeling. It seemed so easy.

The way you interacted with his family. Cooking with his Ma, talking about college sports with his Pa. Even the way you talked with his brother and sister-in-law. Though it was brief, you made an immediate connection. You and his sister-in-law, chatting away like you had grown up together. And he didn't miss the way his older brother shot him a look of surprise, but approval.

But it wasn't just about them. It was also about the way you just fit so well into his life. Sure, you weren't an early riser, and Bob had learned this weekend that you weren't the best with large animals, but he didn't mind. If being with you meant slow mornings where you would coax him back to bed, hands grasping for him to come lie with you beneath the sheets, he'd be okay with that. More than okay. And if the biggest animal you owned was a chocolate lab, that would be okay by him, too.

Slowly, his large hands came around your waist, more secure and grounded. And Bob closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. Taking in this moment with you was the most important thing to him.

You danced under the twinkling lights and stars, no concern for the people around you. No concern that this was fake, that it was all pretend. Because right now, it felt real.

Hearing the thump of Bob's heart calmed you. It was grounding you, just like the gentle guitar in the background. You swayed like that for a while, but eventually the pounding of his heart and the steadiness of his figure became all too much. While the music swelled, so did your chest. Heaving up and down at a much more rapid pace.

Bob, feeling the sudden shift in your energy, pulled back, but just slightly. Still close enough to hear the hitch in your breath, to see the quiver of your bottom lip.

Your eyes blinked rapidly. Looking up at Bob seemed like an impossible task. But with a gentle touch to your chin, you did.

"Bee?" he asked softly. Concern written across his face.

"I'm sorry," you said, even quieter. With slow moments, you pressed your lips to his.

Your lips were softer than he imagined. The way your lips slotted between his was like second nature. And before you could pull back, he learned in deeper. Taking the hand that was under your chin and pressing it into the back of your head. Meeting you in the kiss, he pressed closer to you, and you felt the strong hold he had on your hip.

Bob wanted so badly to lick into your mouth, to mix your spit. But he restrained himself upon feeling the slight jump below his waist.

The solid kiss made your tummy turn in a way you didn't think was possible. Something deeper took hold of you as you melted, once again, into the man in front of you. The heaving of your chest was still present, but now it was fueled by want rather than anxiety.

Pulling away slowly, your breathing was heavy. Your eyes searched his, trying to see what he was thinking. What would his reaction to your impulsivity be?

Before your question could be answered, you were being pulled by one of Bob's cousins, urging you to go line up for the bouquet toss.

Bob watched as you were ripped away from him. His hand came up to grab onto you, but his fingers slipped against the fabric of your dress. Your eyes widen, head whipping around to look at him. But just as quick, you broke your gaze.

જ⁀➴

As soon as the door to the guest bedroom clicked shut, you immediately began apologizing.

"Bobby, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, and I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking," you said, hands coming up to your face in an attempt to hide from him.

"Bee," Bob tried to cut in, but you could barely hear him over the sound of your racing heart and rambling words."

"I didn't mean to ruin this. Ruin this weekend and make you feel uncomfortable. Ruin what we have. Our friendship," you kept going, stomach now turning at the thought of losing Bob from your life.

"Bee," he started again, but still you weren't hearing a thing he said.

Your hands now rubbed nervously down your dress, like you were trying to wipe off what had happened earlier that night. "I'm gonna go take my stuff and sleep in the bathroom or something. You don't have to share a bed with me tonight. And if you want me to move out, I will. I'm sorry, I just, I don't know-"

"Bee!" Bob's voice startled you into silence. He stepped closer to you, reaching for your hands, trying to quell your nervous energy.

Bob's hand closed around your wrists. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you looked at your best friend.

"Tonight," he started, hand rubbing softly against yours. "What did the kiss mean?"

He took a deep breath as you just stared at him.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," you said, feeling tears well up in your eyes.

"I'm not mad, and I'm not uncomfortable. I just," he took another deep breath before continuing. "I just want to know what it meant to you. Why you did it."

A tear slipped down your cheek at his soft-spoken words.

"I love you," you said quietly as more tears fell from your eyes. "I kissed you because I love you. Because I'm in love with you. I'm sorry, Bobby."

You felt your world crumbling around you. Years of friendship, laughter, and good memories all seemed to blur past you. Surely, when you got back to California, Bob would ask you to move out. The thought made you sick to your stomach.

Bob stared at you, silent. He felt like he was dreaming. All week, he had been trying to tell you how he felt. Been trying to get the words out. And here you were, saying everything he was thinking.

His hands quickly came up to your face, wiping the tears away. You couldn't look at him, eyes closed and body closing in on itself.

"Bee, will you open your eyes, please. I just want to talk to you," Bob pleaded. "I need to tell you something. Need you to look at me."

You shook your head, starting to feel like everything was all too much. Of course, he was still being sweet to you. After everything, after all of what you said and did. The thought made more tears come to your eyes.

"Please, please look at me," he asked again, thumbs now stroking your cheeks. Bob could see the internal debate you were having as your lips pushed deeper into a pout.

But after a few seconds, you opened your eyes. Blinking away the last bit of tears, you tried to look at the man in front of you.

As soon as your eyes met his, Bob smiled at you sweetly. "I love you. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner. And I'm sorry about this week. I should've told you how I was feeling, but I thought everything would go okay. That we could just go back to being normal after all this."

Your shoulders relaxed with his admission, your mouth opening just a bit to look at Bob in awe.

"But we can't," you said, voice still small. It made Bob's heart ache thinking about all that you were feeling this week, knowing he was feeling the same way.

"No, I don't think we can." His eyes dropped to your lips for a split second. If you weren't watching him so closely, you would've missed it.

Something in your stomach turned at the thought of kissing him again. Your chest began to rise and fall much like it had earlier.

Still holding your face in his hands, Bob leaned in slowly. Slow enough to let you pull away if this was something you didn't want. Slow enough that seconds felt like minutes.

Finally, your lips met for the second time that night. Less rushed than before and softer. Your eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

The kiss was sweet. Bob's heart was racing out of his chest, having you like this. He was content letting your lips brush up against each other in a soft manner. But each time you kissed, he got hungrier. It wasn't until you let a soft sound slip past your lips and into his that he pressed into you harder.

Suddenly, Bob was walking you backwards into the bed. You felt one of his hands leave your face and come down to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him.

"This okay?" he asked breathlessly as you nodded, not trusting your voice.

With that, Bob got to work on the zipper at the back of your dress. He felt your hands in his hair, on his arms, pulling him in closer. Finally, the dress dropped and you let it fall to the floor.

Bob's eyes scanned your body. Wearing the prettiest set of black lace underwear and a matching bra, he felt his stomach turn. You were perfect.

Quickly, his hands were all over your body as you fell back with him on the bed. Feeling his hard length grind down on your barely clad heat had you biting down on your lip. Bob worked his mouth against your neck, looking for the spot that would make you moan against him. His licking and biting made your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him even closer if possible.

"Please, Bobby. Need you," you whispered. His head shot up to take you in. Your eyes were blinking quickly, like you were struggling to keep them open. Your mouth parted slightly, like you couldn't take deep enough breaths. Your hair splayed out around you, like you were an angel come down from heaven.

"Want me to touch you?" Bob asked as you whined, head nodding. "Gonna have to be quiet for me, okay? I wanna help you."

"Okay, I'll be good. Promise," you said, eyes searching his. Waiting for his movements to change. Waiting for him to help you feel good.

His hands moved from your hips down to your heat. Only one hand cupping it at first, while the other worked at the back of your bra. Pushing into your underwear, Bob's big hand began to feel you everywhere. His thumb quickly found your clit, and you thought you were seeing stars as he rubbed it softly.

You felt the tightness of your bra loosen, and Bob's other hand quickly moved to take it off you completely. Seconds after, his mouth came down to your pebbled nipple, swirling his tongue around it, sucking it into his mouth.

Your jaw dropped at the feeling. His kisses and ministrations made your hips jump up into his hand. "Need more, wanna feel your fingers," you said softly, trying to keep your promise to him.

Popping his lips from your tits, Bob looked at you with darkened eyes. "Being so good for me. I can feel you, so wet for me," he praised you, but still, his hand made no effort to move further into your heat.

Your brows furrowed at this, and you propped yourself up to look at the man lying above you. "Bobby, please," you whispered, kissing his cheek sweetly.

There was no way he could resist you when you asked so sweetly. His hand made its way towards your opening, stretching your underwear a bit. Bob played with you a bit more, and you whined into the pillow next to you.

"Sorry, honey," he whispered into your ear. "Just love your little pussy so much."

Your jaw dropped at his dirty words and at the feeling of two of his fingers stretching out your heat. They felt so thick, and Bob knew exactly what he was doing, moving them with expert precision. Pushing in slow and deep, reaching your spot almost immediately, your back arched off the bed into his touch.

Bob watched as you crumbled at his touch. It had to be a dream. The way your tits heaved up and down made him dizzy. Your face, now driven into the pillow next to you, silencing your noises, made his cock jump from beneath his trousers. You lying on the bed, almost completely naked, and he still fully dressed, made him bite down on his lip hard.

He was trying to take his time with you. Be gentle. Get to know your body. But every noise that escaped you and every look of longing you shot him made his resolve crumble. He could spend hours like this, with you at his disposal to play with. But sweat beaded down his forehead in restraint. Bob had to know what your tight pussy felt like around his cock.

A hand on his bicep pulled Bob from his thoughts. He felt your pussy clench up at his fingers, and he instantly moved his thumb back up to your clit. The reaction was immediate. Your body curling off the body and into him, Bob leaned into you, taking one of your tits into his mouth again, sucking harshly this time.

"Oh, fuck," you whispered as your orgasm ran through you. You never knew your orgasms could be so intense, but with Bob's constant attention to your body, you had never felt better.

Delicately, he pulled his fingers from your entrance and leaned down to kiss you sweetly.

"You're so beautiful," Bob said breathlessly. Then he brought his fingers up to his mouth, and you felt your pussy throb all over again at the sight of him licking your slick from his fingers. "Taste so good, too," he said, popping his fingers from his mouth. "Can I taste you?"

You nodded, but apparently, this wasn't enough for him anymore.

"Wanna hear you," Bob spoke softly. "Killing me, not being able to hear all your cute noises."

"Sorry," you said bashfully. "Yes, please."

"Don't gotta say sorry. Doing so good for me, my beautiful girl." Bob leaned in to kiss you again, making you feel his want and warmth as he licked into your mouth. His mouth traveled down your body, stopping to suck dark marks into your throat and all over your tits. But you didn't stop him, not really caring about how you would cover them up in the morning. His nips and licks were much more convincing than anything your brain told you.

Finally making his way down to your heat, Bob pushed your underwear to the side. Licking a broad stripe with his flat tongue, he tried to feel all of you. Your thighs worked to close around him, but his strong hands came up to grip them just hard enough to remind you of his strength, but not hard enough to hurt you. Continuing, he kissed all over your heat, much like he had just licked into your mouth. The movements made you dizzy.

Focusing on your clit, you felt one of his hands leave your thigh and dive into your heat again.

"Bobby," you whined. Quickly slapping a hand over your mouth, remembering what you had promised him. He looked up at you, chuckling a bit at your movements. But the vibrations against your heat only made you squirm and cry out more.

Removing his mouth from your heat, he kissed your thighs sweetly.

"Need me to help you, honey?" he asked, voice low and eyes dark as they looked at you.

"Mhm, please," you whispered, still moving your hips against his fingers.

He smiled at your movements. "So needy," he whispered more to himself than anything. "Didn't think you'd be that way."

Your tummy flipped at his admission. Even if he hadn't explicitly said it, just thinking about Bob touching himself to the thought of you made your pulse race like crazy.

Pulling your underwear away from your heat, Bob tossed them across the room. His hands now moved to your waist, picking you up effortlessly, flipping you on your tummy softly.

Your neck craned back, a puzzled look on your face. But he was already meeting you half way, coming up to kiss you again and ask a question.

"This okay, honey?" Bob asked, one hand coming to raise your hips. Another guided a pillow beneath them. Your stomach turned at the thought of what he was about to do.

"Yeah, it's okay," you whispered. He smiled at this, placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head. But soon, his hand was pushing your head into the pillow, tucking your hair behind your ears, making sure you were comfortable. But still, his hand came down to guide you into the plush surface beneath you.

Not seeing Bob and only feeling him was something you never thought you would love. But the way his hands dragged down your body, fingers toying with your body, and firmly kneading your ass made your breathing sharp and shallow. Bob made his way down to your heat once more, licks more confident and sure now.

Sure enough, you whined into the pillow underneath you, pushing your hips back into Bob as he continued to work at your entrance. His tongue pushed in and out of you, sucking harshly. Hands spreading your ass, allowing him to kiss you better, get deeper.

It was quick for you to feel the familiar tug in your tummy return, ready to snap at any moment. Snaking a hand under your tummy and to your clit, Bob worked diligently to make you feel good, rubbing tight, small circles.

Your hand flew back, trying to grasp at anything you could. Your fingers found his golden locks, and you gripped them tightly as you came for the second time that night.

After a few last licks, Bob kissed up your back, letting his body sink into you a bit. It wasn't until his kisses reached your neck that you felt his hard length straining against your ass.

"So good, honey," he whispered, placing sweet kisses against your hair once more. "Gonna go get a towel to clean you up, okay?"

Soon, he moved to shift off the bed. But you shot up, grabbing his forearm.

"What's wrong?" Bob asked, concern evident on his face as he looked at you. He wondered if it had been too much. He had indulged a little bit, but he thought that you were feeling good. Or maybe he was pulling away too soon, maybe you wanted to cuddle a bit more before he got up. But what you said next made his heart jump.

"Wanna feel you. Do you not want to?" you spoke softly, forehead creasing in on itself.

Bob smiled at your question, coming back into your space, pressing his lips to yours. You smiled into the kiss, too. Something about them was so sweet and gentle, but so deep and longing at the same time.

"Course I do, just didn't want to push anything," he spoke, pulling away a bit. "And, I don't have anything here. I didn't bring any condoms," Bob whispered the last bit, like it was a secret.

"I'm clean and on birth control," you offered with a small smile that Bob swore would be the death of him.

"Me too," he said, immediately backtracking at the sound of your giggles. "I mean clean. No birth control."

Your smile grew wider at his words. Even when Bob didn't mean to, he made you laugh, always making you feel good.

"Can I see you? Think it's a little unfair you're still dressed," you teased him. Even with the faint glow of the moon and the soft bedside lamp, you were able to see the way Bob's ears turned pink.

Without a word, he began to unbutton his shirt. Scooching toward him on the bed, your hands made quick work of his belt, button, and zipper. Bob would've laughed at your eagerness if he weren't feeling the exact same way. Kicking off his pants and underwear and whipping the shirt off over his head, Bob stood before. Your tongue peeked out a bit at the sight of him.

His abs are sculpted and molded to perfection; you were able to gawk at them more openly now than a few nights ago. As your eyes traveled further, you saw his V-line, prominent and defined. And his length stood proud in front of you. Chills ran down your spine at the thought of taking all of him. You leaned down, falling on your elbows before him. Kissing his pink tip, your tongue began to kitten lick at his head.

Bob groaned audibly at the sight in front of him. Your ass up, mouth working against his length, and eyes looking up at him for approval. This wasn't real, surely. Any minute now, he would wake up in bed, spoiled underwear once again. But as you moved to take his length further in your mouth, Bob couldn't deny what he was feeling.

Knowing that if you sucked his length much longer, he wouldn't last, Bob softly grasped your head in his hands, moving you away from his length and instead onto the bed like you once were.

Lying back on the bed, you watched as Bob moved over your body. Settling on top of you, you found yourself face-to-face with him. Smiling at him, your eyes met, and you couldn't help but laugh a bit to yourself.

"What's got you so happy?" Bob asked, leaning down to kiss your neck as you let the giggles flow freely. He smiled at you, the kisses sweet rather than searing like they were before.

"I just love you," you whispered. Bob's head shot up, dopey grin now on his face.

"I love you," he whispered back. Leaning down to kiss you again, you thought about how you would never get used to this. Just a few hours ago, you were anxiety-ridden with thoughts of losing your best friend to a dumb mistake. Now, all your nerves were still on fire, but for a different reason. Bob's lips worked against yours until you felt your tummy flip again, and it seemed he felt the same way; one of his hands moved down to grip his length. Guiding himself to your heat, you felt Bob shudder in your embrace, but his lips never left yours.

Bob groaned against your lips as he pushed into you. Only a few inches at first, seeing the way your body would react to him. Your chest heaved, and your eyes screwed shut at the unfamiliar feeling. But your hands pawed at his chest and back, trying to bring him closer to you.

"Doing okay, honey? Feel good?" Bob asked, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

You whinnied a little as you answered, "Feels good. So good. You're so big."

"You can take it, can't you, honey?" Bob asked, pushing a bit more into you as your jaw dropped at the feeling. He was now kissing up and down your throat again, unable to keep himself away from your soft, dewy skin for too long.

The man felt you pulsed around him. Your heat seemingly needing more from him. Before Bob could ask, you spoke in a breathless whisper.

"More, please. I can take it."

With that, he pushed into you fully. Balls settling against your ass, pelvis meeting yours. His arms came around under your back, bringing you tight into his embrace. Bob made sure to hold onto you, made sure he was taking care of you.

When he started moving, it was filthy. The sounds couldn't be masked as he moved in and out of your heat at a steady pace, deep enough to be hitting your spot in just the right way. Your bodies began to sweat and shine under the soft bedroom light.

You tried biting down on your lip, tried to not let the sounds escape you, but it was no use. The way that Bob moved above you drew out soft, airy noises. Bob saw that you struggled to control yourself and fully feel pleasure, so he took matters into his own hands.

Placing a large hand over your mouth, Bob met your eyes. They shot wide open at first, maybe a flicker of embarrassment, but soon they became droopy again as you focused more on his thrusts into you.

"It's okay, honey," he leaned down to talk near your ear. "Know it feels good. Just gonna help you a little."

You nodded at his words, clenching around his length again. Your moans were now muffled behind his big hand. The feeling of Bob asserting himself over you made you dizzy. You knew he was confident and could take charge if need be, but this was something else. Bob worked with precision, seemingly adjusting to your every move. It wasn't long until his other hand left its spot on your hip and made its way down to your heat once more, circling your clit in what you now learned was your favorite way. His big thumb moved in tandem with his thrusts, and you opened your eyes to look at the man above you.

Bob, seeing the way your eyes glossed over, kissed your lips, briefly moving his hand before placing it back and speaking, "It's okay, I got you. Wanna feel you cum around me."

With that, the knot in your tummy unraveled. Shaking against Bob, you pushed your body as close to his as possible. Still working into you, Bob felt the way you squeezed his length and couldn't hold back anymore, coming to his high with you.

Slowly, Bob moved his hand from your mouth and instead stroked your hair, placing a kiss on your hairline. You smiled at his actions, despite being exhausted from your rigorous activities.

"I love you," Bob told you. He watched as you relaxed against the bed, shifting slightly to hold you better.

"I love you, Bobby. Thank you for inviting me this week," you said sweetly, sharing another kiss with him as he was still nestled inside you, neither of you moving to get up just yet.

He smiled at your words. Thinking back to this week and all that had happened, Bob was grateful you were by his side. From his rambunctious family to the quietness of rural Montana, you fit in perfectly. Bob couldn't wait to bring you back, properly this time.

જ⁀➴

Like always, you and Bob went along with the squad's outstanding Saturday night plans at the Hard Deck, not caring that you had just gotten back to California a few hours prior. Jake grinned at the sight of you walking into the Hard Deck, hand in hand with Bob. He watched as Bob carefully guided you through the crowd of people, delicately holding onto your waist and shielding you from the rowdy patrons.

"Well, well, well," Jake teased as soon as you had both made your way over to the pool table full of aviators. "Looks like my plan worked."

Bob's brows furrowed at this, immediately looking to you.

"No way, Bagman, you aren't getting the credit for this," Phoenix chimed in, abandoning the game of pool.

Now it was your turn to look at Bob with confusion on your face.

"I was the one who sold Bee about the parents thing," Jake argued. You felt your face flush at his admission of your white lie.

"Well, I was the one hyping Bob up for weeks about getting her to come," Phoenix fought back. Bob closed his eyes, not thinking he could survive the look of amusement on your face.

Suddenly, both of your pilots turned to you.

"So who did it?" Phoenix asked. Both you and Bob looked at each other, puzzled.

"Oh come on," Jake said exasperatedly. "You know what were talking about. Who made the first move?"

The squad was silent, watching both you and Bob under a microscope, it seemed. A slight tilt of Bob's head in your direction made Jake cry out triumphantly, pumping his fists into the air.

"I knew it! I knew it! Suck it, Phoenix," Jake whooped as onlookers watched with amusement at his antics.

"Knew it?" Bob asked, almost scared for the answer.

Jake grinned at the both of you. "Yup!" he said, popping the ending syllable in a way that made Nat's eye roll even farther back into her head. "I knew Bee would make the first move. She's gutsy! No offense, Baby on Board."

"Jake," you chastised, but knew the nickname was all in good fun now.

"Where's my twenty dollars? My wallet seems to be missing something," Jake faux-questioned, turning his attention to Phoenix.

Digging into her back pocket and sifting through her wallet, she slapped a crisp twenty-dollar bill into Jake's outstretched hand with a groan. Jake almost giggled in delight, a sound you had only heard come out of him once or twice.

"I just want to say," he started, raising his glass to the group, "that I, Jake Seresin, best pilot among us, was instrumental in ending our suffering. That is, watching these two dance around each other forever like little lovesick puppies."

The group groaned at his statement, but raised their drinks nonetheless. You giggled into Bob's shoulder, and he smiled widely at the sound. His eyes found yours and saw a playful look on your face. Before he knew it, you leaned into his space, pressing your lips to his.

The group watched as he melted into your touch, half-cheering and half-whistling.

Pulling away slightly, you smiled at the man next to you. Bob's cheeks were now dusted with pink, but he still wrapped a hand around your waist, bringing you close into his hold.

[callsign-mayhem]

One bed trope with Bradley Bradshaw is a need!! The reader is a little shy (very little) and Bradley is always loudly flirting with her too. It just makes sense. Maybe some misarrangements during a destination wedding for a dagger squad member makes this event happen.

no vacancy (b.b)

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Shy!Reader Word count: 10.5k CW: Slightly explicit content towards the end, MINORS DNI. Use of Y/N, a few swears.

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! This one got away from me a bit, so I hope it's not too far off what you had in mind. I had the best time writing this one! The one-bed trope never gets old.

Javy Machado’s wedding was supposed to be a relaxing getaway for you.

He and his wife-to-be, Paisley, had chosen Cabo for their destination wedding, and you were more excited at the prospect of a getaway with your squad than the actual ceremony.

If that made you a bad friend, then so be it.

It was a miracle that you’d all been granted leave for the three-night extravaganza, and you intended to make the most of every second. Your suitcase was full of brand new bikinis with matching sunglasses for each, paperbacks you’d been meaning to read for months, and two cute outfits for each day in case you wanted to change in the evenings. Your wedding outfit was in a separate garment bag, slung over your forearm.

The resort Javy and Paisley had picked was, quite frankly, magical—funny since it was situated in a “Pueblo Mágico,” which translated to “magical town.” Located in Todos Santos on the Pacific coast of Baja California Sur, it had its own private beach with clear blue water and white sand. Plenty of art galleries and surf spots surrounded the area if you fancied any excursions, although you had every intention of spending most of your free time lounging by the pool or swimming in the ocean.

Penny and Maverick checked in first, then the rest of your squad. Everyone was paired off and given their room keys, leaving just you and Bradley. Jake shot you a cheeky wink as he followed Nat across the foyer, and your skin prickled as realisation dawned on you.

‘You two are booked into one of our ocean-view rooms on the third floor,’ the receptionist said with a warm smile. ‘I’m going to give you two key cards, but if you lose them, let me know, and I can make you another.’

Your eyes flicked to Bradley, who had a shit-eating grin on his pretty face.

‘We’re sharing a room?’ He asked.

The receptionist frowned and glanced between the two of you with a confused expression on her face.

‘You’re Mr Bradshaw? And Miss Y/LN?’ She queried. ‘I’ve got you two down to share, as the rest of the rooms are filled with other guests from the Machado wedding party.’

You groaned internally as Bradley’s smile widened. ‘No worries,’ he said, taking the keys.

