#flight 180

And there you were… Gate B17, a half-empty terminal lit in soft fluorescent doom. Somewhere between LAX and your vacation dreams. Billy’s bouncing his leg like the plane’s late just to spite him. And your skirt’s not exactly helping.

Billy’s sprawled across those cheap plastic airport seats, hoodie haphazardly slung around his shoulders, one hand clutching a drink he doesn’t even remember gettinh. His other arm’s looped around your waist, clinging like a koala that’s two seconds from passing out.

And he’s sulking. Full lip-jutted, wide-eyed sulk mode.

“They said boarding at ten,” he mutters, shooting another look at the monitor blinking DELAYED in big, unapologetic letters. “It’s eleven-freaking-twenty. I’ve aged. I’m gonna start college before this plane takes off.”

You lean into his side, pretending to check your flip phone, but mostly just enjoying the way his hand tightens on your waist every time your thigh brushes his. You’re in your little airport fit; skirt, tank top, lip gloss still sticky sweet. He’s been struggling to focus since TSA.

“Billy,” you say, slow and teasing, “you know once we’re on that plane, you’ve got a mission to complete.”

He blinks at you like a cat who’s just heard the treat bag crinkle.

“Mission?”

You glance around. Terminal’s still mostly empty, a few bleary-eyed passengers dozing, some Karen yelling at a gate agent across the hall.

Then you lean in, your lips brushing his ear.

“You. Me. Tiny airplane bathroom. Altitude. Physics-defying activities.”

He lets out this broken, fragile little sound. “You’re evil.”

“I’m giving you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“You said it was a once-an-a-always-time. Like—like a bucket list thing.” His voice cracks on ‘bucket.’

You smirk, eyes glittering. “And yet... we're grounded.”

He groans, flopping backward across the seat, knees twitching. “God is punishing me.”

You nudge his shoulder. “For what?”

“For wanting to do the nasty at 36,000 feet with my hot girlfriend,” he grumbles, eyes half-lidded. “Is that so wrong? Is that not patriotic?”

You stifle a laugh. “You think doing me in an airplane bathroom is patriotic?”

He sits up fast. “There’s a flag in there, babe. It’s like... government-sanctioned.”

You’re wheezing now, biting your lip to keep from cackling.

Then he glances toward the empty hallway leading to the bathrooms and leans in close, whispering against your cheek, “We don’t need a plane to start the mission, though…”

You raise a brow. “You’re suggesting we christen the airport bathroom instead?”

His smile turns feral. “You ever seen those family restrooms? Whole room. Lock. Ventilation. Sink.”

“Billy.”

“I’m just saying, babe. God closes a gate, He opens a stall.”

And just like that, you’re yanking him up by the sleeve, both of you giggling like high schoolers sneaking out of detention, slipping toward the hallway with his hoodie barely disguising the chaos in his eyes.

You pause outside the family restroom, fingers on the handle, Billy behind you with that too-big grin.

“You’re an idiot,” you whisper.

“Your idiot,” he replies.

Billy hits the lock with one shaky hand and you’ve already got your fingers tangled in his hoodie, yanking him forward like you’ve been starving for him. Your bodies crash together in a tangle of lips, limbs, and adrenaline, his back slamming against the door with a muffled thud.

He gasps into your mouth but you don’t give him a second to think. Your lips crush against his, fast and full of teeth, all heat and hunger. He makes this sound, half-moan, half-whimper, as your tongue brushes his, his hands landing wild on your hips like he doesn’t know what to grab first.

“Holy—” he mumbles between kisses, “this is—insane—you’re insane—I love you—”

“Shut up,” you murmur against his lips, dragging your nails down the front of his hoodie.

And he does. For once in his life, Billy Hitchcock shuts up because your mouth is back on his, and you’re kissing him like it’s your only job. You shift your weight, pressing your knee between his thighs just enough to make him twitch, his breath stuttering as his hands grip tighter, sliding up your back and under your top.

Your bodies grind together in frantic rhythm, hips rolling, lips bruising, and it’s hot—not just physically, but in that all-consuming way, like you’ve both been waiting for this moment since the day you met. Every kiss is messy, desperate, like he’s trying to taste every single word you’ve ever said to him.

You pull back just long enough to smirk, licking your bottom lip. “Get me on the sink, Hitchcock.”

His jaw drops. “You—you wanna sit on the—”

You grab a fistful of his hoodie and spin the both of you, backing up until your thighs bump against the cold porcelain. You hop up like it’s nothing, spreading your legs with just enough of a slow, teasing flair to make his breath catch.

“Now get in here,” you whisper, voice a velvet threat.

