🌸 How Do You Hold A Moonbeam In Your Hand 🌸

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling

warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together. 

Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish. 

You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick. 

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch. 

A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand. 

“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms. 

Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.” 

She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open. 

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.” 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

END.

hello + welcome! i’m ash (she/they), fic writer in my mid 20s based in the pacific northwest. i mostly write marvel x reader fics—heavy on bucky barnes for now, but more to come!

my work contains everything from tragic endings and emotional gut punches to soft fluff and chaotic banter. i do tend to lean toward darker themes, but every piece is tagged with content warnings!

requests are currently closed!

see what i'm currently working on here

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bucky barnes x reader

drabbles/headcannons:

five times he almost did: five times bucky didn’t say ‘I love you’—and one time he did.

short reads (<6k):

margin of error: you skip the med bay after a mission that left you bruised and bleeding to keep bucky from finding out you’re hurt—not realizing he’s home early.

interim measures: (thunderbolts/bucky x reader) after officially moving into avengers tower, the team is still figuring out how to coexist. game night doesn’t help, but it does bring its own kind of messy, necessary magic.

something worth holding: you bring bucky flowers for his birthday—something no one has ever given him—and what starts as a simple gesture turns into something far more significant.

under the snowfall: snowed in at a safe house, you start a snowball fight with bucky, sam, and joaquin, and chaos quickly follows.

long reads (6k+):

a place to land: after a night out goes violently wrong, you call bucky—without knowing what you’re even asking for. he shows up anyway, staying long after the worst of it, until you finally start to believe you’re safe.

hold fast: a mission goes sideways, forcing you to cross a frozen lake. the ice doesn’t hold, and when you go under, Bucky is the only thing between you and the dark.

high water: you’ve stopped keeping track of the bruises. bucky hasn’t—and he doesn’t say anything, not until the patterns start looking too much like his own.

into the void: (THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS) inside the void, nothing is real, but the trauma is. as memory turns to ruin, bucky is found by the only person who ever made him believe he could survive what was done to him.

fault lines: after getting laid off from your job, you're doing everything you can to keep it together. bucky—your partner, your constant—refuses to let you go through the unraveling alone.

the shape of a life: you didn’t plan to become a guardian overnight—and you never planned to ask bucky for help. he wants a future you’re not sure you believe in, and now you’re both standing at the edge of it.

no way but through: a snowstorm swallows the world whole, leaving you and bucky stranded in the middle of nowhere during a mission with no way out.

a love letter to stone: you were bucky’s fiancée, a love left unfinished by war, spending decades at his grave, never moving on. but when he finally comes home—broken, free, too late—you’re already gone.

salt in the blood: you live in a quiet fishing town far from the mess of politics, superheroes, and global conflicts. at least, you did, until a stranger with sharp eyes, a metal arm, and a haunted look shows up at your dock asking for a boat. (dark themes, slow burn)

series:

a seat at the table | congressman!bucky x journalist!reader

journalism was supposed to be about the truth. politics was supposed to be about power. when bucky barnes—former assassin, reluctant congressman—leaves you with more questions than answers, you find yourself caught in a different kind of story. leads into thunderbolts* part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

point of impact | civil war!avengers/bucky x transported!reader

in your world, the avengers are fiction—comics, movies, nothing more. then a lab experiment goes wrong, and you wake up mid-civil war with no way out and no script to follow. part 1

it’s not what you think | avengers tower au

OLD FIC! you come to the avengers tower late at night with a black eye and bucky finds out it was caused by your abusive boyfriend. (old fic, beware of subpar writing!) part 1 | part 2 | rewrite coming soon???

steve rogers x reader

oneshots:

a place to burn: you and steve were lovers once—until the accords split the team and you chose tony. now three years after the snap, a failed mission forces you back into his orbit, where five years of silence finally demands an answer.

peter parker x reader

oneshots:

saudade: OLD FIC! you wait for your best friend peter to come back after heading towards a spaceship in the sky while on a field trip so you can tell him how you really feel.

Lovers

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.

Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.

Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!

Word Count: 10,244

The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.

But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.

His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.

You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.

Because your dress was–

”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.

It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.

And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.

”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.

“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.

”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.

“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.

Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.

And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.

You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.

“She’s not even thinking about us.”

“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.

“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.

That hurt worse than anything.

He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.

“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.

And Bob–snapped.

His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.

Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.

He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.

“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.

”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.

”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.

“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”

“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.

“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.

”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.

”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.

You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.

”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.

”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.

“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.

“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.

Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.

”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.

”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.

”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.

“Bob?” You questioned.

”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”

“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.

”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.

”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.

”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.

”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.

”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.

”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.

Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”

Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”

You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”

Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”

You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.

Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.

The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.

You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.

Bob.

He looked like he was breaking open.

Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.

And then–Bob.

His head lifted, slowly.

And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.

The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.

Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.

The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.

It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.

Then you leaned even closer.

Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.

Then–your voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.

Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.

“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.

Only a nod.

His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.

You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.

He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.

You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.

The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.

The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.

It was dim inside.

Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.

The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.

You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.

“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.

It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.

That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.

“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”

Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.

“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.

“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.

“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.

“Bob…” You breathed.

“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.

“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.

Then suddenly, Bob moved.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.

And then he kissed you.

It was not sweet.

It was not soft.

It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.

He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.

You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.

It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.

“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”

You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.

“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.

His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.

Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

And then–he moaned.

Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.

His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.

Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.

”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.

“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”

You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.

“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.

“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.

You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”

He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“Oh my god, Bob–”

That shattered him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.

“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”

He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.

“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.

Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.

You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.

Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.

“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.

“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”

His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.

“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.

“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”

You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.

Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.

“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”

Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.