No worries? Of course he’d say that. And of course you’d be the one stuck sharing with him. Javy probably thought he was hilarious, orchestrating this. You made a mental note to tell him exactly what you thought of that when you saw him at dinner tonight.

It was an ongoing thing: Bradley’s overbearing and loud attempts at flirting with you and your hurriedness in shutting him down. Objectively, you knew he was attractive. And despite his loudness, he was funny, kind, and reliable. Bradley Bradshaw was the kind of guy most women tripped over themselves to be with, and rightly so.

But you?

You’d always believed that you were too quiet for someone like him.

He didn’t seem to share this belief, and he flirted with you every chance he got. Sometimes you wondered if he was just doing it for the bit, but he hadn’t been with anyone else for as long as you’d known him. As far as you were aware, he’d never even taken anyone home after a night at The Hard Deck, and you knew with absolute certainty that he could’ve if he wanted to.

On the walk up to the room, Bradley hummed to himself, irritatingly joyful about this turn of events. You still hadn’t said a word, because what were you supposed to say? “I snore when I’m really tired, and I like to have the windows open instead of the AC. Also, please don’t touch my expensive shampoo?” Anything you thought of in your head sounded ridiculous and obsolete. While Bradley fiddled with the key card, you pulled your phone out of your pocket to text Phoenix if she knew about this. 

Truthfully, you suspected that the whole squad knew. You wouldn’t have been surprised if Bradley had been the one to suggest it. Bradley opened the door and stepped aside so you could go in first, ever the gentleman. The room was stunning. Huge, bifold windows that opened out onto a balcony with a table and chairs for morning coffees, a flat screen TV that you doubted you’d even turn on, ornate decorations and crisp white bed sheets…

On the double bed.

The one large, double bed.

Bradley appeared behind you, smelling of clean cotton and whatever aftershave he always wore that you found yourself searching for in the shops. But that was besides the point.

‘Shit.’

You could hear the smirk in his voice, and you just managed to refrain from smacking him around the head.

‘What are we going to do?’ You fretted, scanning the room for a couch or a pullout bed, of which there was neither.

Of course.

Bradley wheeled his suitcase further into the room and pushed his aviators up into his hair. He turned to look at you, trying to gauge your reaction to the situation.

‘I can sleep on the floor,’ he offered with a shrug. ‘Or I can see if Mav’s room is any bigger. Maybe he has a couch.’

You ran your fingers through your hair. ‘You can’t share with Mav and Penny. That’s ridiculous.’

Bradley set his backpack down on the bed with a sigh. ‘Then I’ll sleep on the floor.’

‘I find it hard to believe that there’s not a single other room left in this whole place,’ you grumbled, dumping your purse on the bed next to Bradley’s bag.

‘Paisley has five sisters,’ Bradley reasoned, ducking his head into the bathroom to investigate. ‘Coyote has four brothers. They’ve invited most of their friends and family, and our whole squad and all their partners are here. That doesn’t even account for the rest of the people Coyote’s invited from the navy.’

You kicked your suitcase over with a little more force than you’d intended and unzipped it in search of a bikini. Just because you were stuck sharing a room with Bradshaw didn’t mean you had to change the rest of your plans.

‘I can’t imagine wanting a big wedding like this,’ you ruminated. 

‘You wanna get married someday?’ Bradley asked, sliding the balcony doors open.

‘If I find the right guy.’

‘Maybe you already have.’ He teased.

You gave him a flat look. ‘I think I’d know.’

‘See, you say that,’ he drawled. ‘But you seem to be painfully unaware of a lot of things.’

You gaped. ‘I am not.’ You flushed, indignant.

Bradley smirked. ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’

You set about unpacking some of your things while Bradley helped himself to drinks and snacks from the minibar.

It was strange to be alone with him in a setting like this. You couldn’t help but wonder if things might be easier between the two of you if he weren’t so damn forward all the time. Even after knowing him for the better part of a year, he always managed to catch you off guard with a flirtatious comment or a sultry stare. It wasn’t so bad at work or The Hard Deck, where you had common ground and the rest of your squad to act as a buffer, but you hadn’t spent a great deal of one-on-one time together.

Mostly because you avoided it.

If you weren’t alone with him, he couldn’t make you flustered. And if you weren’t flustered, you couldn’t make a fool of yourself.

Now, you kind of felt like you’d been thrown to the wolves, and you dreaded to think what was going to be left of you by the end of the weekend.

‘I’m going to the beach,’ you announced, grabbing your bag and a pair of sunglasses.

Bradley looked at you, chocolatey eyes wide and expecting in a way that made you want to run and jump into his strong arms. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

The sight of him was honestly just too much, and you didn’t trust yourself to be normal when he looked at you like that. 

You should’ve known you’d find Bob at the beach with a tattered paperback in hand, glasses sliding down his nose. He was a lot like you in the sense that he wasn’t one for commotion—perhaps that’s why you connected so easily.

When he saw you approaching, his cheeks dimpled with a smile so wide, you couldn’t help but smile back.

‘Hey,’ he said, closing his book. ‘You okay?’

You dumped your beach bag in the sand and pulled another sun lounger over so you could sit beside him. ‘I was,’ you replied as you sat down. ‘Until I got stuck sharing a room with Rooster. Apparently, there are no other rooms left.’

Bob gave you a glib look. ‘You know Javy and Jake planned the whole thing,’ he told you. ‘They made sure there were no more rooms left.’

Indignation sparked in your chest. ‘I knew it! I fucking knew it!’

Bob chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, Y/N.’

You waved him off. ‘I should’ve expected it from those two,’ you said. ‘Who are you sharing with?’

Bob handed you a bottle of water, and you thanked him. ‘Fanboy,’ he sighed. ‘We’re the only two singles left in the group.’

You took a sip of your water—it was nice and cold and just what you needed in the heat of the Mexican sun.

‘You forgot Rooster and me,’ you corrected, pointing your bottle at him accusingly.

Bob gave you a sly grin, which was a rarity for him. ‘Come on, Y/N. You don’t have to pretend with me.’

‘I’m not pretending!’ You sputtered. ‘Nothing is going on between me and Rooster!’

Bob scoffed. ‘Yeah, right. And I suppose the sky isn’t blue, either.’

You lay back against your sun lounger and covered your face with your hands. Sure, Bradley flirted with you incessantly, and yes, maybe you did have a teeny tiny crush on him. But you’d always found it hard to believe that there was any real weight behind Bradley’s words. You told Bob all of this, and when you peeked between your fingers, he was looking at you like you were the biggest moron in existence.

‘Rooster is a lot of things, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d play around with someone’s heart like that. He probably just doesn’t wanna go in too heavy and scare you off.’

Deep down, you probably knew this, but you weren’t ready to face the music.

‘I’m not the right type of person for him, Bob,’ you said quietly. ‘He’s literally the human embodiment of sunshine.’

The pages of Bob’s book rustled as he leaned forward and patted your hand affectionately. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, Y/CS. You’re pretty special, too.’

You looked away, blushing. ‘Thanks, Bobby.’

‘Any time you need a reality check, I’m your guy,’ he joked. ‘But seriously, you should think about what I’ve said. Maybe this weekend is the perfect opportunity to find out if he means what he says.’

Your stomach quite literally clenched at the thought.

Bradley was good at talking, but what would it be like if he actually put his money where his mouth was? You could only imagine what being truly loved by him would feel like, how changed you’d be after basking in his impossibly bright rays.

Water lapped the shore gently as you and Bob fell into an easy beat of silence. You liked spending time with Bob; being in his company was as easy as breathing, and he never asked anything of you. Because of this, you were rarely shy. What you wouldn’t have given for it to be like that with Bradley.

‘What are you reading, anyway?’ You asked, desperate for a change of subject. It was hot enough outside as it was without thinking about Bradley.

‘East of Eden,’ Bob replied, flashing the cover of his book to you. ‘I’ve read it before, but not since high school.’

‘The classic debate of good vs evil,’ you remarked. ‘Just a bit of light reading on vacation, huh?’

Bob laughed. ‘I like to keep my brain fed.’

‘I know you do,’ you smiled. ‘That’s why I love talking to you so much.’

It was Bob’s turn to flush. He looked away and swallowed nervously.

‘What about you?’ He stammered. ‘What are you reading?’

You handed him the battered, well-read copy of one of your favourite books. It was part of a series, and you’d been rereading them for nostalgia purposes. He read the blurb and nodded approvingly.

‘Sounds pretty good, actually.’

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder, making you jump. Thoughts veering totally off track, your body’s reaction told you who it was without you needing to turn around.

‘What does?’ Bradley asked, stepping over the end of your sun lounger and perching on the edge.

‘Y/N’s book,’ Bob replied, shooting you a knowing smirk.

‘What is it?’ He asked, reaching for the book which Bob handed him.

‘Just an old favourite from when I was a teenager,’ you explained, keeping your eyes planted firmly on your lap so you wouldn’t oggle too much. ‘I’m rereading the whole series.’

‘Oh, cool,’ he replied, hand coming to rest on your shin. ‘I forgot my book.’

Your eyes flicked to his calloused hand on your leg. It was such a simple, casual act, but it drove you nuts nonetheless; it was an effort to stay focused on the conversation. ‘I didn’t know you could read.’ You said sweetly, hoping you didn’t sound too affected.

Bob choked on his water, and Bradley tipped his head back and laughed, a full-on belly laugh that made your chest tighten.

‘I’ll have you know, I like reading,’ he said, locking eyes with you. ‘Just have to be in the mood.’ His grip on your leg tightened, and warmth pooled in the bottom of your stomach.

‘That so?’

‘Uh-huh,’ he grinned, winking at you over his aviators. ‘I’m going for a swim.’

And with that, he was off like a shot towards the water, muscles expanding deliciously as he ran.

Bob was trying and failing to contain his laughter.

You read a few chapters of your book, stopping now and then to share lines you liked with Bob, who was doing the same. When Bradley came back dripping wet and somehow even more God-like than he’d been thirty minutes ago, you decided it might be a good idea to go for a swim as well, just to cool down. Being around him on base or at The Hard Deck was bad enough, but on a beach in Cabo in the blistering summer heat when he looked like that? It was impossible to think straight, especially when he pulled a sun lounger so close to yours that the arms touched and took a long drink from your water bottle. The worst part of it was that he did all this as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Almost like you were already a couple, which everyone else in your squad seemed to think you were.

Nat and Jake appeared with more drinks and a large platter of fresh fruit to share, which she promptly deposited in Bradley’s lap so she could lay her beach towel out. Jake took one look at Bradley, who was so close to you you might as well have been sharing a sun lounger, and smirked to himself like the cat who got the cream.

‘This looks cosy,’ he drawled, moving his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to another.

Bradley squinted up at him, unable to move without jostling the impressive tray of fruit. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something smart in response to Jake’s comment—something that would probably make you even more flustered—so you jumped up and grabbed hold of Nat’s arm.

‘Shall we go for a swim?’

Nat straightened, eyes flicking from you to Bradley as a knowing look spread across her face. You could feel Bradley’s gaze burning holes into your back, and you adjusted the straps of your white bikini self-consciously, suddenly hyperaware of the miles of skin you had on display.

‘Sure,’ she replied, brows raised. Then, once you were out of earshot of the rest of the group: ‘You’re acting weird.’

You threw your hands up. ‘I can’t help it! I feel like a caged animal!’ She laughed and you shot her a glare. ‘Glad to see my pain is funny to you, Trace.’

‘Oh come on,’ she nudged your ribs playfully. ‘You need to relax, stop taking it so seriously.’

You’d reached the shore. The cool, clear water lapping at your ankles was just the kind of grounding you needed.

‘I can’t help it,’ you whined. ‘There’s too much pressure on the situation. Bob told me that Jake and Javy were behind us sharing a room.’

Nat rolled her eyes. ‘You weren’t supposed to know that.’

‘You knew too?’ You exclaimed, shoving her lightly. ‘I can’t believe you! Dating Hangman is really rubbing off on you in the worst possible way.’

The two of you waded deeper until the swell reached your waists; then, you leaned back and let the tide claim you, your hair fanning out beneath the waves.

‘If it makes you feel any better,’ Nat said, pushing her dark hair out of her face. ‘Bradley didn’t know.’

You regarded your friend. Being the only two females in your squad meant that you were quite close, and you always knew when she was lying. You could tell by the set of her shoulders and the look in her eye that she was telling the truth about this.

‘I just don’t like being backed into a corner,’ you admitted, scrunching your toes in the sand. ‘He makes me nervous enough as it is.’

‘Y/N,’ Nat sighed. ‘Can I give you a piece of advice?’

‘I have a feeling you’re going to anyway, no matter what I say.’

She gave you a glib look. ‘Get out of your own head and just lean into it,’ she told you. ‘So what if Jake and Javy orchestrated the whole thing? At some point, something had to give. He looks at you like you hung the fucking moon in the sky.’

You couldn’t help but glance back at the beach. With the distance, you couldn’t be certain, but you were pretty sure that Bradley was still watching you over the top of his sunglasses.

‘Bob said pretty much the same thing,’ you relented.

‘Well, Bob’s a smart guy,’ Nat said, standing up. ‘If you’re not gonna listen to me, you should listen to him.’

You followed her back to shore, mulling over what she’d said. Did Bradley really look at you like you’d hung the moon? Most of the time, you were too flustered to properly read into it, but maybe your friends were right, and there really was more to his flirting than simply getting under your skin.

As you approached the guys, Bradley tracked you without shame, leaning back on his forearms like he didn’t have a care in the world. You almost lost your nerve when he sat up higher and pulled his sunglasses down further so he could see you better. For once, instead of shying away, you decided to be bold and add a little sway to your hips. His eyes immediately darkened as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

When you reached your sun lounger, you took your time drying off with your towel and brushing the sand from your legs before sitting down. Bradley’s attention never once left you.

‘You’re always looking at me like that,’ you said lowly, so only he could hear you.

‘Like what?’ He asked, smirking.

‘You know what.’

He reached up and ran his fingers through his curls and released a long breath. ‘Sorry. Can’t help it.’

His voice had dropped lower, and he seemed to be struggling to sit still. In the spirit of leaning into it like Nat had said, you allowed yourself a small moment of satisfaction in knowing you had an effect on him.

‘Don’t apologise,’ you told him.

His eyes darted to you, questioning, like he wasn’t sure whether he’d heard you correctly. The air seemed to shift around the two of you, and you were distantly aware that there was no turning back now.

‘I’m gonna go get some ice cream,’ you announced. ‘Want one?’

‘Sure,’ he sputtered, tracking you once again as you stood up. ‘Thanks.’

You flashed him your widest, prettiest smile and relished in the way his lips tugged upward beneath his moustache.

‘No problem, roomie.’

Bradley let you take the first shower when you got back to your room. You took your time washing your hair twice, and then took extra care scrubbing the sand from every inch of your body.

You were stalling.

The Daggers had a reservation at a fancy restaurant a little way from the resort, but it wasn’t for another hour. That meant sixty whole minutes alone in a room with Bradley Bradshaw with nobody to act as a buffer and no ocean to disappear into.

Hence the twenty-minute-long shower.

The bathroom was just as beautiful as the rest of the suite, complete with a waterfall shower, his and hers sinks and light-up mirrors. You stepped out onto the fluffy mat in search of a towel, but all you could find was a couple of small hand towels.

An icy chill ran down your spine as you remembered the towels folded up at the foot of the bed.

Fuck.

Gingerly, you opened the bathroom door and poked your head out. Bradley was stretched out on the bed, flipping through your current read.

‘Can you pass me a towel?’ You squeaked. ‘There are none in here.’

Bradley’s head snapped up.

You watched the realisation that you were naked behind the door wash over him, and his eyes darkened just like they had on the beach. A sly grin tugged at his lips as he set your book down and swiped a towel from where they were folded into swans.

‘What’s the magic word, sweetheart?’ He teased, voice an octave lower than usual.

Your toes curled instinctively, grip tightening on the edge of the door

‘...Please.’

He came right up to the bathroom door, but didn’t hand the towel over right away—just stood there, a little too close, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

His eyes flicked over your face and settled on the water pooling in your collarbones. You thought you saw his breath hitch, though surely smug, confident Bradley Bradshaw wouldn’t be so affected by the sight of your naked shoulders.

You reached around the door and waved your hands impatiently, and he blinked as though startled.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, biting back a grin as he handed you the towel. When his fingers brushed yours, your breath hitched, and you slammed the bathroom door shut suddenly and leaned against it.

He didn’t even have to try to get you worked up. Honestly, it was a little embarrassing.

After wrapping yourself in the fluffy towel, you bit the bullet and walked out into the bedroom. All your clothes were in your suitcase because—of course—you hadn’t thought to take them in the bathroom with you. You didn’t feel like asking Bradley to root through all your underwear to find you an outfit, thank you very much.

He didn’t move an inch as you sashayed across the room, just kept his eyes planted firmly on the wall in front of him, jaw set like it took effort to keep them there. After the way he’d stared at you at the beach earlier, you weren’t sure why he was bothering to be chaste now. He swiped another towel from the foot of the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, all without fully turning around, like he was afraid to look at you.

Or maybe he was afraid that you’d look at him.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, you moisturised and put on your evening dress. It was a cute, baby yellow number that you’d picked out especially for this trip. Admittedly, you’d had Bradley in mind when you’d bought it, though you’d die before ever telling anyone this.

It was hot enough outside that you could leave your hair to air dry, so you grabbed a mini bottle of prosecco from the fridge and a glass and headed out onto the balcony. The view of the private beach was breathtaking and made you wish you could take vacations more often.

By the time you heard the bathroom door open, the sun had started to set, and you’d nearly finished your drink.

Bradley had taken longer than you in the shower, and that was saying something.

You blamed the bubbly for your inability to keep your eyes on the beautiful ocean view, and turned subtly in your seat.

Bradley had his back to you, a white towel hanging low on his waist. Up until now, you hadn’t given men’s backs much thought, but now you were reconsidering. The expanse of tanned skin pulled taught over impressive muscles had you wondering about other areas of his body.

Now who was shamelessly staring?

Practically drooling, you watched him dig through his suitcase for some clothes, mesmerised by his fluid movements—so mesmerised, in fact, you only just managed to turn back around before he dropped his towel to the floor.

‘Hey, Y/CS?’ He called.

Your stomach somersaulted. ‘Yeah?’ You squeaked.

‘This mirror on the wall by the door’s nice, huh?’ He replied, smirk audible in his voice.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to work out what he was talking about. What did a mirror have to do with anything?

Silence stretched out for a second.

Then it dawned on you.

He must have seen you ogling him in the reflection.

Heat crept up the back of your neck as you rubbed your temples, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

After a few minutes of quietly simmering with embarrassment, Bradley appeared on the balcony, dressed in black dress pants and a loose-fitting, white linen shirt. He’d combed his wet hair back, and his aviators were perched precariously on the tip of his nose. To top it all off, he smelled delicious.

‘Ready to go?’ He asked innocently.

You knocked the rest of your drink back and stood up. ‘Yep.’

He followed you across the room, and just as you opened the door, he placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you. Gently, he untucked your wet hair from beneath the back of your dress and tucked it over one shoulder so your back wouldn’t get wet. It wasn’t the feel of his fingers against the nape of your neck that startled you; it was the softness of the gesture. It affected you more than his loud, outward attempts at flirting.

You were frozen to the spot as he let his hand linger for a little longer than he should’ve before pulling away.

‘Thanks.’ You squeaked.

He was so close to you that you could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he said: ‘No problem, roomie.’

The restaurant was called Jazzamango, and it sold the most expensive pizza you’d ever had in your entire life. It had been Mav and Penny’s idea to come here, and they were paying for the whole thing. The Daggers were family, and you were grateful for the way Penny had taken you all under her wing—just because Mav had to, didn’t mean she did.

Naturally, you ended up sandwiched between Natasha and Bradley, because there had been no other seats left when you arrived. It was incredibly hard to focus on your $400 pizza when Bradley’s leg kept knocking into yours beneath the ornately decorated table. Every time it happened, you inched a little closer to Nat.

‘Wanna sit in my lap or something?’ she whisper-shouted after the fourth time it happened.

‘Sorry,’ you hissed. ‘Bradshaw’s all up in my personal space.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you’re sharing a room with him for the next three nights, so you might wanna get used to it.’

You flashed your teeth at her. ‘Thank you for captioning my nightmare.’

‘You know, this whole playing hard to get thing is getting really boring to watch,’ she told you with a smirk. ‘I thought I told you to lean into it.’

His knee touched yours again, and this time you didn’t move away—you told yourself it was because you had nowhere else to go, but was it?

‘Relax,’ Bradley murmured, low enough that only you could hear. ‘You look like you’re about to bolt.’

‘Maybe I am.’ You shot back.

‘Don’t,’ he said simply, before going back to his conversation with Reuben and his girlfriend.

By the time desert came out, you were jumpy, exhausted and ready for bed. Which would’ve sounded inviting after a day of socialising, if not for the fact that you had to share with Bradley.

‘So,’ Nat said suddenly, cutting into her piece of cheesecake. ‘How’s the room?’

You almost choked on your drink, but Bradley didn’t even look up from his plate. ‘Great, actually.’ He said.

‘Is it?’ She asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said, finally glancing your way. ‘We’re getting along really well.’

You kicked him under the table. Hard. His leg didn’t move. In fact, it pressed closer.

You went completely still.

By now, you were sure this man was going to be the death of you, and you were sick of him always getting one up. Resolutely, you put your hand on the top of his thigh and squeezed, hoping nobody would notice. His fork clattered onto his half-empty plate as he glared at you, pupils blown completely black.

‘Yeah,’ you smiled at Nat. ‘We are.’

She couldn’t see your hand from this angle, but she could see the pained expression on Bradley’s face. Honestly, you were taken aback by your own boldness. You had no idea whether to move away or double down, and your pulse was going ohshitohshitohshit.

‘Weirdos.’ Nat huffed.

For the first time since you’d met him, Bradley Bradshaw didn’t have a comeback.

He ate the rest of his dessert in a stunned sort of silence, glancing at you now and then like he was making sure you were really there. 

When you got back to the room, the energy between you and Bradley was loaded in a way it hadn’t been before.

You didn’t know if Bob and Nat’s words had gotten to you, if you’d had too much champagne or if the forced proximity to Bradley had finally broken down the last of your resolve—either way, you were seeing the situation from an entirely new angle.

It was hard to believe that all these months of teasing had purely been for fun when he’d looked at you like that when you’d grabbed his thigh. And this stunned silence he’d been trapped in since the restaurant? It was so unlike him that you could only assume you’d had a real effect on him.

Bradley went over to the minibar and grabbed two miniature bottles of Patròn.

‘Do we have to pay for these?’ He asked, waving the bottles at you.

‘I guess so,’ you replied, following him out to the balcony. ‘Unless the happy couple are footing the bill at the end.’

He handed you one of the bottles and uncapped his. ‘Guess we’ll find out,’ he smirked. ‘You ready?’

You scrunched your nose up. ‘We’re just gonna drink it straight?’

‘That’s the whole point of tequila,’ he reasoned.

Shooting straight tequila in a hotel room with Bradley Bradshaw? You said a silent prayer for your sanity before following Bradley’s lead and downing it, wincing at the harsh taste.

‘I don’t usually drink tequila,’ you sputtered.

‘Neither do I,’ he admitted, smiling sheepishly. ‘Doesn’t normally end well.’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ you laughed.

And that’s how you and Bradley ended up swapping stories about your worst drunken nights. By the end of it, you were clutching your sides, which ached from laughing so hard, and your jaw hurt from smiling so wide. He made you feel careless and present in the moment, as though nothing and nobody outside of it was more important. It was easier to laugh than to acknowledge what had changed.

Eventually, you cast a glance at the very inviting bed. Bradley watched you intently, like he was waiting to see what you’d say first.

The tequila had gone straight to your head. You leaned back in your seat and took a deep, steadying breath of ocean air.

‘You can’t sleep on the floor, Rooster. I wouldn’t be able to sleep.’

Bradley gave you a bemused grin. ‘You wouldn’t be able to sleep?’

‘No,’ you pouted. ‘Because I’d just be thinking about how uncomfortable you were all night.’

Fiddling with his empty bottle, Bradley smiled dazzlingly. ‘You would?’

Before you could stop the words flying out of your mouth, you asked: ‘Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?’

Bradley’s smile dropped, suddenly serious. ‘Kinda.’