Billy steps between your legs like a man walking into traffic, half-aware, fully willing. His hands find your thighs, then your waist, pulling you flush against him, and his mouth is back on yours in an instant. His hips press forward between yours, barely restrained, like he’s fighting the urge to absolutely lose it right here and now.

Your back arches slightly, lips parting again, your hand fisting the collar of his hoodie as he kisses you deeper. The sink is cold beneath your thighs, but everything else is heat—his breath, his tongue, the tremble in his hands as they slide up under your top, groping your breasts.

You moan softly into his mouth, and he makes this desperate, broken noise, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hair wild, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen.

“You’re literally gonna kill me,” he breathes.

You drag your finger down the center of his chest, smirking. “Then die like a legend.”

He leans in again, kissing you so hard your head tips back, your spine pressing to the mirror behind the sink. His hands are everywhere now; your thighs, your waist, your jaw.

You’re all smudged eyeliner and parted lips, legs wrapped around his waist, owning every inch of the moment like you planned it all the second you bought the plane tickets.

It starts with his hands under your top; hot, frantic, thumbs skating over your ribs like he can’t decide where to touch first. You’re kissing again, deep and molten, your arms looped around his neck as you drag him closer by the collar of his hoodie. His lips are swollen, breath ragged, and when you nip at his bottom lip with a smirk, he just melts right into you.

“Shirt,” you pant against his mouth, and he doesn’t even question it.

He grabs the back of his hoodie, tugging it over his head in one clumsy motion that ruffles his curls and leaves him breathless. You help him with the T-shirt underneath, hands skimming his chest as it goes flying somewhere near the baby-changing station. He’s warm and flushed and looking at you like you just dropped from heaven onto his lap.

Then his hands are back on you.

He tugs your top up with a groan, lips catching yours again before it’s even off, and you giggle into the kiss—clothes getting stuck halfway, both of you laughing, panting, fumbling like this isn’t the millionth time you’ve been undressing each other. The second your top’s gone, he’s pressing kisses down your neck, all open-mouthed and desperate, like he needs to feel your skin under his lips or he’ll combust.

“God,” he mumbles against your collarbone, “how are you real—how are you real right now?”

“Billy,” you warn, grinning, tugging at his belt now.

“What?” he says, eyes wide, breath shaky. “I’m just saying you look like a fantasy and I’m—ow! Okay, okay!”

You’ve unbuttoned his jeans with a smirk and pinched his side for dramatic effect.

Then he’s kissing you again. Every piece of clothing that comes off is followed by another kiss. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he leans in, your lips parting for him automatically, and his hands are at your hips, slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

You gasp into his mouth as he lifts you just enough to slide your underwear down, his fingers trembling, his lips chasing yours again like he can’t stand the thought of not kissing you while he undresses you. You kick them off, your legs tightening around his waist again as you yank his jeans down, his boxers following with a flick of your fingers.

“Okay,” he pants, resting his forehead against yours, “this is—the hottest I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Just so we’re clear.”

You kiss him again, fingers tangled in his hair. “Good. Now shut up and finish what we started.”

And he does, hands firm as he lifts you up higher onto the sink. His hips press between yours again, and there’s nothing left between you now.

Then you turn around so you’re on your knees. Your palms hit the sink with a sharp little slap, the porcelain cold under your touch, but it’s nothing compared to the heat crawling up your spine. You look up and meet your own eyes in the mirror.

And behind you?

Billy’s frozen.

Absolutely wrecked by the view.

You’re bent forward, skirt pushed up high, your body perfectly arched and he’s standing there, jeans shoved halfway down, one hand on your waist like he’s trying to remember how his knees work.

“Holy—” he breathes, eyes glued to your reflection. “I’m—this is—oh my god.”

You smile at him in the mirror, lips curved like you know exactly what you're doing to him. “Something wrong, baby?”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking from your reflection to the way your hips sway just barely back into him. “I’m gonna pass out.”

You laugh before giving him a little arch, a tilt of your hips that has him physically shuddering. His hands slide up your sides, he leans in.

His chest brushes your back, mouth ghosting by your ear. His breath is ragged, his lips just barely brushing your skin as he exhales like he’s been holding it in for minutes.

“You ready?” he whispers.

You nod once, slow and sure, pushing your hips back in silent invitation. He groans and you feel him line up behind you, one shaky hand at your waist, the other guiding himself with the kind of reverence that makes your heart stutter.

And then he sinks his dick in.

The slide of skin against skin, dizzying and warm. Your breath catches. His grip tightens.

“Holy—” he chokes out, like the sensation short-circuits every thought in his brain. His fingers dig into your hips, and for a moment he just stays there inside you.

You glance at him in the mirror.

He’s already looking at you.

“Good?” you murmur, smug and breathless.