His admission was like a sharp stab in your chest. ‘Well, I do.’

He didn’t drop his gaze from you as he said: ‘That’s good to know.’

Suddenly, the quiet between you was too loud. You couldn’t sit still anymore, and you could feel your clothes sticking to your body.

‘I’m going to put my pyjamas on,’ you announced, getting up from your seat.

‘Need a hand?’ Bradley teased.

Your mouth dried out at the thought. ‘Nope,’ you squeaked, hurrying into the bathroom with your night things.

As you dressed, you wished you’d brought something a bit nicer than an old Harley Davidson t-shirt and skimpy sleep shorts, but you hadn’t been expecting anyone to see you after 10pm. What kind of psycho could sleep in lace, anyway?

After brushing your teeth and combing through your hair, you headed back into the bedroom where Bradley was perched on the edge of the bed scrolling on his phone. He was shirtless in a pair of grey sleep shorts, and your brain short-circuited at the thought of sharing a bed with him.

When you flopped down on top of the duvet, he turned to face you, propping his head up on his hands. God, he was handsome. Nobody had the right to be so perfect.

‘I sleep with the windows open,’ you told him, lips tugging upward. ‘No AC. And sometimes I snore if I’m really tired.’

Bradley laughed delightedly. ‘I sleep with the windows open too,’ he told you. ‘And I snore all the time.’

‘Now you’ve got me second-guessing letting you sleep in the bed with me,’ you joked.

Bradley laughed again, and something in your chest shifted. You found yourself trying to come up with ways to hear that laugh again.

He sat up and moved further up the bed, close enough to you that you could feel heat rolling off him.

‘You’re on my side, though,’ he said huskily.

‘That so?’ You asked, raising a brow.

‘Yup.’

Emboldened by the wicked glint in his eye, you straddled him so you could get to the other side of the bed. Instinctively, his hands flew to your hips, and even though the contact and proximity were short-lived, it still set an electric current buzzing beneath your skin. His little ‘oof’ had your pulse jumping into your throat.

Without giving him any time to respond, you reached over and snapped the bedside lamp on, plunging you into near total darkness. The only light came from the moon, which was almost full up in the sky, and a spattering of twinkling stars.

Bradley pulled the duvet back and nestled beneath it, and you followed suit. You could barely hear the ocean outside over the pounding of your own heart as you grabbed a few of the extra pillows (what bed needed this many?) and made a barrier between the two of you. You knew full well that it was childish, and you felt a bit like an idiot, but really, what other choice did you have?

‘You’re not serious,’ Bradley laughed, voice more unsteady than usual. You couldn’t tell him that you didn’t trust yourself, or that you knew you’d never drift off to sleep if you could feel him lying beside you.

‘Night roomie.’ You said sweetly.

He scoffed, but you could hear the smile in his voice when he said: ‘Yeah. Goodnight.’

You woke up a few hours later completely disoriented.

It took you a moment to remember that you were away in Cabo, and not in your own bed in San Diego.

Slowly, you came to terms with your surroundings: the lovely, light breeze in through the balcony doors, the sound of the ocean gently lapping the shore, and someone snoring.

Your brain hadn’t quite caught up yet—it was still somewhere between sleep and waking.

And then it did, all at once.

The pillow barrier you’d built hastily before falling asleep had been kicked to the foot of the bed. In your sleep, you and Bradley seemed to have found your way into each other’s arms. Your face was pretty much buried in his chest, and both of his strong arms were wrapped around you. He smelled of sandalwood and sunscreen, and he was so incredibly warm.

You’d never been this close to him before. Not like this. Not where you could feel every single breath he took.

The heat you were becoming all too familiar with unfurled deep in your belly. It was desire mixed with nerves and anticipation, and it was slightly intoxicating; better than any expensive champagne.

You debated rolling away, probably should have rolled away. But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Bradley was so warm and inviting, and he wasn’t awake to make a sly remark and totally ruin the bliss. Tentatively, you draped your arm across his middle, hand hovering for a second before you let it settle against his back, fingertips tracing slow, absent lines like you were testing whether the moment was real. He shuddered in his sleep, and your breath caught, and not because he’d moved—because he’d felt it.

You bit back a pleased grin.

Just as you’d started to drift off again, his arms tightened around you, somehow pulling you even closer.

‘Y/N?’ He murmured.

You inhaled sharply. ‘Yeah?’

‘Are we cuddling?’

And damn if his raspy, sleepy voice wasn’t the sexiest thing you’d ever heard in your entire life.

‘I think so.’ You whispered.

Silence for a second, then a quiet, ‘Okay.’

His grip didn’t loosen; it just settled, like he’d decided something. And not two minutes later, he was snoring again.

Just like that.

You didn’t move, not even after he’d fallen asleep.

And that meant something you weren’t quite ready to face just yet. 

Bradley didn’t think he’d ever been this close to losing his mind before.

Every little thing you did drove him insane—the way you got embarrassed and couldn’t hold eye contact when he flirted with you, the smell of your expensive shampoo, the sight of you in that fucking white bikini, water sliding down your stomach and legs.

And now, he could add your little snores and the way you clung to him like a koala in your sleep to the list.

He woke up to you still nestled against his chest, arms wrapped around his torso like you two did this sort of thing every night. It didn’t surprise him that you two fit together like puzzle pieces—he’d always known that you were meant for each other. What surprised him was that you hadn’t moved all night, even after waking up and finding yourself pressed against him. Most of the time, he had a hard time even having a serious conversation with you without you disappearing on him or retreating inward, so he was counting this as a step in the right direction.

Being careful not to wake you, he peeled your arm off him and crept to the bathroom, closing the door behind him softly. No matter what, he started every single day with an ice-cold shower, but today it was more necessary than usual. His skin smelled of your perfume, he finally knew what it felt like to hold you close, and after spending the better part of six hours pressed up against your gorgeous body, he was more than flustered.

He gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, suddenly all too aware of his own body, which had totally betrayed him.

He felt more than a little guilty for sorting out his morning problem with you sleeping ten feet away, but what other choice did he have? You cut and run from in The Hard Deck when he winked at you, so he couldn’t imagine what would happen if you woke up to his dick pressing against your stomach. Hell, you’d probably never be able to be in the same room as him again.

Bradley tried not to take it personally; he really did. He understood that you were shy and more reserved than the rest of your rowdy squad. But that was one of the things he loved most about you. He also knew that you didn’t believe that he genuinely liked you, that he wanted more with you than the sex he hinted at too often.

Maybe that was his own fault, but he just loved teasing you so damn much.

As he went through the motions of his morning routine, he thought about how incredible it had felt to wake up cuddling you. By the time he was done in the bathroom, he’d replayed the memory so many times he no longer fully believed that it had really happened. Had he dreamt your arms tightening around him, or the lazy circles you’d traced into his back?

The sight of you tucked up in the middle of the bed, hair splayed out across his pillow, was the only proof he had that any of it was real. Bradley dressed quickly and grabbed his phone and key card. Breakfast would be starting any minute, and he thought you might like some time to yourself to get ready for the busy day ahead. Cocktails had been scheduled for the afternoon, followed by the rehearsal dinner, and he knew you well enough to know that you’d want some time to charge your social battery before all that.

Down in the restaurant, Natasha, Jake, Mickey and Bob were already seated at a table close to the window. Bradley grabbed himself a cup of black coffee and a plate of fresh fruit before joining them.

‘There he is!’ Jake said, smirking smarmily.

‘Fucking finally!’ Nat exclaimed. ‘I need details, now. Did it happen?’

Bradley stabbed a strawberry with his fork. ‘No.’

All four of his squad mates visibly deflated with disappointment. ‘What do you mean “no?”’ Nat demanded. ‘You shared a bed with her! She had like, four glasses of champagne!’

‘So?’ Bradley rolled his eyes. ‘What was I supposed to do, take advantage of her because she was drunk?’

Bob leaned forward in his seat. ‘Did anything happen? Anything at all?’

Bob Floyd wasn’t one for gossip, so if he was interested, then the situation must have been getting dire.

Bradley shrugged. ‘We had some tequila, chatted for a while, then we went to bed.’

‘Did you share the bed?’ Mickey asked, waggling his eyebrows.

‘Yeah,’ Bradley snorted. ‘With a fucking pillow shield between us.’

Jake’s eyes lit up, and Bradley immediately regretted saying anything. If you found out that he’d told anyone about what had gone on behind closed doors, you’d never talk to him again.

‘Come on, Rooster,’ Nat pleaded. ‘Just make a move already!’

‘I don’t know if she wants that! She’s so hot and cold, I never know whether I’m coming or going.’

‘But I bet you wish you were co—’

Natasha punched Jake’s arm, cutting him off abruptly. Bradley busied himself with his fruit, although it was difficult to focus with four pairs of eyes boring holes into the top of his head.

He huffed. ‘We cuddled.’

Chaos erupted. He only meant to give them something to shut them up, but now he was being bombarded with a whole slew of other questions, like “who initiated it?” and “did you get to second base?” Bradley banged his fork down onto the table.

‘Can you guys cut it the fuck out!’ He snapped. ‘It’s none of your business—and if you tell her I told you that, I’ll never speak to any of you again.’

Mickey snorted. ‘Yeah, cos it took you a whole fucking year to even get her in a room alone.’

Bradley picked up a grape and threw it at Mickey’s head.

‘Low blow, Fanboy,’ Nat growled.

Mickey threw his hands up. ‘But it’s true!’

‘Y/N’s different,’ Bob said quietly. ‘If you really wanna be with her, you have to show her that it’s not all just for show.’

Bradley blinked. He knew you and Bob talked a lot, probably because you were both quiet and relatively reserved. Judging by the look in the WSOs eyes, he knew more than he was letting on.

Nat nodded in agreement. ‘Bob’s right,’ she said. ‘Maybe slow down on the flirting and let her get comfortable.’

Bradley chewed on this. Out of everyone in your squad, Phoenix and Bob definitely knew you best. If he was going to take anyone’s advice, it would be theirs. Maybe all his shameless flirting was only harming his cause.

He could tone it back, let you come to him for a change. He just had to hope that you actually did, because he didn’t think he could survive another night in bed with you without kissing you.

Bradley couldn’t stop admiring the way your pretty, blue evening dress clung to your body in all the right places. You looked so stunning he couldn’t think straight, just kept going back to the previous night in his mind.

You sipped your cocktail, smiling slightly at something Penny was telling you.

It was the first time he’d seen you since this morning in the room. When you hadn’t come down for breakfast, he’d taken you up a croissant and some coffee, but you weren’t in the room. He’d checked the beach, the pool and the bar, but he hadn’t been able to find you anywhere. He didn’t even see you when he went back to the room to get ready for cocktails and the rehearsal dinner, which was disconcerting.

It wasn’t until he’d arrived at the garden that he saw you, leaning against the wall with an impressive-looking drink in hand, chatting with Penny. Either you hadn’t seen him come in, or you were ignoring him, because you hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction.

Javy clapped a hand on his back, startling Bradley from his reverie.

‘How’s it going?’ He asked, face split in a wide grin.

‘Good,’ Bradley replied. ‘What about you? Feeling the pre-wedding jitters yet?’

Javy shook his head. ‘Not in the slightest. When you know, you know. I’ve never been more sure of anything my whole life.’

Bradley’s eyes darted to you. ‘I get that, man.’

Javy followed Bradley’s line of sight and smiled sheepishly. ‘I hear mine and Jake’s plan isn’t exactly working.’

Bradley shrugged, hoping he didn’t look as dejected as he felt. ‘Bob and Phoenix think I’ve been coming on too strong, but I’m not sure if it’s that anymore. Maybe she just doesn’t like me back.’

‘Bullshit,’ Javy said. ‘You just need to take a different approach.’

‘Yeah, so I’ve heard.’

‘It’ll happen. Like I just said—when you know, you know.’

Bradley nodded, because he did know. He just wasn’t sure that you did.

You were halfway through your drink when you felt him beside you. You kept your eyes trained on the couples dancing beneath the pergola, which was strung with twinkling, golden fairy lights. Bradley inched closer to you, resting his arm on the back of the stool you were sitting on. You wore a backless dress, and the feeling of his arm against your bare skin reminded you of last night.

‘You disappeared on me today,’ he said quietly.

You leaned back slightly until you were almost in the crook of his arm ‘Sorry.’

‘Everything okay?’

You didn’t even know where to start. ‘Yeah,’ you said. ‘Just wanted some peace and quiet.’

‘Charming,’ he said, voice teasing.

‘I didn’t mean—’ you sputtered, covering your face with your hands. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

His chuckle reverberated through your body. When you removed your hands from your face, he leaned even closer to you. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured, eyes darting to your lips. ‘I get it. You don’t have to hide from me, Y/N. I can go as slow as you want.’

You lost yourself in the depths of him, totally enamoured. It was as if the rest of the garden had faded away, and it was just you and Bradley left. A few more inches, and you could’ve kissed him. It would’ve been so easy if you could just forget about your insecurities and stop overthinking everything.

‘Why do you keep trying with me?’ You asked a little breathlessly.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lightly brushing your jaw, and your whole body trembled with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ He answered.

Your eyes fluttered closed. His breath fanned across your face as he exhaled, slowly closing the distance between the two of you. Your stomach flipped just as the tip of his nose bumped yours, and

‘Everyone, if you could please make your way to the dining area,’ somebody announced over the microphone. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’

The spell was broken.

Around you, everyone scraped their stools back or set their empty glasses down on tables. Your body was a live wire, veins coursing with adrenaline that now had no place to go. Bradley pulled back, and your heart sank, and that was when you realised just how much you wanted him to kiss you.

He gazed at you longingly and held out his hand for you to hold, which you took. ‘Later,’ he breathed. 

This time, when Bradley’s leg touched yours beneath the dinner table, you didn’t pull away.

That alone told you everything had changed.

Like last night, you’d spent most of dinner thinking about sharing a room with Bradley, but it was different tonight. You’d given yourself time to breathe instead of immediately talking yourself out of anything. You hadn’t let yourself go round in circles about the cuddling or what it meant, just let yourself accept that it had been nice. And that almost kiss? The way your body and heart had reacted told you everything you needed to know about how you truly felt about Bradley—something you’d always known, deep down, but had been too afraid to let yourself accept.

Part of you still found it hard to believe that Bradley truly liked you, but Bob and Nat’s words were starting to make a lot more sense to you now you’d seen he could give you more than obnoxiously flirty comments that set your skin on fire.

I can go as slow as you want.

Bradley was midway through a conversation with Mav when he filled your wine glass up for you, like taking care of you was something he didn’t even have to think about.

You tipped your head to the side, resting it on his shoulder for two seconds while you thanked him.

Nat, who was opposite you tonight, caught the whole thing and raised a brow.

You flushed scarlet, but didn’t pull away from Bradley, and she smirked knowingly. The two of you were good at having conversations with just facial expressions, and hers right now told you that you would be talking about this later, even if she had to tie you down to force information out of you.

When you finally looked away from her, your eyes caught on Bradley’s. He wasn’t listening to Maverick anymore; he was already looking at you. Not in that easy, teasing way you were used to—not like he was about to say something that would make your cheeks burn and your heart race for all the wrong reasons. This was quiet and steadier, like he was waiting.

Your breath hitched as something warm and certain settled low in your chest.

You didn’t look away this time, and neither did he.

After dinner, Javy and Paisley’s parents gave lovely speeches, and then, as he was basically an extra father for all intents and purposes, Mav gave one too. It made you a little emotional to see Mav standing so proudly as he recounted stories about Javy and his many achievements in the Dagger squad.

By the time all the plates were cleared and the speeches were finished, you could hardly keep your eyes open.

Bradley put a steadying hand on your shoulder. ‘Shall we go up to bed?’

You’d never experienced butterflies like the swarm that fluttered in your stomach at those words. Like going up to bed was something the two of you did—like it was normal. A world existed where those words actually meant something, and the two of you were right on the precipice of it.

‘Yeah,’ you said, taking his hand once again. ‘Let’s.’

He was grinning from ear to ear as you stood up and wrapped your hand around his bicep.

You threw a glance behind you at your squad, who were losing their collective shit. Maverick and Penny shared a knowing look that made you wonder just how many people were rooting for you and Bradley, and whether you were supposed to be flattered or embarrassed by it. 

The room felt different.

When Bradley closed the door behind you, it felt smaller than it had before. You kicked your shoes off and sashayed over to the bed, all too aware of Bradley trailing behind you.

‘Want a drink?’ He asked, voice thick with tension.

You nodded, and he set about pouring two glasses of wine.

He crouched down by the fridge, and you stared at the muscles in his arms as he uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured two big glasses.

It was a stark contrast to how you were used to seeing him: climbing into a multi-million dollar fighter jet, body tense but relaxed at the same time in a way that came only from being in the military. He was a totally different guy in this setting, and you couldn’t decide which version you liked best.

Your brain was ticking again now, starting to spiral. What if this didn’t work out? What if it all went to hell in a handbasket and you couldn’t work together anymore? What if all your worst fears came true, and Bradley decided you weren’t right for him after all?

You snatched your pyjamas from beneath your pillow and clambered off the bed towards the bathroom.

‘Going to change.’ You muttered.

You pushed the door open and stepped in, but before you could close it, Bradley was there, hand around your wrist and a steady look on his face.

‘Don’t,’ he said, gently tugging you towards him. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Do what?’ You asked hoarsely, laying your hands on his chest to steady yourself.

‘Run. You don’t get to look at me like that and then run.’

He was almost pleading, and you were struggling to catch a breath.

‘This whole time, I thought this was just you being…you,’ you admitted. ‘I never thought you actually—’

‘Liked you?’ He released a shaky laugh. ‘I honestly don’t know what else I can do to get you to believe me.’

He let go of your arm and ran his hands through his curls.

‘At the start, I thought you were just flirting with me as a joke,’ you admitted, cheeks flaming. ‘And then when you didn’t stop, I started to wonder why you’d even go for someone like me. I’m quiet and boring, and you’re like sunshine, Bradley,’ you took a breath, and he reached out like he was going to touch you before thinking better of it. ‘Then this weekend, Nat and Bob have been trying to convince me that you really do like me and to just relax, but I can’t because you’re you and I’m me and you just make me so fucking nervous and—’

Bradley’s lips crashed into yours as he pressed you up against the wall, caging you in with his arms. You’d been kissed before, but not like this—not like you were the very air somebody needed to survive. It was natural then, the way you put your hands on the back of Bradley’s neck—still warm from the heat of the day—and pulled him in closer, licking his bottom lip and deepening the kiss. He whimpered, like actually whimpered, when you began exploring his mouth, and your stomach clenched so hard it was almost painful.

When he eventually pulled away, he was panting hard, eyes blown so wide you lost yourself in them for a moment.

‘I can’t believe you’d think that,’ he breathed. ‘You—you’re everything,’ he swallowed thickly, cupping your face in his hands. ‘I’ve liked you since the day I met you, but every day that’s passed since then it’s only gotten stronger. And maybe I should’ve given you more than stupid comments, but I didn’t wanna risk fucking things up with you.’

You closed your eyes and rubbed your nose against his. ‘I’m sorry for pushing you away.’

He kissed you slow and gentle, like he had all the time in the world. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart.’ You laid your hands flat on his chest and pushed him towards the bed, collapsing on top of him in fits of giggles. He gazed up at you, well, like you’d hung the moon. Nat had been right about that, at least. With his eyes wide, curls a mess and his lips slightly parted he looked totally disarmed, like you’d rocked the very foundations he existed upon. His hands came to rest on your hips as you leaned down and kissed him again, his moustache tickling the tip of your lip.

If you were to be honest with yourself, it was a feeling you’d been imagining for a very long time, but a feeling you never felt like you were allowed to want.

You could feel the way your weight was affecting him by his short breaths, wandering hands and the impressive length pressing against the inside of your thigh. The idea of sleeping with him both terrified and excited you at the same time. What if you didn’t live up to his standards? What if it made him change his mind?

It would’ve been easy to go into a downward spiral, but every passionate kiss and hungry grab pushed the negative thoughts further and further away until there was only him.

Just Bradley.

If you’d known it was going to be this easy, you’d have leaned into it a long time ago.

You pulled back slightly, and he leaned forward, chasing your lips for another kiss.

‘If we do this,’ you panted. ‘I don’t want it to be because of tequila and a wedding.’

He softened, adjusting you so you lay beside him, facing him. He twirled a strand of your hair around his finger absentmindedly. ‘We’ll go at whatever pace you want,’ he rasped. ‘I’ve waited a year for you, and I would’ve waited five more if I had to.’

Your heart soared. ‘You’re lying.’

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t lie about something like that, Y/N.’

And you believed him. ‘Thank you for being patient.’

He kissed you again and smiled against your lips. ‘Thanks for believing me.’

Bradley opened his arms so you could snuggle closer, tucking you beneath his chin and tangling his legs with yours. In a way, it was even better than the kiss. He made you feel safe and secure, and what more could you really ask for than that?

‘Big day tomorrow,’ he murmured, and you could hear how sleepy he was.

You ‘hmmed’ in agreement, and Bradley reached up and started combing through your hair with his fingers. Your eyes drifted closed, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before you fell asleep.

You didn’t miss the hopefulness in his tone when he asked: ‘That thing you said yesterday, about finding the right guy?’

‘Too soon to say,’ you replied, smiling against his chest. ‘But I’m pretty certain.’

The next morning, the two of you meandered down to the beach hand in hand. Javy and Paisley had chosen to have their ceremony on the sand, and you made Bradley stop so you could kick your heels off and walk barefoot. He had a massive, lottery-winning grin on his face that hadn’t disappeared all morning, and matched your own.

It had taken you longer than necessary to get ready because he’d kept interrupting you with kisses and hugs and compliments, and as a result, the two of you were the last to take your seats. The Dagger squad had a whole row to themselves, and Nat had saved you and Bradley the seats on the end.

All of them—including Penny and Maverick—had twisted around in their seats to get a look at the two of you walking down the aisle. All of them had variations of ecstatic and shit-eating grins on their faces. Nat and Jake were the worst of them all, and you knew that you were never going to hear the end of this. Jake would probably have “The Reason Bradley and Y/N Finally Got Together” carved into his tombstone.

‘Are those wedding bells I hear?’ Jake teased when the two of you sat down.

Bradley glanced around. ‘No, I think we’ve still got ten minutes till the ceremony starts.’

‘Not what I meant.’ Jake smirked.

Javy, who was standing at the altar looking very dapper in his tux, waved enthusiastically.

‘DID IT WORK?’ He yelled.

Everyone in the audience turned to look at you and Bradley. You’d never felt embarrassment like it, but Bradley squeezed your hand encouragingly, and it faded away.

He was good at that.

Jake stood up. ‘YEAH, IT WORKED! FINALLY!’

Javy cheered, and the rest of the Daggers followed suit. Nat and Bob were giving you smug, ‘I told you so’ looks that made you feel a bit like an idiot. You didn’t let yourself dwell on all the time you’d spent overthinking it.

Maybe it had taken a while, but you’d gotten here in the end. But you supposed everything happened exactly when it was supposed to—not a second before nor after.

And the two of you were right on time.

[metal-armed-muse]

LESSONS IN LOVE — chapter 3

LOVE ME

BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER (college au)

SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.

WORD COUNT. 12.1K WARNINGS. college au, brother’s best friend trope, MDNI, inexperienced reader, tit play, smut, virginity loss, protected pnv, talks about aftercare, miscommunication, angst. No use of Y/N. NOTES. You can imagine reader as Steve’s adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions. Just a heads up, Reader and Bucky met when she was 8 and he was 10. And thank you @sheriff-bodecker for always handling my crashouts 😭

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || 1 ~ 2 ~ 3

READ ON AO3

You'd imagined it to feel at least a little weird. It doesn't. If anything, this is the most comfortable you could've felt moments before your first time having sex. 

Yes, the final lesson. Probably gaslighting yourself by calling it a lesson, but then this is you. 

The most alarming thing you can say about the moment is that it feels completely, devastatingly ordinary. Like you've been here a hundred times. Which you kind of have, just not like this. 

Not with that small square of foil sitting on his nightstand being very loud about itself.

Bucky's talking. He's doing the responsible thing, the Bucky thing, making sure you have the information you need. And you're listening, because he's right about all of it. 

Condom, doesn't matter what the guy says, non-negotiable. 

Yes. You're nodding. 

But he keeps saying 'the guy'. He. Some future hypothetical person standing in this exact spot who you'll have to talk to. And something about that specific word keeps catching in your chest, snagging on a part of you that you have been carefully not naming for weeks.  

You'd really rather it stopped. You're not going to say anything about it. There's nothing to say. You came to him with a very specific ask and he said yes and that's the entire thing, start to finish.

You're not going to make it weird by having feelings about a pronoun.

You're not.

"Hey." His hand finds your jaw and tips your face up. Of fucking course he caught it. One moment you zone out, and get caught. His eyes move over your face with attention. You feel like being read by someone who's already a few pages ahead of you. "Talk to me."

"I'm fine."

"You just went somewhere."

"Bucky." He's starting to pull the thread until it unravels. And because you can already see it happening, you lean in and kiss him. 

Because it's easier than explaining. Because you've learned by now that this is the fastest way to shut down a conversation you're not ready for.

It's a deflection. You know it's a deflection. The difference between kissing him to avoid something and kissing him because you want to is fucking massive.

Only it doesn't go the way you planned. He kisses you back in a way that feels like being held still. Whatever you were going to outrun dissolves. Something blooms in its place that you don't have a category for and don't try to make one.

When he pulls back, he looks at you. Something in his expression that he keeps mostly to himself.  

Then he tips you back. Everything after that stops being about thinking.

His mouth is warm on your jaw, your collarbone, and lower. His tongue drags over your nipple and you make an embarrassing noise. He repeats it, to embarrass you further, you think. Only it's slower, sealing his mouth around it and sucking until it's aching and tight.

Equal attention is given to the other one. 

By the time he starts moving lower, you've got a fist in his hair and a completely unreasonable amount of feeling in your chest for someone in the middle of an educational exercise.

Educational. Right.

His mouth presses into the soft of your stomach, the skin below your navel, making you jerk. He smiles against you, which you feel more than see. You feel it everywhere. You feel everything. His mood through the room, his attention like a physical weight, his amusement before it reaches his face. You've been feeling him for longer than you want to admit.

Without any hurry, his hands are spreading your thighs and his breath is on your inner thigh and all of that thinking goes quiet. Everything else goes quiet. 

He looks up at you from between your legs, and the look on his face makes something clench in your chest that has nothing to do with what his mouth is about to do. It's want, is what it is, and it's not just the physical kind. You are not going to look at that right now because his face is between your thighs and this is not the moment.

Bucky drops his head and noses through your folds. When you make yet another embarrassing sound, he groans back.

Like you just gave him something good, and licks up through you in one long drag that has your hips lifting off the bed.

The noises he makes when he eats you out are something you are going to be thinking about for a very long time. Sounds of a man who is genuinely, thoroughly into what he's doing. Tongue working through your folds and circling your clit and sliding down to your entrance and back up. Drinking you.

You can hear how wet you are. A week ago that would have mortified you. Right now it barely registers because he makes that greedy, wanting sound every single time and presses closer, like the answer to you is more of you.

When your fist tightens in his hair he groans straight into your cunt. Vibration everywhere. Your thighs clench around his head before you can stop them.

His lips seal around your clit, sucking with with intent, and you actually cry out this time. He does it again and keeps doing it, tongue working against you while he holds the suction.

You realise your thighs are shaking on either side of his head, hips rolling into him. Holding them with his forearms, he keeps going. Like he made a decision and he's seeing it all the way through.

There's something devastating about his certainty. He always knows what he's doing. He always knows what you need before you've fully understood it yourself. That quality, which you have admired in him for years — not in this context though — is currently taking you apart.

Two fingers press inside you to curl. "Just stay with me."

You don't have much choice. The whole world has narrowed down to his mouth and his hand and the devastating combination of his tongue working your clit while his fingers find that specific spot inside you with the ease of someone who has been paying very close attention. You're gripping his hair with both hands now and making sounds that you'll think about with mild horror tomorrow. But right now tomorrow doesn't exist. 

Right now there is only this, him. The tension coils tighter and tighter, everything pulling to one point, and then everything snaps.

You come with his name somewhere in your throat. He works you through every single wave of it, slower and softer as you come down, drawing it out until you're shaking and your hands in his hair have gone slack. 

Pulling weakly at his hair to get him to stop doesn't seem to faze him, even then he presses a last kiss to your inner thigh before he moves.

You hear the soft tear of foil and press your face into the pillow for those few seconds because you need them. Your heart is doing something with a lot of force and nowhere particular to put it. 

The specific feeling of not knowing what to do with how much you feel is not a new one. By this point, you've been managing it for the past several weeks with varying degrees of success. But it's never been this loud before. It fills up the room. It fills up the pillow. The pillowcase smells like him and that is not helping.

He settles between your thighs, but looks at you. The reading-you look. "Still with me?"

"Uh-huh. Yeah."

His hand presses flat against your lower belly, all five fingers spread across your skin. He holds it there while he lines himself up. Like he wants to feel what's about to happen from the outside too. Like that's something he wants. 

You don't know what to do with that so you just feel it. You feel his palm pressing warm against you, the blunt pressure of him at your entrance, the gravity of the moment without any of it needing to be said out loud.

"Breathe," he says.

"I'm breathing."

He gives you a look. Look that says 'don't start shit now'. 

You breathe.

He pushes in. Slow. So careful. The stretch of him opening you up is significant and new. You make a sound that you've never made before in your life, this broken wrecked thing. He just stops. Palm still flat on your stomach. Holding you, letting you have a second.

"You okay?" 

The far end of your brain wants to laugh, a little. Because the answer is yes and also something much larger than yes, something that doesn't fit inside okay. The far end of your brain tells you that nobody would compare to him. Nobody would ask you this, nobody would be considerate of you like this. 

But the part that's currently in control of your body is not the one. It's the one that breathes, "don't stop. Just — don't stop."

He searches your face. Whatever he finds there must be sufficient because he pushes in, impossibly slow, the fullness building and building until he's all the way seated. The exhale that comes out of him sounds like something leaving him, something he'd been holding for longer than just tonight.

He drops his forehead to your shoulder. His weight settles against you. You feel his heart going fast against yours, faster than his breathing would suggest. 

His heart going fast. His heart going fast because of you.

There's something warm at the corner of your eyes at this information. Completely uninvited there are tears you didn't anticipate. You blink hard at the ceiling trying to sort yourself out. Before he notices.

But Bucky lifts his head and goes completely still.

"Did I hurt you?" His voice has changed. Softer, lower, stripped of the easy composure. 

"No."  

"Tell me the truth —"

"You didn't." Your hand goes to his face. Cups his jaw, and he stops talking. His eyes find yours and they search, careful and very blue and intent. "I promise. They're good tears. I'm okay."

For what, you can't say. You're not going to say. His palm has been on your stomach this entire time, and he stopped the moment he heard something in your voice. Right now, he's looking at you like your answer is the only thing in the room that matters. Like he would wait all night for it.

You've spent the last however many weeks telling yourself this is a practical arrangement. A smart, useful, sensible arrangement that you came up with yourself and that made complete sense at the time. Clean and contained. 

Somewhere in the middle of all of it you stopped believing that. You can't remember exactly when. The crying is just your body being honest in a way you haven't been letting yourself be.

You don't say any of that.

"Good tears," you manage. "Really."

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Long enough that you think he might push it, might ask the actual question underneath the one you answered. The real question — what are you crying about? 

If he asked it, you genuinely don't know what you'd say. Something true, probably. Something that couldn't be forgotten.

But he doesn't. He leans down to kiss you instead and starts to move.

Long, slow drag, his cock pulling back until just the head remains, then pushing home again just as slowly.

The fullness of it, the completeness of it. You don't think there's a word for it. His hand stays flat on your stomach and you feel him through it, feel the movement from the outside and the inside simultaneously, feel your own body accommodate him. It is an almost absurd amount of sensation. Not just physical. All of it, all at once, too much to sort through while it's happening.

He mouths at your throat, comes back to your lips. The kissing gets less careful the longer he moves, goes softer and messier and more real. You feel the difference between careful-Bucky and less-careful-Bucky. 

Less-careful-Bucky is catastrophic.

You have thought, a lot, over the past weeks, about what it means to be careful with someone. He's been careful with you from the start. Patient. Never rushing, never making you feel like you owed him anything, never letting the patience have a price. And you categorised that under 'he's a good person'. You categorised everything under 'he's a good person'. What you didn't think about  was why he is specifically like this with you.  

But he's less careful now, and that is also him being specifically like this with you, and you are going to need to deal with that later.

His hips find a rhythm. The drag of him hits somewhere deep and your cunt clenches in response and the sound you make into his mouth is not measured. His breath catches, a short, almost surprised sound. His grip on your hip tightens a fraction, like he didn't expect that. Like your body surprised him. The thought that you could surprise him, that there are things about you he's still discovering, makes you feel warm inside. 

"More." You didn't plan to say it out loud. It just comes out.

His eyes, which were focused on the place you two were joined, leave it reluctantly to look at your face. The longest he's ever taken to look at you. There's a question in them. 

"Harder. Please."

At that, his hand tightens on your hip and he gives you what you asked for.

Your breath punches out. Wherever your hands land, you grab. His shoulders, the plane of his back. His cock drives through your slick with this obscene, wet sound you've never heard before and the drag of it hits that deep spot with every stroke and your brain is nowhere useful, it's just gone. There's nothing here but sensation and Bucky and the specific sound of his breathing coming apart.

He's making sounds now. Barely contained. Hearing him like that is almost as good as the rest of it combined. Maybe better. You've been collecting his composure slipping in pieces for weeks and this is all of it at once. He's not controlling it anymore, he's just in it, with you.  

His thumb finds your clit without warning. "Look at me." 

You whimper into his ear. He makes a sound low in his chest like you just handed him something he badly needed.

His lips find your forehead. There's this soft, unbearably tender kiss that has absolutely no business existing alongside everything else he's doing to you. His voice goes rough. "Cum for me."

You cum for him. His eyes are almost black and he's looking at you like you're the most precious thing in the room. Thing is he's not doing anything to hide it. That is what that tips you. His thumb and his cock would be contributing factors, sure. But the way he's looking is more than anything physical ever could be.  

"Bucky—"

"I've got you." Against your mouth.

Your walls clench tight around him, as he buries himself and stills. You feel him throb inside you while you're still shaking. 

There's nothing else except the two of you, and this fragile thing that could end any moment.  

His weight on you is the heaviest you've ever carried. Nothing physical in this too. You think the weight of it comes from knowing this could be the last. The thought evaporates when his lips nip at your throat. 

You hold him. Both arms. You don't decide to do it, your arms just do it. Your hands press into his back and hold, like you could keep him here, like you could make this not end.

He lets you.

For a moment that goes on longer than a moment, everything stills. His breath is warm on your skin. You feel his heartbeat starting to slow under your hands. Something fragile exists in this room and you are aware of it.

You don't think about that. You think about his heartbeat instead. You think about the fact that his breathing is still a little uneven, and that you did that. That you are the reason his breathing is uneven. 

You have spent a significant amount of time over the past weeks thinking about how you were learning things. Processing experiences in the tidy way of someone taking notes. The date on the beach — lesson. The kissing — lesson. All of it, catalogued and labelled and filed away under something that felt safe.

And somewhere it stopped being safe and you kept going anyway.

You can feel him tense, not wanting to pull out. You want to clutch at him, tell him that you don't want that either. What you want is what you have. 

But you don't say that. 

He pulls out. 

It is so careful, tears threaten to spill out. You close your eyes, you will not let him see that. 

The absence of him is physical in a way you weren't prepared for, a hollow feeling that has nothing to do with the physical and everything to do with something you still haven't put a name to. It claws at your chest. It is like giving away something that's been yours all along. Takes everything in you to not reach out, not grab him, not push your face into his neck. 

You don't do that. He walks away. 

Faint sounds of him running the tap.  

He comes back with a cloth, warm from the tap, the right kind of warm. Like he stood there testing the temperature until it felt exactly right.

Sitting beside you, he's close enough that his thigh brushes yours. His other hand rests on your knee the whole time, thumb stroking slow little circles.

"How’re you feeling?" His voice is rough from everything you just did to each other. You mumble a little 'fine’ and he huffs a soft laugh. 

The cloth drags gently over your inner thighs first, wiping away the slick. Then he folds it and presses it right against you, the tender skin around your entrance, from the crease where your thigh meets everything that’s still throbbing and sensitive. 

What you're doing is something entirely different. You stare at the wall and blink and think about literally anything else.

You physically cannot bring yourself think about anything else.

You think about how nobody has ever done this. Not because the chance hasn't come up. Obviously the chance hasn't come up, that's entirely the point of the last few weeks.

But even imagining it, you wouldn't have imagined this. Someone sitting beside you after and just quietly, without being asked, taking care of you like it is simply what you do for a person. Like not doing it would be the strange thing.

There's not going to be another person like him. That's the thought you've been keeping in a box with the lid pressed firmly down. It's out now.  

He takes his time, folding the cloth again when it gets too wet, going back over every inch like this is the most important thing in the world right now.

You feel yourself twitch under the warmth of it and he murmurs, "Easy… I’ve got you," like he can read every tiny reaction your body makes.

"So I take care of you every time we do something, right?" He's still focused on wiping you clean. "That’s called aftercare."

"That’s — that’s a thing?"

He huffs a soft laugh that’s mostly breath, eyes still on what he’s doing between your legs. "Sorry. I forgot to tell you." The words come out so easy, like it never even occurred to him that this part needed explaining. Like he’s been doing it on instinct every single time and didn’t stop to think it was something he had to teach you. 

The realization settles warm and a little devastating in your chest. He didn’t see this as a lesson. It was just second nature to him. Taking care of you like this was never part of the curriculum. It was just Bucky.

He keeps talking, voice never rising above that low murmur. "After sex, after something this intense, your body goes through a lot. Sometimes you feel strange or sad or cold for no reason. Sometimes you cry, like you did earlier. It’s normal. Just your system coming down. Needs a little tending." He folds the cloth one last time and presses it gently over you, letting the warmth soak in. 

"So what do you do for it?"  

"Water first, always. Warmth. Touch. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Main thing is you don’t disappear on each other. You stay. The other person needs to know you’re still right here."

He sets the cloth aside but doesn’t move away. His hand stays on your knee, thumb still moving in those slow circles.

He's still there. He's stayed. He's taken care of you. 

He's taken care of you every time. Every single time, without fail, without exception. And you have done none of it in return. You never thought to ask what he needed. You never thought to stay and take care of him the way he's taken care of you.

"What do you need?" When he holds your gaze, you continue, "For aftercare. What do you actually need?"

The question surprised him, you can see that. He's been very thoroughly in the mode of what you need and coming at it from this direction might be unfamiliar ground. It requires him to be on the receiving end, he doesn't live there.

There's a small internal thing happening that you can see clearly and he probably thinks you can't. 

"I like to cuddle."  Without any of the careful composure he sometimes wraps around the things.

Not even a second is needed for you to process this, you open your arms.

He looks at them. One beat. One second of stillness that you read as surprise, or something softer than surprise, something that looks a lot like being moved. Then he comes down. Head to your chest, arm across your stomach. Your chin finds the top of his head.

The long breath he lets out when he settles. Something goes out with it. You feel it in his shoulders, the way they drop, the way his hand on your stomach stops holding anything and just rests.

Your hand moves up his back in slow passes. His hair is soft under your jaw. He's very warm, almost too warm. It makes you want to stay put indefinitely. His heartbeat under your palm is steady and slowing.

His hand finds yours after a while. Folds your fingers into his.  

The thing you've been struggling with is still there. It's been there longer than tonight. You've been careful about it, genuinely careful, because you're not an idiot and you knew what you were walking into and you were going to be sensible about the whole thing.

You were so sensible. Right up until you weren't.

Twenty years old and, in the notable absence of any prior romantic experience, you went and fell for the one person you specifically arranged things with in order to avoid exactly this. The irony is not lost on you. Steve would absolutely never let you hear the end of it. Steve cannot ever find out about any of this.

You press your lips to the top of his head. Barely a thing, just for a second, because the feeling needs somewhere to go and this is the least damaging option available.

He makes a soft sound and pulls you fractionally closer, arm tightening across your stomach. Reflex, probably. Something that happened without him deciding to do it.

There's always a moment with Bucky, when he's coming out of sleep, where his face does something unguarded. Where all the easy competence he walks around with during the day hasn't quite loaded yet. He's just a person, blinking at the room, figuring out where he is. 

You've seen it a handful of times now and every single time it does something to you that you'd rather it didn't.

He looks at you.  

"Morning."  

"Morning." His voice is rough with sleep, different from his regular voice. Softer. You've thought about this voice, oftentimes than you'd like to admit. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine. Good." Both true. You slept better than you have in weeks, actually, which is information you're keeping to yourself. "You?"

"Yeah." He scrubs a hand over his face. "How're you feelin'? You sore?"

He's been awake for approximately twelve seconds and that's what surfaces first.

He thought of that before anything else. Before his brain had fully loaded. You didn't think of it first. Your first thought this morning was not about whether your body was still feeling last night. You're not sure what your first thought was. Something less generous to yourself. But his was this.

"A little bit," you say.

The corners of his mouth pull down. The softest frown, private, the kind you only see on someone who doesn't know they're being watched. "I'm sorry, baby." Quiet. The soft version of his voice, the one he doesn't use for everything, just for when he means it.

"Bucky, it's fine—"

"I am sorry."

"You were—" careful, you want to say. You were so careful, and patient, and you went so slow that it almost felt like being taken apart by someone who actually gave a damn whether you were still in one piece after. You also want to say his hand on your stomach was the best and worst thing that has ever happened to you simultaneously. But you say, "you didn't do anything wrong. First time is just — first time. It's a body thing."

"I know what it is."

"Then stop doing that with your face."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're —"

He looks at you sideways. The face is still happening. You reach over and push at his jaw with two fingers, gently, like you're trying to manually rearrange the expression. Catching your hand, he presses his lips to it. For one second, just held there against your palm. Nothing about it is incidental.

"I'm fine. Really." You might be fine from the soreness, but you sure aren't fine from that gentle press of lips. 

His thumb moves over your knuckles, and you let him. You feel that thing in your chest that you decided not to think about until you got home, doing its thing anyway without your permission.

"Guess I'll have to deal with Jenna's scrunchie situation again." You don't entirely mean to say it. It just sort of comes out, like your mouth was filling the silence while your brain was doing something else. You hear it the second it drops and you hear exactly how it sounds and you cannot take it back.

"What do you mean?" His body goes still beside you.

Here you are. Standing at the edge of something, the words already out there, sitting between you both. You can see exactly where they came from. Probably from the feeling you've been carrying since the beach, maybe earlier, maybe much earlier, looking for any door that might lead somewhere without you having to walk through it directly. Poorly disguised as a casual observation. Even you are not entirely sure what you were hoping for when you said it. Something. Anything. Some signal.

You're not brave enough to say it plainly. But you're past pretending it wasn't anything.

"I mean— I mean you've kind of — taught me everything." A small, careful shrug. Casual. Like it's just an observation, like your heart isn't doing something extremely loud. "So."

You look at him.

He looks back at you and for a second — one second — there's something in his face that you can't read. Something that moves across it fast, like a thing he almost lets out but doesn't. And then he gets it under control, or puts something back in place, or whatever the thing is that he does when he decides to be Bucky-who-is-very-calm about something.

He looks unaffected.

It stings so badly you feel it in your stomach.

"So I should be able to, like. Date. Go out there. All of that." Your voice comes out completely fine, which is impressive because nothing inside you is fine. "That's the whole point, right? We're obviously done with lessons."

Something about saying it out loud — lessons — makes you feel sick. Like the word is a trap you built yourself and walked into with your eyes open. You handed him the word and he used it and now you have to live inside it.

He opens his mouth. You wait. You are waiting very hard, in a way that probably shows, in a way that you'll be embarrassed about later, but you wait. You wait with everything you have.

"Yeah." One syllable. Like it's the most uncomplicated answer in the world.

All the air leaves your body at once.

You stare at the wall where there's a photo of him and Steve. You look at it very carefully because it's better than looking at him.

Yeah.

Yeah, obviously, yes. That was the point, that was always the point. You came to him with a specific ask and he fulfilled it. Now you've asked if you're done and he said yeah. That's the appropriate answer, that's the correct answer, that's the answer you should've been hoping for. You knew this. You went in knowing this.

Your heart doesn't agree. Your heart is being extremely unhelpful.

The warmth of his skin where it's touching yours is suddenly too much. Last night you would have stayed here indefinitely. Now the room is too small and he's too close and that word is sitting in the air between you and you need to leave. You need to be somewhere that isn't next to him while you figure out what to do with the fact that you've been an idiot.

You sit up. The sheet catches and drops. Half a second where you're just there, bare in the grey light, all of you in front of him.

You grab for the sheet. Too late, but you grab it and pull it up to your chest with a speed that you'll be mortified about later, like something happened in between last night and this morning, like there's a rule about daylight that nobody told you but you feel it anyway. He saw everything last night, has seen everything multiple times over. He was inside you less than six hours ago. Yet you still you grab for it like it matters. Your body making its own decisions about vulnerability without consulting you.

He doesn't look at you the way you expected. He looks at your face — once, just your face — and then looks away. His jaw does something. Like he started to say a thing and decided against it. Like he weighed it and found the moment wasn't right or the words weren't ready or some other reason he is keeping to himself, because that's Bucky, he holds things until he's sure about them. You don't see what his face does after that because you're looking at your hands.

Bucky pushes back the covers on his side and swings his legs off the bed. You realise after a second that he's giving you space. Going to the bathroom so you can get dressed without feeling looked at. 

A small courtesy, a Bucky courtesy, and it makes something in your chest ache so badly you want to laugh at yourself.

You hear the bathroom door.

You move fast. Faster than you probably look cool doing, but he's not watching so it doesn't matter. Underwear, jeans, your shirt from yesterday, shoes. Phone off the nightstand. One look around the room for anything else that's yours. 

There's a moment where you think about waiting for him to come back out, where you think about the conversation you could maybe have, where you think about the look on his face before he got it under control and what might have been on the other side of it.

But you walk away. 

Out the front door and down the steps and out onto the path. The morning is bright and completely indifferent to the fact that you just made a very cowardly exit from the apartment of a man who is not your boyfriend and never will be. 

The walk back to your dorm takes ten minutes.

It feels both longer and shorter than that. You're fine.

You're going to be fine.

This was always going to be the ending of this particular thing, and you knew that, and you were always going to have to walk home the next morning and feel however you feel about it, and now you're doing that, so. Progress.

When you get back, Jenna is asleep and the room is dim. You sit down on the edge of your bed and look at the photo on your nightstand. It's the same one on his wall. Steve and Bucky.

Two days.

Two days of checking your phone and then putting it face down and then picking it up again, like something might have changed in the eleven seconds since you last looked. 

Two days of Jenna asking if you're okay and you saying 'yeah just tired', which is technically true, you are tired, you're tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. 

You sit at your desk and open your book and read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word of it. You have no idea what it says. You close the book. You open it again. You close it again. You put it on the floor so it stops looking at you.

Jenna makes you a cup of tea on the morning of day one. You say thanks, and she sets it on your nightstand, and it goes cold while you stare at the ceiling. She doesn't push it. She's perceptive in that quiet specific way and she knows when to leave someone alone.

On the afternoon of day one you get up and go for a walk because lying still is making you feel sorry for yourself in a way that's becoming circular. The campus is busy in the end-of-classes way. People in groups, the noise of uncomplicated days. You walk until your feet hurt and then you go back and lie down again.

On the morning of day two you pick up your phone, look at his name in your contacts, and put it face down. You are not going to be that person. You went in knowing how this ended, you made a decision, and you are going to get through the next few days without doing anything embarrassing.

The plan does not account for the fact that you still have his hoodie in your bag because you left in such a hurry that you forgot to give it back. You have put it at the bottom of the bag. You are not thinking about it.

But this situation in itself is embarrassing. And there's nobody you can tell about it. Which makes it worse. Because at least if you could tell someone you could be embarrassed out loud and get it over with. 

Instead you're just sitting here being embarrassed at yourself in private, which is somehow the worst version.

The thing is, it was always going to end like this. You wanted lessons, he provided lessons, lessons concluded. That's not a tragedy, that's just a transaction completing.

So the part you can't figure out is at what point your brain decided to stop treating it like that.