He laughs, half-moan, half-disbelieving gasp, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, voice cracking as he breathes, “So good.”

And then he moves.

Slow at first, just a roll of his hips, a drag of his hands down your sides, his lips pressing to your shoulder, your neck, your spine. But it builds; fast, needy, chaotic. One hand on your waist to steady you, the other bracing beside yours on the sink. Your eyes stay locked on your reflections in the mirror; him behind you, head down, jaw tight, hair wild. You, breathless and undone, mouth parted, knuckles white against the sink’s edge.

Your moans bounce off the tile, quiet but sharp, like little sparks in the heavy air.

“God,” he huffs, sweat damp at his temple, “you look so—so hot like this. You’re gonna kill me. I’m gonna die in an airport.”

You manage to laugh, just barely. “You’re complaining?”

“I’m—bragging,” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips now, eyes watching every reaction spill across your face in the mirror. “Look at you. Look at us.”

You do.

And it’s a sight.

The mirror fogs at the corners from your mingled breath, your bodies moving in a rhythm that’s all hips and helplessness, chaos and craving. He shifts slightly, changes the angle and your head tips back with a choked gasp, your eyes fluttering shut—

“Keep ‘em open,” he pants, voice all breath and heat. “I wanna—I gotta see—just… just keep ‘em open.”

But his rhythm stutters a second later, and the words keep tumbling out, unfiltered, so him.

“Jesus, look at that… That’s crazy. You’re—God, you’re makin’ faces and I’m not gonna survive this,” he groans, eyes glued to the mirror like it’s showing him his favorite movie in real time. “You look so hot I might die. Like—I’m serious—this is like, cardiac arrest levels of hot.”

Your laughter comes in gasps, legs shaking, arms barely keeping you up, and he grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like he thinks you’ll float away if he doesn’t anchor you there.

“Dude,” he whines under his breath, like he’s actually overwhelmed. “Dude, you’re killin’ me. Why do you look like that right now? Why is your face doing that? I can’t handle this—I can’t handle this!”

You try to sass him, toss something over your shoulder, but all that comes out is a moan and that does it.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes, brain clearly short-circuiting, “you’re like—a video game cheat code. This isn’t even legal. This is—I’m gonna black out. I’m gonna straight up die in this airport.”

And then quieter, raw and too honest, like it slips out by accident:

“…You’re the hottest person I’ve ever seen. Like ever. And you’re letting me—this? Me? Right now? What is happening.”

Your grip on the sink tightens, knuckles white, arms trembling, as the rhythm builds to something reckless. You’re gasping and in the mirror, it’s all there: your flushed skin, his sweat-slick chest, the blur of his hair as he leans over you, his mouth open like he’s choking on every sound he can’t hold in.

“Shit—oh my god, babe—babe, I’m gonna—”

His voice breaks, and he lets out a sound that’s half-gasp, half-moan, high and ruined and so Billy, and then you feel him jerk forward, his body locking up behind you as he presses in deep. The mirror fogs hard, your reflection blurring just as your body starts to shake, a choked cry tumbling from your lips as you follow him over the edge of the orgasm.

Your back arches instinctively, your legs threatening to give out, and you swear you feel stars burst behind your eyes. The only thing keeping you grounded is his hand, tight on your hip, and the breathless way he whimpers your name like it’s the only thing he remembers.

“Holy—holy crap,” Billy huffs, forehead dropping to your shoulder, chest rising and falling against your back like he just sprinted a mile. “I—I think my soul just left my body.”

You let out a shaky laugh, trying to steady yourself on the edge of the sink as your heart hammers in your ears. “Yeah? Think you’re gonna make it?”

“No,” he groans dramatically. “Call the pilot. Tell him I can’t board the plane. I gotta be hospitalized. You just destroyedme.”

He eases out of you like he’s scared you’ll snap in half, hands tender now, fingertips skating over your hips like they’re his favorite possession. He pulls your skirt down with clumsy care, still dazed, still mumbling nonsense under his breath like “this is better than Disneyland” and “why do my legs feel like gelatin.”

He stares at you in the mirror as you fix your hair, awestruck and slightly unhinged. “You’re actually not real. You’re a government experiment. Some kind of perfect girlfriend weapon.”

You lean back into him with a satisfied little hum, kissing his cheek.

“And you,” you murmur, “are very lucky I like chaotic men with zero chill.”

Your bodies are still humming, nerves frayed and buzzing, when Billy leans back with a grin so dopey it borders on historic.

Then he throws up his hand.

“High five,” he says, breathless, triumphant, still panting. “C’mon. That was insane. We’re legendary.”

You blink at him, half-laughing, still struggling to catch your breath. “Are you serious—”