Because something went wrong in the gap between what you told yourself this was and what it actually became.

And you can trace it. If you're honest with yourself — which you haven't been — you can trace it all the way back to a parking lot and a bunch of hydrangeas in one hand.

It was a lesson, you reminded yourself at the time. You just didn't file it properly. You put it somewhere mislabeled and kept going.

That's your own fault. That's entirely your fault and you know it. You can't even be angry at him about it because he didn't do anything. 

He did exactly what you asked. He was kind and patient and thorough and he told you the truth at every step. 

Never once — not once — did he say anything that suggested this was anything other than what you agreed it was. 

If anything, he was more careful than he had to be. He gave you just pleasure an innumerable number of times before he let things go any further. He was careful with you. He was so careful with you.

And the fact that he was careful with you is part of the problem. Because it made it very easy to forget that being careful with someone isn't the same as wanting them.

There will not be another person like him.

That's the real damage. You went in with no experience and he's what you got, and now you have a reference point. Now you know what it feels like to be with someone who puts you first without making a thing of it. Who would rather wait another week than rush you through something. Who puts his mouth on you for your benefit, not as a warm-up for something else.

You remember every single time. The tent in his sweats, the controlled breathing, the way he always made sure you finished before he even came close to thinking about himself. You filed it away under 'body being body', under 'he's experienced he can handle it'. 

You did not let yourself think about what it meant that he lay next to you hard enough to be uncomfortable and not doing a single thing about it except holding you.

Body being body needs relief. That's just biology. He could have asked. You would have. Obviously, eagerly. Hell, he didn't even have to ask. 

But he didn't. 

He never once made you feel like you owed him anything, like the patience had a price, like the patience was even something he was exercising rather than just something he had.

There's not going to be another person like that.

The sad little story goes like this : She wanted experience, she got it, and somehow managed to ruin herself for everyone who comes after.  

Congratulations. Growth.

You walked in wanting a lesson and fell in love with the teacher. Which is the most clichéd possible version of this story, by the way. You'd hate yourself for it if you had the energy.

Tired of sitting still, you decide you'll go see Steve. 

He's been texting all month asking if you've settled in and you've been saying 'yeah, great, so busy', which is the oldest deflection in your sibling playbook. He buys it every single time because Steve is earnest and takes people at their word. You could use some of that energy right now.  

The bus gives you an hour. An hour of towns sliding past the window and music you're not actually listening to. Your brain is doing a thing, where it is turning the whole situation over and over like it's looking for an angle that makes you look less stupid. 

It hasn't found one yet. You're starting to think it's not going to.

Here's the thing you've been trying not to look at.

You've always liked Bucky.

The whole tape, you're running it back now. He's there earlier than you want him to be. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, Steve bringing him over and you finding reasons to be downstairs. 

Bucky was older and loud and took up all the air in whatever room he walked into. You told yourself you found that annoying. You did find it annoying. You were also ready in ten minutes every time Steve said he was coming over. Which is not the behaviour of someone who finds a person annoying.

You were seventeen when you saw him talking to a cheerleader at one of Steve's games. Long legs, laughing at something he said. And you felt  something. Something you classified as 'general bad mood' and immediately forgot about. You were in a bad mood that whole week. Funny, that.

Because here's the thing about Steve always bringing Bucky. Here's the thing about all those years of hanging around whenever he came over. You told yourself you were just being sociable. You liked having people around. You liked Bucky's stupid arguments about films and the way he laughed when something caught him off guard. You liked him the way you like someone who's been around since you were small enough that they're just part of the furniture.

Except the furniture doesn't make you feel like hell when it talks to a cheerleader. The furniture doesn't talk to a cheerleader. 

You put your headphones in and stare at the window.

The boys you didn't date in high school. You've spent years blaming Steve for that. Watchful eyes and warning looks. And Steve was a factor, you're not letting him off the hook entirely. But you're on this bus right now and you're turning the question over properly for the first time and you're wondering : Was it Steve?

Or was it that none of them were Bucky?

Was it that you'd had Bucky as some kind of baseline since you were fourteen, all that warmth and sharpness and the way he actually listened and remembered things. And every boy your age just felt thin by comparison? Was it that you set an impossible standard completely by accident and then spent years confused about why nobody was clearing it?

Your stomach turns over.

And then, because your brain apparently hasn't finished being cruel to you today, it offers up the next one.

College. New place. Clean slate. Steve an hour away. Finally, finally some room to breathe, finally a chance to figure all of this out without his shadow in the frame.

And you came here and knocked on Bucky's door inside of a week.

You went to Bucky.

You told yourself you wanted experience. Told yourself you were being practical, that you picked him because you trusted him and he was close and you'd known him forever and it just made sense. 

All of that was true. But you could've done any number of things. Downloaded an app. Gone to a party. Done literally anything that normal people do when they want to figure this out.

You went to Bucky.

You wanted Bucky.

If you're being fully and completely honest with yourself, you've always wanted Bucky. And your brain  built a whole reasonable-sounding explanation for why going to him was the logical choice. You'd bought it completely, and walked into his apartment and asked him to teach you to kiss and told yourself it was educational.

You are so stupid.

You are so fucking stupid.

The bus pulls into the stop and you get off. You've made a decision on the way here. You're going to tell Steve. Not everything. Obviously not everything, there are details that you should be taking to your grave. But something. 

You've been carrying this alone for two days and it's pressing against your ribs. You need to put it down somewhere, even briefly, even partially. And Steve is your brother and he loves you and he'll know what to say or he won't and you'll feel better anyway because he's Steve.

Third floor. You know this building. Your feet know this building.

You knock.

The door opens.

Bucky's standing there with a mug in his hand and his hair doing the morning thing and a grey shirt that's seen better decades. And he looks at you.

The floor drops out from under your stomach so fast you actually put one hand on the doorframe.

The universe has a genuinely terrible sense of humour.

Steve's voice carries through the apartment before Bucky's even finished stepping back from the door.

"Is that — oh my god!"

You hear the genuine delight in it when he calls your name.

Bucky is not looking at you, and that's the first thing you notice. Not your brother.  

"This is literally the best day of my life," Steve says, from the couch, with the energy of a golden retriever who just saw two of his favourite people walk side by side. 

He looks between you and Bucky and back, radiating a happiness that is completely disproportionate to what is actually happening in this room.

"Hi, Steve." You sit in the armchair. The armchair is good. The armchair is far away from the kitchen — where Bucky currently is — and gives you a clear sightline to the door if you need to leave quickly.

"You look terrible." Steve tells you, which is his version of concern.

"Thanks."

"No, I mean — are you sleeping?"

"I'm fine."

"You look—"

"Steve." You give him the look. He subsides. He's known you long enough to know when the look means drop it. To his credit he usually does.

Bucky comes back from the kitchen with a glass of water and sits at the other end of the couch from Steve. 

He hasn't looked at you once. He looks at Steve, at the coffee table, at some middle distance that isn't your face. You, on the other hand, look at your own hands. And Steve looks between the two of you with an expression you can't quite read from this angle and choose not to try.

There are two people in this room actively not acknowledging something, and the third is Steve. Who is either genuinely oblivious or performing oblivion with professional precision. With Steve it's sometimes impossible to tell which.

He talks. He tells you about the internship, something about a project that went sideways and then un-sideways. You listen and nod and make the right noises and in your peripheral vision Bucky sits at the other end of the couch with his elbows on his knees and his eyes somewhere that isn't you.

This is fine. This is completely fine. You've been in rooms with Bucky before. You've sat on this couch with him three feet away, you've watched bad television next to him for hours. You know how to be in a room with Bucky Barnes.

You just haven't done it … since you-know-what.

Steve somehow doesn't notice what's happening here. 

You've always marvelled a little at Steve's skill for that. For being so thoroughly good that he just assumes everyone around him is also okay, that the world is basically fine, that people he loves are probably not sitting six feet apart doing an extremely committed impression of strangers.

"Hey," he says suddenly. The way he sounds when something's occurred to him. "Buck, who's this girl Sam keeps going on about?"

Your hand goes very still.

Bucky glances up. "What girl?"

"The one you've been hanging out with? Sam said something about it."

"Sam needs to mind his own business."

"So there is a girl."

"There's not a—" Bucky stops himself. "It's nothing. It was nothing."

"Sam said you were sneaking around."

"I was not sneaking around."

"Said you're being weird, Buck."

"I'm not weird, I'm just—" His jaw works to spit out the rest of the sentence. "It's nothing. Drop it, Steve."

Steve, with the particular stubbornness of a man who has known Bucky Barnes his entire life and has never once successfully dropped anything, looks at him for a long moment and then does something shocking. He drops it.

He turns to you instead. "What about you? How's things? You seem off."

Your brain is doing several things at once right now. It is attempting to formulate an answer for Steve. It is also replaying the last thirty seconds on a loop — was nothing, it was nothing — and trying to figure out what nothing means and who nothing was. And whether the timing of it lines up with anything. 

Nothing. He said it in the voice of someone saying something they don't mean, the voice of someone getting the word out because it needs to be said and not because it's true. You know his voice. You have been listening to his voice since you were eight years old and there are versions of it you know as well as your own. That was not his honest voice. That was his covering voice. You know the difference.

"I'm fine," you come back from your head to tell Steve.

"You keep saying that."

"Because I am."

Steve gives you the look that is his version of your look, which you've been on the receiving end of since you were approximately six years old and it has never once stopped working. "Something happen?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Steve, I'm—"

"She said she's fine," Bucky says, from the other end of the couch. Like he's doing you a favour, giving you the exit.

You look at him.

He looks at you.

It's the first time he's looked at you properly since you walked in, and it lasts about two seconds, and then he looks away again. 

But two seconds is enough. Two seconds is more than enough because you've gotten very good at reading Bucky's face over the past few months and what you just saw on it was in fact, not nothing.  

Unaware, yet again, Steve starts talking. "Hey, you know Jenna's boyfriend? The one from your dorm?"

Something about the subject change is so random that you answer without thinking. "Yeah, the one who kicks me out of my own room every other night."

"Right." Steve nods. "He works part-time in my building, actually."

"How does he even have time for work anyway?" Bucky quips, and you want to throw a throw pillow at him. 

You don't. 

"Saw him in the lift the other day," oblivious-Steve continues. 

"Small world."

"Yeah." He pauses. "He was saying he hasn't been able to visit Jenna for two days because her roommate's been in the room the whole time. Moping, apparently."

Your mouth goes dry.

"Wouldn't leave. Just lying there all day." Another pause. Steve is looking at absolutely nothing in particular, which is how you know he's being very intentional. "Funny, right?"

Your jaw is doing something. You're fairly sure Bucky has gone completely still on the other end of the couch.

"Steve—"

"I know," Steve says.

Two words. The calm of someone who has been sitting on this information for a while and chose this exact moment to put it on the table.

The silence that follows is genuinely one of the more extraordinary silences you've ever sat in.

"How long?" Bucky asks because you currently cannot bring yourself to speak.

"Buck, I've known you since we were eight." Steve looks at him with a fondness that is also, honestly, a little smug. "You think I couldn't tell?" He looks at you. "And you're my sister. You really thought I don't notice?"

You think about every time you found a reason to be downstairs when Bucky came over and told yourself it was nothing. You think about Steve, who notices everything and says nothing, who has apparently been sitting on all of this like a very patient man waiting for everyone else to catch up.

"You didn't say anything," you say.

"Wasn't mine to say." He stands up. The smug falls away and what's underneath is just Steve, your brother, Bucky's best friend, who loves you both and has clearly been quietly hoping about this for longer than you knew. He puts one hand on your shoulder and one on Bucky's.  

"Talk it out."

He picks up his jacket, his keys, and he leaves.

The door clicks shut.

You and Bucky sit in the wreckage of that. Both still sitting in the positions you were in when he stood up, like neither of you quite knows how to be the one who moves first. 

You become aware, slowly, that you are gripping the arm of the armchair.

Bucky shifts on the couch. "You know, you should be out there dating." He says it like he's picking up something he set down earlier, like it's a thought he's been turning over. "Isn't that what all of this was for? Why are you moping around your dorm room?"

And there it is. The tone. The slightly pointed tone that you know as well as you know your own name, that you've been on the receiving end of since you were old enough to give it back.

You take the bait. You always take the bait with him, that's the whole problem, that's been the whole problem since you were fourteen years old and you didn't know it. Now you know, and do it anyway. "Go back to your girl."

"What?"

"Go back to your girl." You parrot. 

Confusion paints his face. "What girl?"

"The one Sam told Steve about. The one you've been seeing this whole time —" You want to complete the sentence by saying 'behind my back', but even you know that you don't have any rights for that. 

"Jesus." He drags a hand through his hair like he can't quite believe what's coming out of your mouth. "Can you not?"

Fury comes from somewhere specific, somewhere you'd been keeping a lid on, and it tastes a lot like hurt. "Seriously, Buck. Go back to your girl."

"Why —" He looks pained as he runs his hand through his hair again. "Why can't you just fucking understand?" 

"Understand what?" 

"You're the girl." His voice isn't by any means muffled, but it still reaches your ear warbled. 

"What?" 

"You." He looks right in your eyes for the first time since you walked in. "Are. The. Girl."

The thing that happens to your chest is immediate and enormous and you don't do anything with it yet because you're still processing the words. You. Are. The girl. The one Sam mentioned. The one Bucky's been sneaking around with. The one who he'd said was nothing, but there was something. 

"I don't—" You shake your head. "What does that even mean? We were just — I just asked you for help. I asked you to teach me —"

"Can we stop?" He says that like someone who has run out of patience for the performance of it. "Can we just stop doing this?"

"Doing what, I'm not doing anything —"

"You're doing everything! You did everything! You ran out on me." His elbows come to his knees as he leans forward, pinning you under his gaze. "I came out of the bathroom and you were gone. Your shoes were gone, your phone was gone, you were just… gone. Why?"

"Because you said I was ready to date." You cross your arms in front of you. "Why do you care if I left?"

"Because it was the morning after the best night of my life." He says it like he'd rather not be saying it but he's saying it anyway. "I was already sitting there feeling like shit because you were sore, and then you came out with —" his voice shifts, doing something that is a deeply unflattering impression of you, "I guess I have to go deal with Jenna's scrunchie situation again."

"Don't do the voice."

"You said it like you couldn't wait to leave."

"I said it because I wanted you to say something!" The words come out louder than you meant. You correct yourself, lower your voice. "I was testing the waters. I wanted to see if you'd—"

"And then," he keeps going like he needs to finish, "you asked me point blank if you were ready to go out there and date other people." He looks at you like he still can't quite believe it. "What was I supposed to say?"

"Something other than 'yeah' maybe?" The yeah is intentionally higher in octave, mocking him. 

He doesn't take the bait like you. "What would you have had me say?"

"I don't know, something! Anything! You could have — I don't know, pushed back, said wait, said—"

"You covered yourself."

That stops you. "What?"

"The sheet." His voice is quieter now, different. "You sat up and you grabbed the sheet and you pulled it over yourself. And I've — we'd just — I've seen you. All of you. Every single part of you, and you looked at me like you needed to hide, and I thought—" He stops to catch his breath, voice dropping lower. "I thought you'd already decided something and I wasn't going to be the guy who makes that weird."

The memory of it is very specific. The grey morning light. The sheet slipping. The way you grabbed it like you didn't want to be seen. 

"I covered myself because you said it was fine for me to date." You bring up technicalities even though he probably knew it himself. Like talking about the timeline of it all could shift the blame. "Not before. You asked me to date other people and I felt about this big— " you bring your pointer finger and your thumb together to specify that you felt so small. The gesture softens something in his eyes, in him.  "— and I didn't know what to do with my hands so I grabbed the sheet. That's the only reason."

When he opens his mouth, you continue. "You looked completely fine about it. You were just… fine. Like it was the obvious answer. And I thought 'okay, that's it then, that's where we actually are', I left because I didn't know what else to do."

"I looked fine because you asked me like it was a real question." His voice has lost the edge now, the flatness of it gone. "Like you'd made up your mind already and were checking in. What was I supposed to do — tell you 'no, don't go date anyone, stay here'?"

"Yes! That's what I wanted you to say."

He looks at you like he cannot quite believe the audacity.

"I wanted you to say no." You're past the point of dressing it up. "I wanted you to say you didn't want me going out there with someone else. I wanted you to ask me to stay instead. I didn't know how to just ask for that so I asked a question I thought might get there eventually, and it didn't."

Bucky is quiet for a moment, where he sighs like he has to deal with this shit. "That is the most complicated route you could have possibly taken."

"I —"

"You could have just said—"

"Could I have?" You look at him straight. "You had the same information I had. You knew how the morning was going. You could've said something before I even asked the question. You could've said it the night before. You could've said it any of the other times we were sitting in your apartment" You watch him clench and unclench his jaw. "But you didn't. So we're the same amount of stupid and I think we have to just accept that."

"You know, you really wanted them to be lessons."

"Bucky."

"The beach —"

"James Buchanan Barnes."

"Okay," he says. "Okay, fine. We're the same amount of stupid."

"Thank you."

"It's not a compliment."

"Right."

He leans back against the couch. You sit in the armchair. The gap between you is exactly the same as it's been all afternoon and somehow it feels different now.

"Why were you moping?" This time it's not pointed, it's just a question.

You look at your hands. At the armchair arm. At the bookshelf full of Steve's books on the wall behind Bucky's head.

"Because I've always liked you." It's easier when you're not looking at him. "I think I've liked you for a long time. Way longer than I realised." You inhale and exhale once. "I always wanted to hang out with Steve because you were there. I think that's been true for years and I just didn't look at it directly." You do look at him then, because it feels cowardly not to. "And I think when I came to you about all of this — about the lessons, about teaching me — I think I came to you because it was you. Not because I needed teaching. I did need, that's besides the point, but I could've done a million other things, but I came to you — I think I just wanted an excuse to —" You stop because that was long and you need a breath. You need a breath because what you're about to say might be the truest thing you've ever said. "It was always you, Buck. I think it's been you for a long time." And, you try to deflect with sarcasm, true to self. "Possibly since you used to steal my Halloween candy when I was eight. I'd like to have some words about that, actually, but probably not right now."

Bucky doesn't say anything. But he does something you weren't expecting, which is that he gets up from the couch, crosses the space between you, and drops down to kneel beside the armchair so he's at your level. He looks at you from there, close enough that you can see the exact colour of his eyes in Steve's place. "It's always been you too."  

Something in your chest cracks open in the quietest possible way. "Wha —"

"At first —" He almost smiles, but it's too soft to be a smile, it's something adjacent to one. "At first it was just Steve's little sister that I couldn't get rid of. You were everywhere he was and you had opinions about everything and you'd argue with me about anything and I thought, fine, annoying." His eyes stay on yours. "And then I went to college and you weren't around and I —" A moment he takes to gather his words, but his eyes don't leave yours. "I missed you. One second, you were there, and then you weren't. And, God I missed you. I tried not to, I tried telling myself you were just Steve's little sister. But you were never just that."

"Bucky—"

"When Steve told me you were coming here," he continues, "I took the internship at the same campus. Originally, I was supposed to go with Steve. But I took this because you were coming."

You stare at him, thinking you like his voice. You've always liked his voice. Now you like it exceptionally more, because his voice is saying things about you. Nice things. 

"My allotted dorm was on the other side of town," he confesses. "Did you know that? I moved off campus because your dorm was ten minutes from the apartment and I wanted —" He shakes his head slightly, like he's still getting used to saying this out loud. "I wanted to be close."

"Your apartment is ten minutes from my dorm," you repeat.

"Yeah."

"You moved there on purpose."

"Yeah."

"You absolute —" You don't finish that sentence because you don't have a word big enough. "I think I chose this college because of you," you say instead. "I told myself it was because Steve studied here. Because the programme was good. Because I knew the area, because it made sense logistically. Those are all true. But —"

"What?" His turn to look surprised. 

"I knew you would be here, and I wanted to be close to you."

He looks genuinely thrown. Like he didn't expect that particular surprise from this conversation, like he'd braced for other things and not this.

You look at each other from about eighteen inches apart. The whole weight of the last however many years sits in the room with you. 

And it's a lot, and it should probably feel heavier than it does, except that it just feels true. Like something that was always going to lead here, just took the scenic route.

"We've been so stupid," you break the minute long silence.

"Yeah."

"Years of stupid."

"To be fair—"

"No, there's no fair. It's been years, Bucky."

"Okay, yeah." The almost-smile again. "Years."

The afternoon light comes in through Steve's window and does something to the angles of his face. You've been cataloguing those angles without meaning to for six years now and you're done pretending you haven't.

You lean forward. You're not asking if you're doing it right this time. Because it's not him teaching you. 

This is your decision, your need to be close to him, to close the distance and meet his mouth with yours. He makes a sound and kisses you back immediately, his hand coming up to your jaw. 

It is different from every other time, it is completely different, because this time you both know what it is.

His thumb traces your cheekbone and he kisses you just as slowly. "Go on a date with me," he says against your mouth, your lips moving with his.

"No." You reply against his mouth too. 

Bucky pulls back. "Sorry?"

"No."

"What do you —" He looks at you, and you can see him trying to figure out if you're joking. The look on his face is so genuinely confused that you'd feel bad about it if it weren't also the funniest thing you've seen in two days. "I just — we just —"

"You can take me on a date… after you ask me to be your girlfriend."

The confusion rearranges itself. The corner of his mouth starts to commit to something, his hand still at your jaw. His eyes are doing several things at once.  His face is fond and exasperated and something much softer underneath both of those things. "Will you be my girl?"

"Yes."  

"Thank god." He kisses you again, speaks against your mouth like it's the only way he knows now. "I moved across the entire city."

"I know. It's very romantic."

"You should have seen my commute."

"I'll make it up to you," you reply. He laughs against your mouth, the one that gets all the way to his eyes, the one you've been storing up without knowing you were storing it.

Time becomes a foreign concept now. For you don't know if it's been minutes or hours. 

From somewhere down the hallway comes the unmistakable sound of a door, and then Steve's voice, entirely too casual. "So should I come back later or —"

Bucky doesn't stop kissing you. "Later, Steve," you say into his mouth.

"So how did the two of you start anyway?"

Steve's looking at you both with this expression that's mostly fond but also slightly curious. Like he has most of the pieces but still not the whole picture.

You're sitting on his couch, Bucky's at the other end, and there's approximately three feet of space between you that feels like it's doing a lot of work right now.

"I asked Bucky if he could teach me dating."

The words come out before you've really thought about whether this is information Steve needs. But here you are, might as well commit.

Steve looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. "Teach you dating?"

"Yeah, Steve." Your tone is pointed. "For people who are so inexperienced because of an older brother, there should be lessons for these kinds of things."

In your peripheral vision, Bucky has gone very still. When you glance at him, he's looking at the coffee table like it's the most fascinating thing in the room. There's a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

Steve's eyebrows are doing something. "No, I mean — why did you ask him to teach you?"

"Because he's Bucky."

"Precisely why you shouldn't have asked him."

Bucky shifts, opens and closes his mouth before he decides to speak. "I think what he's trying to—"

“Why?” You ask, cutting him off exactly the same moment Steve says, "he's never dated anyone."

What?

Your head whips around to look at Bucky. He's still staring at the coffee table, but now the flush has spread to his ears.

"Sorry, what?"

Steve's looking between the two of you like he's watching something unfold that he finds deeply amusing. "Yeah, he was too busy pining over you to actually date anyone in college."

A deadly silence follows.

Bucky looks up at Steve with something between betrayal and resignation. "I'm sorry, how did you know I was pining over her?"

"Guys. You really aren't that slick. Both of you.” He points at Bucky, “especially you.”

You're still processing. The whole time — every single lesson — you'd assumed he was this experienced person showing you the ropes because he'd done all of this a hundred times before. And he just... hadn't?

You turn to Bucky. "So you've never dated anyone?"

He finally looks at you. His eyes are doing that thing where they're very earnest and also slightly embarrassed. "Yeah..."

"What about the other stuff?"

Steve's up and out of his chair in half a second. "Aight, I'm out. I don't need to hear this."

"I've kissed a girl once." Bucky’s voice has gone quieter.

The words register slowly at first. Then all at once. "So that's why you came in your pants!"

Steve, who's almost made it to safety, stops dead in his tracks. His shoulders go rigid. "You did what—" Then he shakes his head violently, like he's trying to physically dislodge the information from the crevices of his brain. "You know what, I don't wanna know."

He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the tap running far too loud. The sound of a mug being set down too hard.

You're still looking at Bucky. He's looking back at you with this sheepish expression, but also something else.

"What about—" You lower your voice even though Steve's clearly trying to give you distance. "What about when you... with your hand. You definitely said you'd done it before."

His mouth twitches into a half formed smile. "My hand's met my dick many times."

"Bucky!"

"What? It has."

"No, you were — you said that about blowjobs. Said you’d done it before."

Bucky exhales loudly like a child caught in a lie. You don’t know how exact that analogy is going to be, to the point where it’s not an analogy anymore, just the truth.

He closes his eyes for a second before meeting yours again. "I lied."

There's something blooming in your chest that you're trying to figure out what is and falling short. Something warm and a little bit ridiculous.

"You what?"

"I lied."

"Why?"

"Because — " he takes a deep breath like that could help and continues, "you’d asked me to help you and I just — I just couldn’t say no. You came to me. And I didn't want you to know you were my first everything too. Seemed like a lot of pressure to put on the whole thing. You were already nervous enough without knowing I was figuring it out same time as you."

"But you—" You gesture vaguely at him, at the space between you. "You were so good at it. Like you knew exactly what you were doing."

"I watched porn."

A laugh startles out of you. "You watched porn?"

"I watched an unhealthy amount of porn." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I spent about three weeks on some deeply questionable websites making sure I wasn't going to fuck it up when you actually let me —" He stops himself to clear his throat. "Yeah."

The warmth in your chest is spreading. It's taken up residence in your ribs, your throat, behind your eyes, making him blurry.

"So all my firsts… are your firsts too."

"The ki—"

"Except the kiss." You cut him off because you know where that's going. "You kissed a girl once. I'm not counting that."

"It was in eighth grade and it lasted maybe two seconds."

There's something in his expression that's so open it makes your chest ache. Like he's giving you every single card in his hand and trusting you not to do anything terrible with them.

From the kitchen, you hear Steve muttering something that sounds like "...should've shut this shit down when I saw those hickeys..."

Your brain catches on the word. "You showed him your hickeys?"

"He facetimed me."

"And you answered with those hockeys?"

"I forgot about the — I wasn't thinking, baby."

You lean in closer, try dropping your voice to a whisper. "So that's how he figured it out."

"Guys." Steve's voice carries from the kitchen, done with it but fond at the same time. "You genuinely aren't slick. Like at all."

  Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist

EXTRAS. Dedicated to this anon (adding this here bc I didn’t want to spoil anything lol)

Thank you for reading this. I told myself I would never start another series because babydoll gave me such burnout. But this idea got rooted into my head and just wouldn’t leave. I got so many comments and asks, and it genuinely made me so happy. I appreciate each and every single one of them. Thank you, thank you 💕 I truly hope I met your expectations. I also HAVE to know if you saw those two things coming (not me thinking I’m that slick lol). If you don’t like the last scene, pretend it didn’t happen. Personally, I just fancy the idea of a guy being so in love with his girl, he doesn’t even try. Less realistic, more endearing and romantic — basically me. Any asks and requests for these two babies are always welcome. Please send some, they will genuinely make my day.

TAGLIST. @devililithh @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax + TO GET ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!

[drabblesandsnippets]

Rewrite the Narrative

summary: (5k - it got away from me, ok? lol) insecure reader x Bucky who's fucking feral for her (thank you to the lovely anon who requested this 🩶) tw: fluff, enthusiastic consent, a lot of smut and Bucky talking you through it

Bucky had spent most of his life under darkness. Kept in the shadows like a secret.

So when he realized that's where you preferred to hide - in the same place that nearly destroyed him - he did the only thing he could.

He reached in and pulled you out. Used his skills to stoke confidence instead of fear.

Intimacy had always felt like a stranger to you. Something you couldn't quite grasp, even alone, no matter how hard you tried. Lights off and under covers not nearly enough to quiet your mind and just feel. To stop thinking about all the ways you might be too much. Or, not enough.

By the time you met Bucky, you were already convinced it just wasn't in the cards for you. Destined to spend the rest of your life always wondering 'what if.' Constantly reviewing the endless list of things you probably needed change about yourself.

And then he walked into your life and had the nerve to offer you the most dangerous thing of all.

Hope.

It started small. Slow. Two people learning how to trust again. How to be present. How to want without worrying about doing the wrong thing.

Bucky seemed to catch on much quicker. Kisses growing confident, words spilling out unchecked during heated moments. But never pushing. Always content with whatever pace you seemed comfortable with.

Inside you've been dying for more. More than just the heavy make-out sessions you'd find yourselves in. His body pressing you into the couch cushions, thigh slotted between yours, careful hands roaming over frustrating layers of clothing.

The words always seemed to die before they could ever fully form. Pleas for more getting lost in the ruminating thoughts that would inevitably take root. A constant battle of being silenced by your own insecurities until one day - suddenly - Bucky manages to coax it out of you.

"God, sweetheart," he groans against your neck, hips rocking gently. "Feel so good." One hand grips your thigh, squeezing the generous give of it. "So soft."

Your shuddering moan only seems to set him off more. Fingers readjusting, sliding higher, easily finding that spot on the back of your thigh that elicits some of the most needy noises you've ever made.

"Yeah?" he pants, kisses following a trail back to your lips, tongue delving deep. Teeth clashing in a frenzy that leaves you dizzy. Grasping at him, shirt bunched between your fingers, body seeking more friction.

It's the harsh gasp of his name that breaks the spell. Mouths reluctantly separating so he can check in. Gaze sweeping over your fluttering lashes, the heat radiating off your skin, your perfect, swollen lips parted in an effort to take in more oxygen.

"Doin' so good for me," he murmurs, pulse stuttering at the effect the simple praise has on you. Thighs tensing. Back arching. Another shuddering gasp that almost makes him forget he's a gentleman.

Dropping his head again, he noses along your jaw to breathe you in. His firm grip on your thigh encouraging you to keep moving. To keep taking. To stop worrying that he's thinking about anything other than how perfect you fit against him.

"Swear you were made just for me."

He says it with such conviction - such awe - that it's impossible not to believe it. To not let it sink deep and twist around all the ugly fears usually holding you back. Making room for one single thought.

"Please."

Such a simple word.

And yet, it has Bucky's brain short-circuiting. Cock twitching, his strained erection digging into your thigh. Leaving no doubt what you're doing to him.

"Please what, sweet girl?" he breathes, restraint warring with desire.

A pathetic whimper bubbles up, hands dropping to the cushions. Just long enough for him to start suckling a bruise over your pulse, wet tongue pulling your focus. Your grip immediately returns to his waist, nails digging in through the cotton. Eliciting a growl that has you once again forgetting about everything but him.

"What do you need, hmm?" Soft words muttered against your throat, his sure hand hitching a millimeter higher. Testing the waters without throwing you off balance. "Need me to touch more of you? Make you feel good?"

Heavy panting answers him. Your thigh inching up his side, letting him settle deeper against you. Letting him feel how fucking warm you already are.

"Christ."

His sharp inhale unlocks something inside of you. Giving way to a newfound confidence that has you taking a step all on your own, fingers dipping underneath the hem of his shirt, seeking out his feverish skin.

"Shit," he hisses, body locking up, weight dropping to his vibranium forearm, resisting the urge to rut against you like some animal in heat. Muffled laughter follows, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he apologizes, "was almost over before we even got started."

Warmth settles low in your belly, electricity radiating out from where he's grinding against you. Your hips setting the pace without you even realizing it.

It's never been like this for you. Not just the bursts of pleasure, but how he's able to get you to relax. To breathe. To just fucking feel for once in your life.

"Yes." It almost comes out as a sob. Your palms sliding over the strong muscles of his back, each flex grounding you deeper in the moment. "Please."

A slow shift and he's suddenly there. Flush against you. The fly of his jeans providing exquisite friction that has your legs squeezing his hips.

"Oh god," you gasp, a tremor running through you, limbs clinging to him like you're on the verge of losing yourself.

"Shhh," Bucky soothes, wasting no time in pulling you back from the brink, "open those pretty eyes for me."

The moment you do, he's leaning over you, intense gaze holding you hostage, taking you in like you're a work of art.

"There you are," he smiles, drawing out more needy gasps, your hips starting to find a quicker rhythm. "Love watching you... this little scrunch right here -" a kiss to the bridge of your nose, "when it starts to feel really good."

A deliberate roll of his hips and he kisses the spot again, grinning against your skin. Beard tickling your nose, a soft giggle pouring out of you like it's second nature.

"Already addicted to you, sweetheart, ya know that?"

Your answering moan has him reaching for your thigh, hooking it higher up his waist, opening you up until your crying out for him again.

"God, you're perfect," he groans, palm cradling the back of your skull to keep you looking up at him. Forcing you to rewrite your entire narrative. "So damn responsive for me."

You can feel it. The heat, the pressure, the hard line of his erection coaxing you to heights you've never experienced. Panties growing damp. Nipples pebbling inside your bra. An overwhelming ache for more.

"Please," as if it's the only word in your vocabulary. Nails leaving pink trails down his back, your other hand reaching down to grab his ass, using it for leverage to chase the pleasure coursing through you.

All because he hasn't taken his eyes off you. Showing you, clear as day, how fucking turned on he is. Just from seeing you like this.

So when you sense the shift - his breathing turning harsh, the tension building in his muscles, the way he keeps saying your name like it's the only thing he remembers - you're finally capable of asking for what you want.

"Please, I... can we- can we go to bed?"

Bucky'd throw you over his damn shoulder if he wasn't worried about scaring you off.

Instead, he takes his time. Kisses you nice and slow, easing you up so you're sitting for him. Giving you a chance to change your mind once you're no longer clouded by the heat spreading between you.

There's no second guessing this. No pausing. You just reach for his hand and allow him to pull you up, his steady feet guiding you towards the bedroom. Assuring gaze carrying you until you're both standing at the side of the bed. The low light of the lamp hiding nothing from either of you.

"Can I take this off-," he starts to ask, hands resting on your hips, fingers dipped under the hem of your shirt.

"Can we turn off the light-," you ask at the same time, your head turned towards the offending source.

Shy laughter vibrates against his chest where you bury your face, his arms banding around you, his warm chuckle shaking you both.

And then the moment threatens to turn sour, Bucky placing a kiss on the top of your head with a murmured, "tryin' not to hide in the shadows anymore."

It shouldn't shock you. Shouldn't freeze you in place. Shouldn't have you tensing in his arms like he's done something wrong.

"Sorry." The reflexive apology tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's the only olive branch that makes sense.

"Hey." That soothing tone again that has you melting, his hands coming up to frame your face, flesh and metal holding you like you're something precious. "None o' that. We don't gotta do anything, okay? Could just lay here, if you wanted."

Your fingers encircle his wrists, the contrast reminding you of everything he's been through. What he's capable of. How incredibly safe you are in his arms.

You start with the slow shake of your head, then you're offering him, "I'm just... scared. I don't... I'm not good at... this. At... being seen."

"Yeah, you are."

The words cut through the haze, a confused laugh passing between you before you're shaking your head again. Ready to prove him wrong.

"You are," he grins, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling you between his bent knees. "You don't think you are. You've somehow convinced yourself you're incapable of it."

It's not criticism. Or a complaint. Just an observation that he's bringing into the light.

Thumb tracing the seam of your lips, he tilts his head, refusing to let you drop his gaze. "But you like it. You want me to see you. Want me to prove you wrong."

You swallow the lump forming, words getting lost in the process, your focus flickering between his mouth and his eyes. Trying to figure out where to go from here. How to-

"Ya gotta stop thinkin' so much, sweetheart," he grins, hands sliding around your hips, pulling you even closer. Cutting off your response with a teasing kiss. "Not expecting miracles, here. Just need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

It's an impossible task actually - stop thinking so much - but trusting Bucky? That comes easy.

"Yeah," you nod, hands toying with the cuffs of his sleeve, thumbs stroking his biceps. "Might still make it awkward."

"Awkward I can do," he promises with a playful smile, fingers starting to guide your shirt up. "Hiding's what scares me."

His confession catches you off guard, knees threatening to buckle, the vulnerability in his voice leaving you breathless.

"Know it makes you feel safe," he continues, eyes darkening when your shirt rides up just enough to give him access to the soft skin above the waistband of your pants. "Wanna figure out how to make you feel safe with me. Like this."

Each word dismantling another layer of armor until you're trembling in his arms, skin prickling with excitement, arousal building from the sheer thought of being taken care of.

"Can I try?" he asks, hands moving up along the curve of your waist, shirt bunching higher until cool air meets heated flesh.

He doesn't demand any more of you. He just sits there, looking up, patient as the day is long. Waiting for you to decide if this is something you're ready for.

If not-

"Yeah."

This time it resembles an actual syllable instead of a gust of air. The effort sending heat licking up Bucky's spine. Spurring him on to help you take the first leap, he rises to his full height the same time he gently instructs you to lift your arms. Shedding you of the material in one careful swoop, leaving no time for you to get lost in the tempting darkness.

"All you gotta do is stay right here with me," he reminds you, your shirt tossed onto the dresser behind you.

Then he's looking at you, hungry gaze taking in the swell of your breasts, cleavage on display, the delicate trim of your bra making him have to remind himself to behave.

For now, anyway.

When he finds you looking down too, he steps closer, catching your attention with a playful, "Knew I was lucky. Didn't realize how lucky until just now."

You forget how to breathe again when his hand makes contact with your bare waist, thumb resting just below dangerous territory.

"What else you got hidin' under there, doll?"

The question cuts through the noise starting to surface, an appreciative laugh getting swallowed when you take the initiative to kiss him. Arms draped over his shoulders, fingers combing through his hair, the tip of your tongue teasing along his parted lips.

That's all it takes for Bucky to take matters into his own hands. Literally. Palms effortlessly scooping you up, wrapping your legs around his waist before you can overthink it. He doesn't even turn towards the bed yet.

He just stands there, kissing you like his life depends on it. The solid weight of you igniting filthy scenarios he's desperate to act out with you.

By the time he has you on the bed, writhing underneath him, your shirt still the only barrier that's been removed, you've become someone you don't even recognize.

Desperate and needy. Holding onto him while he takes you apart.

His mouth leaving a trail of messy kisses down your throat, across your collarbones, tongue dipping between your breasts until your arching up. Offering yourself up to him, leaving him no choice but to devour you.

Wet heat closing over your nipple through the thin barrier of your bra, sending sparks straight to your clit. Your hips finding that rhythm again, grinding against his jeans until you forget that you never knew how to do this.

It doesn't even register once his hands slip underneath you, fingers unhooking your bra with ease that belies his recent experience. Once it's slipping free, he's kissing you again, distracting you with growling praise of, "so goddamn perfect," and "can't believe you're mine," and "love you so much."

Until you're dizzy again. Lost in the sea of sensation and intimacy. Brain quieting long enough for you to reach for his shirt, silently begging him to join you. To feel his skin against yours. Hard planes meeting soft curves that have you both moaning.

Then he's back to giving your nipples more attention, large hands cupping your breasts, fingers tugging at one neglected bud before switching sides. Lips and teeth working them into stiff peaks. All the while working you higher and higher with consistent pressure between your thighs.

Making you believe that something life-altering is coming.

Because it is.

Just, not yet.

When he pulls back, one hand slipping between your bodies to start working you free of your pants, the whine that erupts has your hands scrambling, covering your face to avoid Bucky's reaction. As if it'd be anything other than devoted amusement.

Smug satisfaction that he's able to bring out those kinds of noises even through layers of clothing. It leaves no doubt that this is headed exactly where he thinks it is.

As long as he can help keep you anchored.

"Gonna ask for a favor," he says, leaning in kiss the corner of your mouth. "If things get too loud up here," another kiss to your temple, "just let me know." Fingers hook into your waistband, pausing long enough to add, "doesn't even gotta be words, sweetheart. Could tap me. Get my attention if I don't notice, okay?"

He probably will. Always does. But it gives you an out. A way to break the tension before it can shatter the connection.

It doesn't take long. Once he's helping you wiggle out of your pants, the clumsy movement drawing attention to the parts you long to hide, you're reaching out. Trembling fingers brushing his shoulder.

He's already pausing, your pants pushed down to your knees, Bucky refusing to let the swirling thoughts take hold.

"I've got you," he murmurs, leaning in to press a deliberate kiss to your belly. Beard tickling along your side until your squirming for him, a beautiful giggle breaking free. Your pants getting kicked off in a haste to pull him closer.

Rough jeans meeting the thin cotton barrier of your soaked underwear, his hard erection trapped between you, begging for relief. He ignores it in favor of watching you lose yourself to the pleasure.

Head thrown back, eyes fluttering, nails digging into his skin every time he reminds you he's exactly where he wants to be. Heated groans of, "didn't think it could feel this good," and "you're so hot, sweetheart," and "can fucking smell you, wanna taste you so bad."

It should throw you for a loop. Should send you fleeing under the covers. But all it does is make you whine. Pussy pulsing, a gush of arousal that's sure to leave a wet spot on his pants.

"That a yes?" It comes out more desperate than he intends, fingers cupping your jaw, thumb guiding your chin down so he can lock eyes with you. Needing the verbal confirmation this time. "Want me to taste you? Eat your pretty pussy?"

"Oh god." Another whine. Eyes snapping closed. Thighs gripping him tight as your entire body reacts as if you've been electrified.

The growl he makes against your neck, teeth nipping at your dewy skin, has you confessing in record time. Gasping pleas of, "Yes... want that... please, oh my god."

"Fuck," Bucky grunts, forgetting himself for a moment as he thrusts against you, the fly of his jeans catching on your swollen clit, making you keen. Making the pleasure spike until you're begging for him to take pity on you.

It takes everything in him not to give in. Not to slide down and lick you clean, have your thighs wrapped around his ears as you scream his name.

Hips maintaining the direct pressure you seem to crave, he catches your gaze again, offering you that same smile that got you to agree to go on that first date.

"Same rules apply, sweet girl," he reminds you, nose kissing yours. "You let me know if anything doesn't feel good. However you can." A mischievous smile ticking up the corner of his mouth, "Otherwise, all you gotta do is lay here, okay?"

No expectations. No need for performance or overthinking. Just two people in love, exploring. Learning each other.

Bucky only moves once you fully relax, hands mapping your body as he trails kisses down your sternum. Tongue poking out to tease the side of your breast before dipping lower. Open mouth kisses across your tummy while the pads of his fingers tease along the soft skin of your inner thigh.

Giving you no relief to the ache building inside of you. But at least he's all you're thinking about. How good it feels. How much you need him to just tear your fucking panties off so he can make good on his promise.

Watching him have to unzip his jeans and reach in to adjust himself only sets more fire to your veins, nails digging into his shoulder while you tug at his hair.

"Fuck. Please, I can't..."

"Okay," he soothes, smiling against your skin, fingers sliding to catch the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down until you're completely bare for him. The scent of you hitting him like a tidal wave. Making his mouth water, his trembling hands coaxing your knees back, spreading you open.

"Bucky," you breathe, hands resting on the curve of your stomach, itching to hide yourself from his intense gaze.

"You're so fucking gorgeous, holy shit," he gasps, pupils blown, palms inching closer, thumbs meeting the slick heat coating your skin. "Jesus, you're so wet for me, baby."

That's all it takes, apparently. Some teasing, some filthy praise, and you're resting back against the pillows, thighs spread, hips already moving towards his mouth. Your hand never loosening its grip on his hair the moment he makes contact.

Lips and tongue leaving a wet trail along your thigh until his nose bumps your swollen pussy, the taste of you exploding on his tongue. Your scent filling his lungs. Making him never want come up for air.

"Knew you'd taste good, but fuckin' hell, sweetheart."

Nearly coming right then and there.

Tongue lapping at your folds, collecting more of your wetness, thumbs keeping you spread so he can drink you down. Never once letting you start to doubt this is anything other than worship.

For once in your life, time loses all meaning. Zero thoughts other than how much Bucky is enjoying this. Allowing you to focus on his mouth finding your clit, tongue swirling, groans vibrating that have you seeing stars.

"Like that," you manage between gasping breaths, sweat starting to collect between your breasts, your free hand wrapped around your ankle. Helping to keep you exactly where he wants you.

Where you're more than happy to be.

The pressure building again. Sharp zaps of pleasure radiating out from your clit. Juices drenching his beard. Your greedy walls pulsing around nothing. Aching to be filled.

"Oh god, fuck me," you plead, toes curling. "Please - please, fuck me."

Your demand for more is met with the pad of his finger breaching your entrance, slick digit slipping in without any resistance, knuckles curling to make you grind against his mouth.

Encouraging you to chase your pleasure, another finger stretching you open when your legs starts to quiver around his head. His hips humping the air while he devours you. The sounds you're making going straight to his leaking dick. Steel-hard and leaving a mess because he can't get enough of you.

You're almost there. Teetering on the edge of something attainable, eyelids shut tight, dry mouth left open in a permanent O, muscles starting to protest from exertion.

Reminding you how long you've been like this. While he's still-

Harder suction has you crying out, vibranium arm pinning your thigh to the mattress, your other dropping to mirror the relaxed pose. Heels digging into the covers so you can fuck yourself. Use his mouth to make yourself come. His fingers never ceasing their relentless assault, your fluttering walls starting to tighten.

"Oh sh- I'm gon- gonna - don't- fuck- fuck- fuck - don't stop, please- don't fucking stop, please."

Bucky couldn't even if he wanted to. He's too far gone. Lost in his new favorite place. Where he intends to spend as much fucking time as you'll let him.

Especially if this is where it leads. To you coming all over his face, pussy trying to milk his fingers, the hoarse scream of his name making him spill his load like some green cadet.

He doesn't stop until you're tugging at his hair, sobbing from overload, his fingers continuing to draw several more shuddering gasps before he finally relents. Letting you breathe, kissing his way back up until he's wrapping his arms around your shaking body.

Welcoming the onslaught of emotions sweeping you under.

"Shh, I've got you," he promises, soothing you with tender caresses along your sweaty back. "Did so good for me." Grazes of his lips over your jaw. "So proud of you. Takin' what you needed. Lettin' me love you like that."

Slowly bringing you back down to earth.

"Holy shit." The first words you're capable of, followed by tearful laughter. And endless admiration. "Can't believe you just did that."

Bucky's breath fans over your face, his laughter meeting with yours during a lingering kiss.

"We did that," he counters, fingertips stroking lower, tracing the swell of your ass. "You did that. And it was so fucking hot."

A squealing laugh erupts when he grabs a handful of your asscheek, rolling over until you're sprawled across him. Nipples scraping against his chest, thigh draped over his, one confident hand following an invisible trail to his open fly.

"Made a mess," he warns, abs clenching under your teasing touch, cock already twitching back to life.

"Should I stop?"

A hint of playfulness that has him grinning against your lips, tongue slipping into your mouth in answer. Hips arching towards your hand. Silently encouraging you to keep exploring.

The boldness wavers when your hand reaches his underwear, fingers hooking in the waistband to tug them down, only to realize you've reached the awkward one-handed stage. Your other elbow digging into the mattress to keep most of your weight off of him.

"You're overthinkin' again," he teases, whispering the words like a secret. "How 'bout you lay back for me? Let me do all the work?"

"Pretty sure you just did," you whisper back, hand stalling at his fly.

Soft laughter fills the space between you, Bucky's nose nudging yours, encouraging you to look at him, "So? Make me earn it, sweet girl."

Like he's craving it.

Pillow back under your head and his gaze stays targeted on you. Pants and underwear getting pushed down, clumsy attempts knocking him over before he's surging upright with a sheepish grin, the material finally getting kicked off his feet.

Your own relaxed laughter fades as soon as you lay eyes on him. Thick and heavy, growing by the second, leaving you torn between wanting him in your mouth and your pussy. Tongue peaking out to wet dry lips, thighs opening wider to invite him in. Unabashedly giving him the final choice.

It's no contest.

The thought of having your lips wrapped around him has a pearl of pre-cum beading at the tip of his cock, but it's the thought of sinking into you - feeling your walls squeeze him when you come again - that turns him rock-hard. Balls drawing up tight as he shuffles forward.

Resisting the urge to sink into you - a super-human fucking feat, given the tilt of your hips - Bucky places both hands to the mattress, right next to your head, effectively caging you in, pelvis flush against yours, the engorged head of his cock rocking against your clit. Creating a lewd, schlick sound.

Waiting until your fluttering lashes open to meet his gaze, he leans close, stilling your quick nod with a growly reminder, "Gonna give you whatever you need." Body aligning with yours, thick head nudging your entrance, he pauses again. Heavy breaths mixing with yours. "All you gotta do is lay there and take it."

The first exquisite stretch cuts off your needy whine. The uncontrolled sound morphing into a keening sob that wracks your whole body. Nails digging into his back, heels flexing towards the ceiling, his cock bottoming out to steal your last breath.

"Oh fuck me," he groans, forehead dropping to your chest, velvet walls pulsing around him, trying to turn him into a liar. Threatening to end this before he can make good on his word. "Gonna need a second."

His breathless confession has the opposite effect of what he's probably hoping for. Back arching, pussy squeezing his cock, nipples seeking out his talented mouth.

"Doll," he growls, body meeting yours in a slap of heated flesh, hips setting the pace you're begging for. Lips close around the aching bud, teeth worrying the sensitive tip, suction soothing the sting every time his cock hits that spot inside of you.

Driving you higher and higher up the bed until his hand shoots out, palm nearly cracking the headboard to protect your head from hitting the wood.

"Ain't gonna last," he grunts, letting your nipple go with a filthy pop. Sitting back to get a better look, eyes roaming from your bouncing tits to his cock disappearing over and over into your tight heat. "Fuck, baby, tell me what you need."

It hits like lightning, a burst of pleasure, a roll of your hips, and then a flash of insecurity. Stomach rolls on full display, thick thighs shaking with each hard thrust.

"Uh uh," he pants, "eyes on me."

Metal hand securing a thigh, the other gripping your soft belly, his twitching cock and gaping mouth all the evidence you need to believe his next rush of praise.

"Hottest fucking thing I've ever seen, holy shit."

Vibranium thumb finds your clit, cool metal warming under the slick, swollen heat, metal starting to vibrate as he picks up the pace. Finding the perfect rhythm you need to start strangling his cock.

"That's it," he tells you, fingers warpped around your waist for leverage, "just let me fuck you. Gonna make you come all over you me, baby."

There's no doubt this time. An exhilarated laugh and you're throwing your head back, once again lost to the pleasure. Bucky fucking every single thought out of you. Leaving you breathless and whining, the intensity building until it hits you like a tsunami.

Wetness gushing around him, triggering his own orgasm, whiting out his vision as he falls on top of you, careful of pressing too hard against your belly, cock filling you up with several more sloppy thrusts. Prolonging the aftershocks until you're both spent, limbs trembling, words reduced to incoherent gasps.

Tears you don't even remember crying track down your temples, Bucky kissing them away once he finds them there, tasting sweat and salt and you.

"Love you," he breathes, pulse thundering in his ears, super-soldier serum having met it's match.

"Love you," you manage, despite being barely conscious, nails scratching lazy patterns down his back, bodies still humming.

Eventually, ears tuned to your steady heartbeat and slowing breaths, he shifts his weight to avoid crushing you, rolling you both over, his softening cock slipping out, severing the precious connection. Your twin moans from the loss creating more laughter. Lightness. A bridge back to reality. Sweaty bodies sticking together. Cum leaking from your sore (satisfied) pussy.

"Gonna get you cleaned up," he announces, hand holding yours against his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. "Right after I remember how to walk." Fingers tracing the soft curve of your back as you snuggle into him.

"You're on your own there," you mumble, "gonna have to carry me everywhere."

A tease that you'd never make before settles deep in his chest. Emotion tightening his throat.

Bucky fights through it, inhaling deeply, watching the way your heavy lids flutter during the exhale. "You got it, sweetheart. Your very own chauffeur service. Ready to spoil you rotten."

Sealing the vow with a soft brush of his lips to your forehead. Wondering how long it's gonna be until you're strutting around his place naked. Comfortable and free.

He gives it a month, tops.

Weeks, if he plays his cards right.

(banners by @cafekitsune)

[vigilantexreader]

sexy hug

Adrian Chase x fem!Reader

synopsis: Adrian's acting weird, and when you ask him what's up, you get an answer you were not expecting.

tags/warnings: jealous!Adrian, bestfriend!Adrian, friends to lovers, SMUT - MDNI (oral - f receiving, protected piv sex), smut with feelings

word count: 4.6k

Thank you @embeanwrites for the edits and suggestions!!

Masterlist

It’s movie night, and something is wrong with Adrian.

“You okay?” you ask, because Adrian hasn’t eaten any of his popcorn. Normally he’s scarfed down half the bowl by now, but he just keeps picking up the pieces, looking at them forlornly, and tossing them back in the bowl. It was his choice this week, too—some cheesy slasher, and he’s barely even paying attention.

“I’m fine,” Adrian says, but he’s clearly not fine. He’s one of the worst liars you know. He’s pouting, his bottom lip sticking out just a bit, eyes looking big and sad. You sigh and pause the movie, turning to face him. You shift back on the couch, kick your legs up into his lap, and jostle his thigh with your foot.

“What’s wrong?” you ask bluntly, because you know from experience that asking directly is the only way to get through to Adrian. Subtlety is a lost cause with him. 

“Nothing’s—”

“Don’t lie to me. I know something’s up.”

He hesitates, and he’s still staring into the popcorn bowl instead of looking at you, which makes you worry. Adrian might have trouble making eye contact with other people, but never with you. You frown.

He tells you everything. He’s never lied to you, not once, in your whole lives. You’ve been friends since you were children. You’ve known about Vigilante since the beginning. You’ve been patrolling with him just as long. You’ve been there for every bullet wound and buried body and late-night patrol. Something is eating away at him, and it’s not like him to hide from you.

“Tell me,” you say, softer, but it’s not a question. It’s a demand.

“Do you like Economos? Why did you hug him?” Adrian asks, and you’re majorly caught off-guard, because that is not what you were expecting this to be about.

“I—what?”

“After the mission yesterday. When we got back to the van. You hugged Economos,” Adrian says, and the words have a bit of bite to them. Your brow furrows and you sit up straighter.

“What?” you say again, because you are still baffled.

“We killed all those drug dealers in that warehouse, and then we got back to the van, and you hugged Economos.”

“I—yeah, I did,” you say, remembering. “He was on the cameras while we were in there. He warned us through the earpiece about that guy that was right behind us that neither of us saw. I was saying thank you.”

“So you hugged him?” Adrian asks, and it sounds…bitter?

“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” Adrian doesn’t answer, but he is very pointedly not looking at you. “Seriously, Ade? Is that what this is about?”

“So it wasn’t, like, a sexy hug?”

“Adrian. Listen to yourself.”

“What?”

“What even is a sexy hug?”

“I don’t know! A hug between two people who want to fuck each other, I guess!”

“And you think I want to fuck Economos?”

“Well, don’t you?”

“No!” you cry. “Why—what—”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” you repeat, disbelief lacing your words.

“He is my fourth best friend,” Adrian says petulantly. “He’s a perfectly fuckable guy. You don’t need to sound so offended by the prospect.”

“Why do you want me to fuck Economos?”

“I don’t want you to fuck Economos! That is literally the last thing I want!”

“Then why are we talking about this, Adrian?”

He falls silent and looks back down at his popcorn. He refuses to look at you, just stares at the tv screen even though it’s on pause, and you just hum and observe him for a moment, admiring his side profile.

“I can’t—” you start, but cut yourself off. “You are such an idiot.” 

You don’t mean it in a cruel way. The words come out fond, if anything. Adrian’s lips twitch. It’s not a smile, but it’s something. Familiar territory, at least.

“You’re so mean to me,” he complains halfheartedly, an accusation you hear at least once a week.

“You love me anyway,” you say, like you always do, and you start to relax again, sliding your feet back into Adrian’s lap. He puts the popcorn bowl aside and sets his hands on your calves, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the fabric of your leggings.

But you’re not quite ready to let this go, yet.

“Even if I did want to fuck John…why would it matter?” you ask quietly.

Adrian’s hands still, his breath caught in his throat. It’s like he’s petrified by your question. He can’t look at you as you pull yourself up toward him. One hand reaches for his face, grips his chin firmly and turns his head to face you, holding him in place and making him look.

Your eyes are curious as they meet his, and Adrian hates the way that you look right through him. Like you can see right into the messy core of him, all the things he tries to hide away. Then your gaze flicks down to his lips, and his breath hitches, because god, he wants to kiss you right now. But you are his friend, his oldest, longest friend, and he really, really doesn’t want to fuck it up.

But it’s all fucked up anyway, isn’t it? Because of these stupid feelings, that won’t go away, no matter how much he pretends that they aren’t there.

“It would matter because I’m in love with you,” he whispers. “Even though you’re mean to me sometimes. I don’t want you to fuck Economos because—because—”

“Because you want to fuck me?” you finish. Like it’s that simple.

Adrian can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed. He’s too nervous, too overwhelmed, too full of this godawful feeling. Jealousy, love, want. It’s all mixed up inside, and he feels sick with it.

“Yeah,” he finally manages to say. The word wrenches out of him, almost involuntary. He’s not sure if a weight has lifted off his shoulders, or if he wishes he could take it back and melt into the floor.

The smile that blooms on your face is bright and joyous.

“You really are an idiot,” you laugh. “Adrian, I’ve been in love with you since we were twelve. I’ve just been waiting for you to catch up.”

“I—What?” he says, flabbergasted, because this is not how he pictured his dramatic love confession going. He just poured his heart out, and you’re laughing at him. “You—Why didn’t you say something?”

“I tell you I love you literally all the time, you doofus.”

“I thought you meant as a friend! How was I supposed to—”

“Adrian, are you going to keep rambling, or are you going to fucking kiss me already? I think I’ve waited long enough,” you interrupt.

Adrian lets out a breath that’s been stuck in his chest for years. Since you were kids sitting around a table playing Dungeons and Dragons in his basement, before it was his Vigilante lair. Since the first time he can remember thinking you were beautiful, when you were fourteen, with melted strawberry ice cream smeared across your cheek.

All he can do is make a desperate choking noise and lean forward until he finally, finally feels your lips press against his.

It was going to be soft and sweet. It was. But then you sigh into his mouth, a release of tension, and he can’t resist; he opens up for you, wet and deep and wanting. He wants to swallow you, to climb inside you and live there, and now he knows that he’s allowed—that you want him the way that he wants you, in this all-consuming, unbearable, overwhelming way—it’s almost too much.

Adrian tugs you into his lap, feels your weight settle onto him, close in a way that would make him squirm away if it were anyone else, but with you it’s comforting. The movement sends his popcorn tumbling to the floor, the metal bowl loud and clanking on the wood, and he could not give less of a fuck, because your hand on his jaw is sliding into his hair, gripping firmly to his curls, while your other lands on his neck, thumb pressed against his pulse point, right where his heart is racing so fast he thinks he might die.

He can’t stop moving his hands—they land on your waist, slide down to your thighs, brush against the hot, soft line of bare skin where your shirt rides up, and he hears your breath catch. You break away from his hungry lips with a gasp.

“Adrian,” you say. You’ve never said his name like that before. He wants you to say it again, wants to keep kissing you and never, ever stop.

“Yeah,” he says, and he sounds absolutely wrecked. All you’ve done is kiss him, and he’s devolved into a wanton mess.

“We don’t have to,” you continue. “I know you don’t always like—soft touching, or sex—”

“It’s different,” he says quickly, hands tightening on your waist. He can’t let you go on thinking for another moment that he doesn’t want this. “With you. It’s different, I want—”

His hips jolt upwards, a helpless grind to make you feel how much he wants you, and you say his name again, all raspy and longing, just like he wanted, and he groans.

Then you’re pressing on his chest, sending him back into the couch cushions as you push off of him and stand up. He panics for a minute, hands grasping at your clothes—he doesn’t want you to go, you can’t go now, not when he finally has you like this—but you shush him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, because you know him, and his racing mind steadies, just a bit. Then you take a tiny step back and reach for the hem of your shirt, and it goes into overdrive again.

“No,” Adrian says hoarsely, hands shaking as he reaches forward. “I want to do it. Please—please, let me—”

“Yes,” you say, and that’s all he needs, scrambling to his feet. His fumbling hands settle on your waist, roam up and under your shirt, brush against the soft skin of your stomach. Then he tugs at the bottom of your shirt. You lift your arms and he pulls it over your head slowly, tossing it on the couch behind him.

He stares. You shiver under his intense gaze, suddenly nervous, and feeling a little ridiculous about it. It’s Adrian. He’s your best friend. He loves you, he just said so, and even before he did, you knew. You’ve known the whole time. But you still feel stripped bare, because he’s seeing you in a way he never has before, and he looks—hungry.

“Your turn,” you say, flustered, hands drifting up inside his shirt, trailing over his abs. Adrian swallows, shudders at the light touch of your fingertips on his skin, and reaches to grab his shirt at the back of his neck and yank it off.

When he’s shirtless in front of you, your eyes latch onto the muscles of his arm. One finger trails over his bicep, and he watches the motion.

“I’ve wanted to fucking bite you, right here,” you tell him, “for at least a decade.”

“Oh, fuck,” he chokes out, and you dig your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder just as you brush your hand against the bulge in his jeans. “Oh, my god—”

Adrian can’t seem to manage to string together a coherent sentence, not as you flick open the button on his pants and fumble with the zipper, your mouth sucking a bruise into the skin of his arm all the while.

“Oh, fuck—oh god, fuck—”

He’s losing control of the situation. He can’t function like this. So he wraps your hair in his fist and pulls, using the leverage to yank your mouth back to his, swallowing your noise of surprise. He grabs your hands and guides your arms up around his neck, then bends down to pick you up, strong hands supporting your thighs. You yelp, caught off guard.

“What the—”

“Are we going to fuck right now?” Adrian asks bluntly. It’s a little frantic, tinged with want, his pupils blown wide as he looks up at you, hoisted in the air with your legs wrapped around his waist.

“I was under the impression, yes.”

“I don’t have any condoms.”

“Bedside drawer, baby.”

“Fuck. Call me that again,” he whines, and you kiss him, long and deep. Your lips trail along his jawline, tongue tracing the shell of his ear, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

“Baby,” you whisper, giving him exactly what he wants, and his knees nearly give out. “Take me to bed.”

You’ve given him an order, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do exactly as he’s told.

Adrian considers himself a pretty solid, balanced person, at least physically, but you’ve made him unsteady. He can still feel himself trembling with nerves, though he clutches you tightly as he walks you to your bedroom, determined not to drop you. It doesn’t help that your lips wander the whole time, tongue darting out to lick the salty dip of his neck, a little nibble on the sensitive spot under his ear.

“If you don’t fucking stop that—”

“Make me.”

He nearly trips over his own feet more than once before finally tossing you on the bed. You giggle at his desperation, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra and toss it aside, and Adrian’s jaw goes slack when you lay back against the pillows, waiting for him.

“You’re so mean,” he says for the second time that night, breathless, hands working at the clasp of his belt and pushing his jeans down his legs until he’s left only in his underwear.

“You love me anyway,” you say. It’s your usual response, but this time it hits differently. Adrian pauses.

“I do,” he says, quiet and firm, and he crawls over you onto the bed, pushing you into the mattress as he kisses you, spreading his hands on your thighs and pushing your legs apart to make room for himself as his hips roll into yours. “God, I am—just—so fucking hard right now—”

“I can tell,” you gasp, meeting his sloppy thrust with one of your own. The pressure is so, so, good, even through your leggings, but— “Fuck, Adrian—if you don’t take my pants off in the next ten seconds—”

Then he’s pulling your leggings down, and between the wet, open-mouthed kisses he presses to your inner thighs, he pants, “Fuck, baby—you’re so fucking pretty like this, oh my—I thought I was gonna have to—fight Economos. First he stole my chainsaw kill, and I thought he gonna steal my girl—”

“Oh my god, Adrian,” you groan, and he presses his tongue against you through your panties. Your hips buck off the bed. “Jesus Christ, can you please stop talking about John while you’re getting me naked—”

“Sorry,” he says, a little sheepish, hooking his fingers into your underwear and sliding them down your legs. 

Then his mouth attaches to your clit and sucks, and one finger slides through your folds and slips right inside you with absolutely no warning, and every rational thought you’ve ever had leaves your mind entirely and a strangled noise wrenches out of you.

Adrian listens to the wrecked noise you make, watches you squirm, feels your thighs tighten around his head, pressing the metal frame of his glasses into his face, and a proud, possessive feeling roars up inside his chest, because he is the one making you feel this way. 

He’s spent so many years molding his body into a killing machine, into an instrument of vengeance, and for a long time, it felt like that was the most important thing could ever do. But suddenly there’s this, and he knows that nothing could ever be more important than getting you to make that noise again.

“Let me hear those pretty noises,” he says, and he keeps at it, fucking you with his tongue, his fingers, and the whole time, he talks, the vibration of his ramblings radiating through you, every whispered and grunted curse fueling the heat that spreads under your skin.

Your little choked pants and gasps leave Adrian heady with the desire for more. When his callused fingertip grazes a sensitive spot inside you, you cry out, thighs trembling, tension coiling in your abdomen.

“Does that feel good?” he asks eagerly. He slips another finger inside, spreading you open wider, and nudges for it again, and you’re so wet now that the slick and filthy sound of his thrusting fingers fills the room. You feel your cheeks heat.

“God, oh god, yes.” 

Adrian glances up through his slightly fogged glasses, smiling. He watches with wide eyes as you nod fervently, one hand reaching to knead at your breast, and he reaches up to catch it in his, swat it away.

“No,” he says, kissing up your abdomen, hand still moving between your thighs, thumb circling your clit. “Let me—do it. I want—I want—”

He can have it. Whatever he wants, he can have it, because god, you are so fucking close.

His tongue trails over your breast, and now that he’s within reach, you grin, one hand tracing through his hair, fingernails scraping on his scalp. You can feel him shiver against you, exhale hot against your sensitive skin.

Your other hand drifts down, slips into his underwear, wraps around his bare cock, and squeezes.

“Oh my god,” he says, eyes screwing shut. He goes entirely still, all the air punching out of his lungs. “Jesus fucking Christ, holy fucking shi—”

You cut him off with a kiss, stroke him slowly, and snap at his waistband.

“Take these off for me, baby,” you murmur.

Adrian swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing right in your light of sight, and you can’t help yourself, you lean up to nip at it. He hasn’t breathed since you’ve touched him, so you pause, take your hand off him, give him space for a moment. He follows your signal, fingers slipping out of you, and you bite your lip and try not to whine at the loss of him, clenching around the nothingness.

“Take a breath,” you instruct, and he sucks in air, harsh and sharp. Both your hands come to rest in his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and it soothes him, just a little. “Look at me, Ade.” His eyes flutter open. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I’m—I want—”

It’s the second time he’s cut himself off. “What do you want, baby?”

“I just want you,” he pants. “I want you so bad.”

“You’ve got me, Adrian,” you say. “You’ve always had me.”

“I love you,” he whispers, and he dips down to kiss you, more urgently than he has all night. It’s sloppy and rough; your teeth clack together, he sucks your tongue into his mouth, like he’s trying to consume you.

“Want you to fuck me,” you plead. “God, please, Adrian—”

He shoves his underwear down and reaches over to the bedside drawer, fumbling around.

“Where the fuck—” he mutters. “Goddamnit. Where are the—ha!” He grins triumphantly when his fingers finally close around a foil-wrapped condom, holding it up for you like a prize.

“That’s nice, baby,” you say, snatching it out of his grasp and ripping open the package, because you’ve been on edge now for too long, and you’re starting to get impatient. “Now put it on and get inside me.”

“Right,” he says, rolling the condom on and lining himself up. “I’m gonna try so hard not to like, instantly cum, but I have been waiting for this, for, my whole life, basically, so—”

“I’m so goddamn close,” you groan, impatient, moving your hips and feeling him notch at your entrance. “I swear to god, Adrian, if you don’t stick your fucking dick in me already—”

“Okay, okay, I—” He sinks into you slowly, watches his cock disappear inside you and loses his words, feels your soft warmth yield to him until he’s fully surrounded. Your legs around his waist, ankles pressing into his ass to draw him as close as he can get; your arms around his neck, holding his face against your throat where he whispers a breathy chant of repeated curses into your skin; your cunt fluttering around his cock, tight and hot and perfect.

You take a steadying breath, adjust to the feeling of him inside you, the way he stretches you, fills you. Then you shift your hips, just a little, and Adrian groans. You laugh, muscles clenching around him.

“God, don’t do that,” he says. “It’s already hard enough not to—”

“Move,” you tell him, and he does, an erratic snap of his hips that shoves you deep into the mattress. You make a noise of surprise, and it’s his turn to laugh.

Adrian should have expected it to be like this. Should have known that loving you would be easy. Should have done this weeks, months, years ago. It makes his heart swell in his chest, looking down at you smiling up at him, and he kisses you again. He can’t help himself, overwhelmed with affection, grinning even as he feels your nails dig into the muscles of his shoulders.

You meet his rhythm with your own thrusts, every jerk of his hips met with the arching of your back. Adrian whimpers, whines, face falling forward until his forehead touches yours while he ruts against you.

“‘m gonna—” he chokes, “gonna cum—” One hand drifts between your legs, finds your clit, and his thumb starts circling, frantic. “Need you to—I want to feel you—”

“So good,” you pant, feeling yourself start to tip over the edge. “You—make me feel so good, baby—I love you—”

It’s those three words that set him off, raspy in his ear, and just a moment later, he feels you convulse around him, writhe beneath him, his cock twitching as he spills into the condom, chest heaving. His muscles quiver, and he pulls out, lying down beside you before his arms give out and he collapses on top of you.

He turns his head to the side, watches your chest rise and fall as you catch your breath, and turns on to his side to wrap an arm around your waist. He tucks his face into your neck, licks and sucks at the skin there, because it’s too bare, too smooth. He needs to leave a mark, to prove he was here, to prove that you’re his, now. You just close your eyes and let him, hand brushing through his hair, sweat and slick drying salty on your skin.

You protest when he presses a final kiss to the fresh bruise he left on your neck and shifts to get out of bed, but he just kisses your forehead and says, “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go clean myself up. And really, babe, you should go pee, I don’t want you to get a UTI—”

You roll your eyes, but you laugh and follow him into the bathroom, leaning into his side because you’re tired, knees a little shaky, and you know he’ll hold you up.

Eventually, you both tumble back into bed, still a little sticky and sweaty, but also spent and satisfied and happy. Adrian pulls you into his side, and you press a kiss to his chest, smiling, eyes fluttering closed.

You’re on the edge of sleep when the rumble of Adrian’s voice rings out in the comfortable silence.

“I’m just saying,” Adrian says. “Economos could never—”

“Oh my god. Shut the fuck up—”

Adrian wakes up to a soft kiss.

“Mmm,” he hums, squinting at you, because his glasses are all the way over on the bedside table. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, baby,” you laugh, letting him tug you on top of him.

“Are we gonna fuck again right now?” he asks, a little sleepy, but absolutely ready to get going if that’s what you want. His hands are already trailing down your sides, but you shake your head.

“No,” you say apologetically. “Emilia just sent out an SOS. We need to be in the office for a debrief in twenty minutes.”

Adrian makes a face. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, and Adrian pouts.

“But we could just…stay here,” he says. “In bed. And not do that.”

“We have to go,” you say. “Come on. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll be back home, yeah? And then you can fuck me all you want. Promise.”

“Fine,” he grumbles.

Twenty minutes later, you’re walking in the doors at Checkmate, joint hands swinging between you. Adrian won’t lie. He’s a bit smug as he waits for everyone to notice. But no one even looks up from their desks, even when he clears his throat.

“Morning everyone,” you say, letting go of his hand so you can go grab yourself some coffee from the break room. “You want a hot chocolate, Ade?”

He frowns, but nods, because you make the best hot chocolate. 

He wishes you would call him baby. He wishes someone would look up at you and ask who gave you the bright purple hickey on your neck. You didn’t even bother trying to hide it with makeup. He wishes he wasn’t even here, sharing you with everyone in this godforsaken office, that he still had you home in bed, naked.

“Debrief in the conference room in five minutes,” Harcourt calls out.

Adrian sighs and decides to run to the bathroom before the meeting starts. But then, when he walks into the conference room a few minutes later, he feels like he’s going to lose it, because you’re sitting next to Economos. It’s like you’re doing this on purpose.

“Are you fucking with me right now?” he whispers, grabbing you by the back of the shirt. He pulls you up out of the seat and takes it for himself. He thinks for half a second about just yanking you onto his lap in front of everyone, but decides that might be a bit too much, and he would probably get a really inconvenient boner. Instead, he shoves you into the seat right next to him and pulls the entire chair closer so your thighs are pressed together and he can hook his ankle around yours.

Then he looks down at you with a falsely innocent smile.

You give him a look like you know exactly what the fuck he’s doing, but you just roll your eyes, swapping your coffee mug with his cup of hot chocolate on the table in front of you.

“What the hell was that about?” Chris asks from across the table, because Adrian has not been subtle at all.

“Oh, nothing,” Adrian shrugs. “I just really wanted to sit next to my good buddy Economos.” He reaches up to squeeze John’s shoulder, maybe a little too hard.

“Ow! That hurt, motherfucker,” Economos says, looking at Adrian like he’s grown a second head.

“Would you cut it out?” you say, rolling your eyes and smacking Adrian in the back of the head. His glasses go a bit crooked. “You don’t need to stake your claim. I will gladly announce it to the table. Adrian and I are finally fucking, everyone.”

“Jesus Christ, took you long enough,” Harcourt says.

“What?” Chris says, eyes wide.

“Did you really not know?” Ads asks, disbelieving. “They’ve been all moony-eyed over each other for literal years, Chris.”

“Dude, why didn’t you tell me you liked her?” Chris says. “I’m your best friend!”

“Hang on, why am I being involved in this?” John asks, bewildered, still rubbing at his shoulder.

“Because I hugged you after the mission the other day, and Adrian couldn’t contain his jealousy,” you smirk.

“Seriously, dude?” Economos scoffs.

“I thought it was, I don’t know, a sexy hug!”

“What the fuck is a sexy hug—”

Adrian Tag list (comment or message me if you'd like to be added!): @snowyathena @justalotoffanfiction @danversxwasabi @clowninavan @obsessedromancereader @adoresami @a-young-g0d @bastardstevie

[vigilantexreader]

sexy hug

Adrian Chase x fem!Reader

synopsis: Adrian's acting weird, and when you ask him what's up, you get an answer you were not expecting.

tags/warnings: jealous!Adrian, bestfriend!Adrian, friends to lovers, SMUT - MDNI (oral - f receiving, protected piv sex), smut with feelings

word count: 4.6k

Thank you @embeanwrites for the edits and suggestions!!

Masterlist

It’s movie night, and something is wrong with Adrian.

“You okay?” you ask, because Adrian hasn’t eaten any of his popcorn. Normally he’s scarfed down half the bowl by now, but he just keeps picking up the pieces, looking at them forlornly, and tossing them back in the bowl. It was his choice this week, too—some cheesy slasher, and he’s barely even paying attention.

“I’m fine,” Adrian says, but he’s clearly not fine. He’s one of the worst liars you know. He’s pouting, his bottom lip sticking out just a bit, eyes looking big and sad. You sigh and pause the movie, turning to face him. You shift back on the couch, kick your legs up into his lap, and jostle his thigh with your foot.

“What’s wrong?” you ask bluntly, because you know from experience that asking directly is the only way to get through to Adrian. Subtlety is a lost cause with him. 

“Nothing’s—”

“Don’t lie to me. I know something’s up.”

He hesitates, and he’s still staring into the popcorn bowl instead of looking at you, which makes you worry. Adrian might have trouble making eye contact with other people, but never with you. You frown.

He tells you everything. He’s never lied to you, not once, in your whole lives. You’ve been friends since you were children. You’ve known about Vigilante since the beginning. You’ve been patrolling with him just as long. You’ve been there for every bullet wound and buried body and late-night patrol. Something is eating away at him, and it’s not like him to hide from you.

“Tell me,” you say, softer, but it’s not a question. It’s a demand.

“Do you like Economos? Why did you hug him?” Adrian asks, and you’re majorly caught off-guard, because that is not what you were expecting this to be about.

“I—what?”

“After the mission yesterday. When we got back to the van. You hugged Economos,” Adrian says, and the words have a bit of bite to them. Your brow furrows and you sit up straighter.

“What?” you say again, because you are still baffled.

“We killed all those drug dealers in that warehouse, and then we got back to the van, and you hugged Economos.”

“I—yeah, I did,” you say, remembering. “He was on the cameras while we were in there. He warned us through the earpiece about that guy that was right behind us that neither of us saw. I was saying thank you.”

“So you hugged him?” Adrian asks, and it sounds…bitter?

“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” Adrian doesn’t answer, but he is very pointedly not looking at you. “Seriously, Ade? Is that what this is about?”

“So it wasn’t, like, a sexy hug?”

“Adrian. Listen to yourself.”

“What?”

“What even is a sexy hug?”

“I don’t know! A hug between two people who want to fuck each other, I guess!”

“And you think I want to fuck Economos?”

“Well, don’t you?”

“No!” you cry. “Why—what—”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” you repeat, disbelief lacing your words.

“He is my fourth best friend,” Adrian says petulantly. “He’s a perfectly fuckable guy. You don’t need to sound so offended by the prospect.”

“Why do you want me to fuck Economos?”

“I don’t want you to fuck Economos! That is literally the last thing I want!”

“Then why are we talking about this, Adrian?”

He falls silent and looks back down at his popcorn. He refuses to look at you, just stares at the tv screen even though it’s on pause, and you just hum and observe him for a moment, admiring his side profile.

“I can’t—” you start, but cut yourself off. “You are such an idiot.” 

You don’t mean it in a cruel way. The words come out fond, if anything. Adrian’s lips twitch. It’s not a smile, but it’s something. Familiar territory, at least.

“You’re so mean to me,” he complains halfheartedly, an accusation you hear at least once a week.

“You love me anyway,” you say, like you always do, and you start to relax again, sliding your feet back into Adrian’s lap. He puts the popcorn bowl aside and sets his hands on your calves, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the fabric of your leggings.

But you’re not quite ready to let this go, yet.

“Even if I did want to fuck John…why would it matter?” you ask quietly.

Adrian’s hands still, his breath caught in his throat. It’s like he’s petrified by your question. He can’t look at you as you pull yourself up toward him. One hand reaches for his face, grips his chin firmly and turns his head to face you, holding him in place and making him look.

Your eyes are curious as they meet his, and Adrian hates the way that you look right through him. Like you can see right into the messy core of him, all the things he tries to hide away. Then your gaze flicks down to his lips, and his breath hitches, because god, he wants to kiss you right now. But you are his friend, his oldest, longest friend, and he really, really doesn’t want to fuck it up.

But it’s all fucked up anyway, isn’t it? Because of these stupid feelings, that won’t go away, no matter how much he pretends that they aren’t there.

“It would matter because I’m in love with you,” he whispers. “Even though you’re mean to me sometimes. I don’t want you to fuck Economos because—because—”

“Because you want to fuck me?” you finish. Like it’s that simple.

Adrian can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed. He’s too nervous, too overwhelmed, too full of this godawful feeling. Jealousy, love, want. It’s all mixed up inside, and he feels sick with it.

“Yeah,” he finally manages to say. The word wrenches out of him, almost involuntary. He’s not sure if a weight has lifted off his shoulders, or if he wishes he could take it back and melt into the floor.

The smile that blooms on your face is bright and joyous.

“You really are an idiot,” you laugh. “Adrian, I’ve been in love with you since we were twelve. I’ve just been waiting for you to catch up.”

“I—What?” he says, flabbergasted, because this is not how he pictured his dramatic love confession going. He just poured his heart out, and you’re laughing at him. “You—Why didn’t you say something?”

“I tell you I love you literally all the time, you doofus.”

“I thought you meant as a friend! How was I supposed to—”

“Adrian, are you going to keep rambling, or are you going to fucking kiss me already? I think I’ve waited long enough,” you interrupt.

Adrian lets out a breath that’s been stuck in his chest for years. Since you were kids sitting around a table playing Dungeons and Dragons in his basement, before it was his Vigilante lair. Since the first time he can remember thinking you were beautiful, when you were fourteen, with melted strawberry ice cream smeared across your cheek.

All he can do is make a desperate choking noise and lean forward until he finally, finally feels your lips press against his.

It was going to be soft and sweet. It was. But then you sigh into his mouth, a release of tension, and he can’t resist; he opens up for you, wet and deep and wanting. He wants to swallow you, to climb inside you and live there, and now he knows that he’s allowed—that you want him the way that he wants you, in this all-consuming, unbearable, overwhelming way—it’s almost too much.

Adrian tugs you into his lap, feels your weight settle onto him, close in a way that would make him squirm away if it were anyone else, but with you it’s comforting. The movement sends his popcorn tumbling to the floor, the metal bowl loud and clanking on the wood, and he could not give less of a fuck, because your hand on his jaw is sliding into his hair, gripping firmly to his curls, while your other lands on his neck, thumb pressed against his pulse point, right where his heart is racing so fast he thinks he might die.

He can’t stop moving his hands—they land on your waist, slide down to your thighs, brush against the hot, soft line of bare skin where your shirt rides up, and he hears your breath catch. You break away from his hungry lips with a gasp.

“Adrian,” you say. You’ve never said his name like that before. He wants you to say it again, wants to keep kissing you and never, ever stop.

“Yeah,” he says, and he sounds absolutely wrecked. All you’ve done is kiss him, and he’s devolved into a wanton mess.

“We don’t have to,” you continue. “I know you don’t always like—soft touching, or sex—”

“It’s different,” he says quickly, hands tightening on your waist. He can’t let you go on thinking for another moment that he doesn’t want this. “With you. It’s different, I want—”

His hips jolt upwards, a helpless grind to make you feel how much he wants you, and you say his name again, all raspy and longing, just like he wanted, and he groans.

Then you’re pressing on his chest, sending him back into the couch cushions as you push off of him and stand up. He panics for a minute, hands grasping at your clothes—he doesn’t want you to go, you can’t go now, not when he finally has you like this—but you shush him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, because you know him, and his racing mind steadies, just a bit. Then you take a tiny step back and reach for the hem of your shirt, and it goes into overdrive again.

“No,” Adrian says hoarsely, hands shaking as he reaches forward. “I want to do it. Please—please, let me—”

“Yes,” you say, and that’s all he needs, scrambling to his feet. His fumbling hands settle on your waist, roam up and under your shirt, brush against the soft skin of your stomach. Then he tugs at the bottom of your shirt. You lift your arms and he pulls it over your head slowly, tossing it on the couch behind him.

He stares. You shiver under his intense gaze, suddenly nervous, and feeling a little ridiculous about it. It’s Adrian. He’s your best friend. He loves you, he just said so, and even before he did, you knew. You’ve known the whole time. But you still feel stripped bare, because he’s seeing you in a way he never has before, and he looks—hungry.

“Your turn,” you say, flustered, hands drifting up inside his shirt, trailing over his abs. Adrian swallows, shudders at the light touch of your fingertips on his skin, and reaches to grab his shirt at the back of his neck and yank it off.

When he’s shirtless in front of you, your eyes latch onto the muscles of his arm. One finger trails over his bicep, and he watches the motion.

“I’ve wanted to fucking bite you, right here,” you tell him, “for at least a decade.”

“Oh, fuck,” he chokes out, and you dig your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder just as you brush your hand against the bulge in his jeans. “Oh, my god—”

Adrian can’t seem to manage to string together a coherent sentence, not as you flick open the button on his pants and fumble with the zipper, your mouth sucking a bruise into the skin of his arm all the while.

“Oh, fuck—oh god, fuck—”

He’s losing control of the situation. He can’t function like this. So he wraps your hair in his fist and pulls, using the leverage to yank your mouth back to his, swallowing your noise of surprise. He grabs your hands and guides your arms up around his neck, then bends down to pick you up, strong hands supporting your thighs. You yelp, caught off guard.

“What the—”

“Are we going to fuck right now?” Adrian asks bluntly. It’s a little frantic, tinged with want, his pupils blown wide as he looks up at you, hoisted in the air with your legs wrapped around his waist.

“I was under the impression, yes.”

“I don’t have any condoms.”

“Bedside drawer, baby.”

“Fuck. Call me that again,” he whines, and you kiss him, long and deep. Your lips trail along his jawline, tongue tracing the shell of his ear, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

“Baby,” you whisper, giving him exactly what he wants, and his knees nearly give out. “Take me to bed.”

You’ve given him an order, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do exactly as he’s told.

Adrian considers himself a pretty solid, balanced person, at least physically, but you’ve made him unsteady. He can still feel himself trembling with nerves, though he clutches you tightly as he walks you to your bedroom, determined not to drop you. It doesn’t help that your lips wander the whole time, tongue darting out to lick the salty dip of his neck, a little nibble on the sensitive spot under his ear.

“If you don’t fucking stop that—”

“Make me.”

He nearly trips over his own feet more than once before finally tossing you on the bed. You giggle at his desperation, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra and toss it aside, and Adrian’s jaw goes slack when you lay back against the pillows, waiting for him.

“You’re so mean,” he says for the second time that night, breathless, hands working at the clasp of his belt and pushing his jeans down his legs until he’s left only in his underwear.

“You love me anyway,” you say. It’s your usual response, but this time it hits differently. Adrian pauses.

“I do,” he says, quiet and firm, and he crawls over you onto the bed, pushing you into the mattress as he kisses you, spreading his hands on your thighs and pushing your legs apart to make room for himself as his hips roll into yours. “God, I am—just—so fucking hard right now—”

“I can tell,” you gasp, meeting his sloppy thrust with one of your own. The pressure is so, so, good, even through your leggings, but— “Fuck, Adrian—if you don’t take my pants off in the next ten seconds—”

Then he’s pulling your leggings down, and between the wet, open-mouthed kisses he presses to your inner thighs, he pants, “Fuck, baby—you’re so fucking pretty like this, oh my—I thought I was gonna have to—fight Economos. First he stole my chainsaw kill, and I thought he gonna steal my girl—”

“Oh my god, Adrian,” you groan, and he presses his tongue against you through your panties. Your hips buck off the bed. “Jesus Christ, can you please stop talking about John while you’re getting me naked—”

“Sorry,” he says, a little sheepish, hooking his fingers into your underwear and sliding them down your legs. 

Then his mouth attaches to your clit and sucks, and one finger slides through your folds and slips right inside you with absolutely no warning, and every rational thought you’ve ever had leaves your mind entirely and a strangled noise wrenches out of you.

Adrian listens to the wrecked noise you make, watches you squirm, feels your thighs tighten around his head, pressing the metal frame of his glasses into his face, and a proud, possessive feeling roars up inside his chest, because he is the one making you feel this way. 

He’s spent so many years molding his body into a killing machine, into an instrument of vengeance, and for a long time, it felt like that was the most important thing could ever do. But suddenly there’s this, and he knows that nothing could ever be more important than getting you to make that noise again.

“Let me hear those pretty noises,” he says, and he keeps at it, fucking you with his tongue, his fingers, and the whole time, he talks, the vibration of his ramblings radiating through you, every whispered and grunted curse fueling the heat that spreads under your skin.

Your little choked pants and gasps leave Adrian heady with the desire for more. When his callused fingertip grazes a sensitive spot inside you, you cry out, thighs trembling, tension coiling in your abdomen.

“Does that feel good?” he asks eagerly. He slips another finger inside, spreading you open wider, and nudges for it again, and you’re so wet now that the slick and filthy sound of his thrusting fingers fills the room. You feel your cheeks heat.

“God, oh god, yes.” 

Adrian glances up through his slightly fogged glasses, smiling. He watches with wide eyes as you nod fervently, one hand reaching to knead at your breast, and he reaches up to catch it in his, swat it away.

“No,” he says, kissing up your abdomen, hand still moving between your thighs, thumb circling your clit. “Let me—do it. I want—I want—”

He can have it. Whatever he wants, he can have it, because god, you are so fucking close.

His tongue trails over your breast, and now that he’s within reach, you grin, one hand tracing through his hair, fingernails scraping on his scalp. You can feel him shiver against you, exhale hot against your sensitive skin.

Your other hand drifts down, slips into his underwear, wraps around his bare cock, and squeezes.

“Oh my god,” he says, eyes screwing shut. He goes entirely still, all the air punching out of his lungs. “Jesus fucking Christ, holy fucking shi—”

You cut him off with a kiss, stroke him slowly, and snap at his waistband.

“Take these off for me, baby,” you murmur.

Adrian swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing right in your light of sight, and you can’t help yourself, you lean up to nip at it. He hasn’t breathed since you’ve touched him, so you pause, take your hand off him, give him space for a moment. He follows your signal, fingers slipping out of you, and you bite your lip and try not to whine at the loss of him, clenching around the nothingness.

“Take a breath,” you instruct, and he sucks in air, harsh and sharp. Both your hands come to rest in his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and it soothes him, just a little. “Look at me, Ade.” His eyes flutter open. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I’m—I want—”

It’s the second time he’s cut himself off. “What do you want, baby?”

“I just want you,” he pants. “I want you so bad.”

“You’ve got me, Adrian,” you say. “You’ve always had me.”

“I love you,” he whispers, and he dips down to kiss you, more urgently than he has all night. It’s sloppy and rough; your teeth clack together, he sucks your tongue into his mouth, like he’s trying to consume you.

“Want you to fuck me,” you plead. “God, please, Adrian—”

He shoves his underwear down and reaches over to the bedside drawer, fumbling around.

“Where the fuck—” he mutters. “Goddamnit. Where are the—ha!” He grins triumphantly when his fingers finally close around a foil-wrapped condom, holding it up for you like a prize.

“That’s nice, baby,” you say, snatching it out of his grasp and ripping open the package, because you’ve been on edge now for too long, and you’re starting to get impatient. “Now put it on and get inside me.”

“Right,” he says, rolling the condom on and lining himself up. “I’m gonna try so hard not to like, instantly cum, but I have been waiting for this, for, my whole life, basically, so—”

“I’m so goddamn close,” you groan, impatient, moving your hips and feeling him notch at your entrance. “I swear to god, Adrian, if you don’t stick your fucking dick in me already—”

“Okay, okay, I—” He sinks into you slowly, watches his cock disappear inside you and loses his words, feels your soft warmth yield to him until he’s fully surrounded. Your legs around his waist, ankles pressing into his ass to draw him as close as he can get; your arms around his neck, holding his face against your throat where he whispers a breathy chant of repeated curses into your skin; your cunt fluttering around his cock, tight and hot and perfect.

You take a steadying breath, adjust to the feeling of him inside you, the way he stretches you, fills you. Then you shift your hips, just a little, and Adrian groans. You laugh, muscles clenching around him.

“God, don’t do that,” he says. “It’s already hard enough not to—”

“Move,” you tell him, and he does, an erratic snap of his hips that shoves you deep into the mattress. You make a noise of surprise, and it’s his turn to laugh.

Adrian should have expected it to be like this. Should have known that loving you would be easy. Should have done this weeks, months, years ago. It makes his heart swell in his chest, looking down at you smiling up at him, and he kisses you again. He can’t help himself, overwhelmed with affection, grinning even as he feels your nails dig into the muscles of his shoulders.

You meet his rhythm with your own thrusts, every jerk of his hips met with the arching of your back. Adrian whimpers, whines, face falling forward until his forehead touches yours while he ruts against you.

“‘m gonna—” he chokes, “gonna cum—” One hand drifts between your legs, finds your clit, and his thumb starts circling, frantic. “Need you to—I want to feel you—”

“So good,” you pant, feeling yourself start to tip over the edge. “You—make me feel so good, baby—I love you—”

It’s those three words that set him off, raspy in his ear, and just a moment later, he feels you convulse around him, writhe beneath him, his cock twitching as he spills into the condom, chest heaving. His muscles quiver, and he pulls out, lying down beside you before his arms give out and he collapses on top of you.

He turns his head to the side, watches your chest rise and fall as you catch your breath, and turns on to his side to wrap an arm around your waist. He tucks his face into your neck, licks and sucks at the skin there, because it’s too bare, too smooth. He needs to leave a mark, to prove he was here, to prove that you’re his, now. You just close your eyes and let him, hand brushing through his hair, sweat and slick drying salty on your skin.

You protest when he presses a final kiss to the fresh bruise he left on your neck and shifts to get out of bed, but he just kisses your forehead and says, “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go clean myself up. And really, babe, you should go pee, I don’t want you to get a UTI—”

You roll your eyes, but you laugh and follow him into the bathroom, leaning into his side because you’re tired, knees a little shaky, and you know he’ll hold you up.

Eventually, you both tumble back into bed, still a little sticky and sweaty, but also spent and satisfied and happy. Adrian pulls you into his side, and you press a kiss to his chest, smiling, eyes fluttering closed.

You’re on the edge of sleep when the rumble of Adrian’s voice rings out in the comfortable silence.

“I’m just saying,” Adrian says. “Economos could never—”

“Oh my god. Shut the fuck up—”

Adrian wakes up to a soft kiss.

“Mmm,” he hums, squinting at you, because his glasses are all the way over on the bedside table. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, baby,” you laugh, letting him tug you on top of him.

“Are we gonna fuck again right now?” he asks, a little sleepy, but absolutely ready to get going if that’s what you want. His hands are already trailing down your sides, but you shake your head.

“No,” you say apologetically. “Emilia just sent out an SOS. We need to be in the office for a debrief in twenty minutes.”

Adrian makes a face. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, and Adrian pouts.

“But we could just…stay here,” he says. “In bed. And not do that.”

“We have to go,” you say. “Come on. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll be back home, yeah? And then you can fuck me all you want. Promise.”

“Fine,” he grumbles.

Twenty minutes later, you’re walking in the doors at Checkmate, joint hands swinging between you. Adrian won’t lie. He’s a bit smug as he waits for everyone to notice. But no one even looks up from their desks, even when he clears his throat.

“Morning everyone,” you say, letting go of his hand so you can go grab yourself some coffee from the break room. “You want a hot chocolate, Ade?”

He frowns, but nods, because you make the best hot chocolate. 

He wishes you would call him baby. He wishes someone would look up at you and ask who gave you the bright purple hickey on your neck. You didn’t even bother trying to hide it with makeup. He wishes he wasn’t even here, sharing you with everyone in this godforsaken office, that he still had you home in bed, naked.

“Debrief in the conference room in five minutes,” Harcourt calls out.

Adrian sighs and decides to run to the bathroom before the meeting starts. But then, when he walks into the conference room a few minutes later, he feels like he’s going to lose it, because you’re sitting next to Economos. It’s like you’re doing this on purpose.

“Are you fucking with me right now?” he whispers, grabbing you by the back of the shirt. He pulls you up out of the seat and takes it for himself. He thinks for half a second about just yanking you onto his lap in front of everyone, but decides that might be a bit too much, and he would probably get a really inconvenient boner. Instead, he shoves you into the seat right next to him and pulls the entire chair closer so your thighs are pressed together and he can hook his ankle around yours.

Then he looks down at you with a falsely innocent smile.

You give him a look like you know exactly what the fuck he’s doing, but you just roll your eyes, swapping your coffee mug with his cup of hot chocolate on the table in front of you.

“What the hell was that about?” Chris asks from across the table, because Adrian has not been subtle at all.

“Oh, nothing,” Adrian shrugs. “I just really wanted to sit next to my good buddy Economos.” He reaches up to squeeze John’s shoulder, maybe a little too hard.

“Ow! That hurt, motherfucker,” Economos says, looking at Adrian like he’s grown a second head.

“Would you cut it out?” you say, rolling your eyes and smacking Adrian in the back of the head. His glasses go a bit crooked. “You don’t need to stake your claim. I will gladly announce it to the table. Adrian and I are finally fucking, everyone.”

“Jesus Christ, took you long enough,” Harcourt says.

“What?” Chris says, eyes wide.

“Did you really not know?” Ads asks, disbelieving. “They’ve been all moony-eyed over each other for literal years, Chris.”

“Dude, why didn’t you tell me you liked her?” Chris says. “I’m your best friend!”

“Hang on, why am I being involved in this?” John asks, bewildered, still rubbing at his shoulder.

“Because I hugged you after the mission the other day, and Adrian couldn’t contain his jealousy,” you smirk.

“Seriously, dude?” Economos scoffs.

“I thought it was, I don’t know, a sexy hug!”

“What the fuck is a sexy hug—”

Adrian Tag list (comment or message me if you'd like to be added!): @snowyathena @justalotoffanfiction @danversxwasabi @clowninavan @obsessedromancereader @adoresami @a-young-g0d @bastardstevie