“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”

Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.

He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.

“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”

And with a soft, choked sob, you did.

You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.

Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.

“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.

Sentry, of course it was him.

You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–

He lifted them to his lips.

He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.

A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”

When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.

Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.

Both of them.

“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.

“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”

You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”

Your panties.

His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.

He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.

The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.

“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No hesitation.

No teasing this time.

Just devotion.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.

His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.

You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.

“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.

He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.

“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”

You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.

And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.

Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:

“Come for me again, goddess.”

And you did.

Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.

You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.

His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.

And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.

His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.

“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”

The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.

You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.

“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.

“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”

His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.

“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”

You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.

“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.

“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”

But he shook his head before you could finish.

One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.

“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.

“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.

“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”

He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.

“…Who you belong to now.”

The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.

You could barely breathe.

He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.

The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.

Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”

And then–slowly–he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.

“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes.

The constant battle.

Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.

“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”

He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.

“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”

Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.

Your legs wrapped around his hips.

Your hands held his face like prayer.

And his thrusts grew stronger.

Still aching.

But with that edge.

That divine, desperate edge.

The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.

“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”

You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the light in the room began to flicker.

As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.

In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.

His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.

You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.

And then his mouth found yours again.

You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.

Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.

“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”

And that broke something in him.

His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.

You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.

“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”

You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.

“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”

His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.

And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”

You clung to him. Kissed him.

And you shattered.

Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And that’s when he followed.

His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.

You stayed like that.

Locked together.

Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.

”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.

You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.

“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”

Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”

Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”

Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.

“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.

“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”

You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.

Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”

You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”

Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”

Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”

Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.

“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”

You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”

Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.

The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.

You watched him.

Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.

And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.

Your chest swelled.

The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.

You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.

You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.

When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.

“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.

“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.

And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.

✩°⋆｡Masterlist ⋆｡°✩

Started: 22/01/25

Last Updated: 29/05/25

Total works: 46

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

The Wheel of Time

x Reader

Rand al'Thor

— Flowers for Bel Tine

— Love and Arrows

— The Boy Is Mine

— Always

— One Bed, Three Ta'veren

Mat Cauthon

— Keep Up

— One Bed, Three Ta'veren

— Wetlander

Lan Mandragoran

— Protection

— When I Met You

— No Longer Yours

Perrin Aybara

— Falling For You

Lanfear

— The Boy Is Mine

Cruel Intentions (TV)

x Reader

Lucien Belmont

— Good Girls Go Bad

— Make It Up To Me

— Trust Me

— let's play a love game

— Blanket Burrito

Caroline Merteuil

— let's play a love game

Marvel

x Reader

Bob Reynolds

— Something Special

— Loving You Is Easy

— Kitchen Hazard

— that's what i like

— my emotions have been sanded off

— Insomniacs with a z

John Walker

— my kid is better than your kid

— need that

— Insomniacs with a z

Yelena Belova

— Kitchen Hazard

Anora

x Reader

Ivan "Vanya" Zakharov

— i don't want to fix him

— Good Boy

— Addicted to You

— Play Too Much

— Watch Me

Ships

Igor/Ivan "Vanya" Zakharov

— Daddy Says So

The White Lotus

x Reader

Lochlan Ratliff

— Mommy Dearest (Part 1)

— Family Affair (Part 2)

— Pretty Lips

— quite a people pleaser, if only i could please her

— I Learned French For You

— Birthday Girl

Saxon Ratliff

— Mommy Dearest (Part 1)

— Family Affair (Part 2)

Valentin

— Talking Body

True Blood

x Reader

Jason Stackhouse

— Close To You

Carême

x Reader

Antonin Carême

— Take A Bite

— Savour It

Yellowjackets

Ships

Lottie Matthews/Natalie Scatorccio

— Way Cool Baby Love

Scream

Ships

Stu Macher/Sidney Prescott

— A Guy That I'd Kinda Be Into

Ethan Landry/Chad Meeks-Martin

— i don't want to miss you (like i do)

Teen Wolf

Ships

Stiles Stilinski/Isaac Lahey

— I Hate Your Stupid Face

The Hunger Games

Ships

Coriolanus Snow/Sejanus Plinth

— I Would Follow Him Anywhere

Misc.

The Selection - Maxon Schreave/Aspen Leger

— Waltz For Sweatpants

The Strange Case of Jekyll and Hyde - Henry Jekyll/John Utterson/Edward Hyde

— Affections Like Ivy

Hiraeth

Elrond Peredhel X GN!Reader (POC friendly)

Pronouns: You/Your

Summary: You just want to go home.

Warnings: Angst, non-descript injuries.

Word Count: 643

A/N: My fanfic-ified take on the origin of Rivendell.

You can’t quite tell where exactly you are, and as you are unable to move, it is unlikely you’ll ever find out. You vaguely remember fighting. The battlefield was a blur of metal, fire, and screaming.

The quiet hum of devastation still rings in your ears. The smell of smoke, blood, and petrichor fills your nostrils. You can feel the wet earth beneath you, unsure as to whether it is because of water or blood that the dirt clings to your skin.

There is pain seeping through every part of your body, every breath more difficult than the last. You aren’t sure if it’s the pain or the exhaustion, but it feels like you are floating. Like you aren’t quite tethered to your body anymore, and could fly away at any moment, disappearing forever.

And then you hear it. A soft gasp, and the clanking of armour as footsteps rush to approach you.

A face enters your vision. You didn’t think you’d ever see that face again. His voice, gentle yet filled with urgency, calls your name.

“You’re alive.”

You blink, trying to focus on him, but the world around you is spinning. His face is like a beacon in the chaos, but you can barely make out the details.

Elrond kneels down beside you, his hands already moving over your broken body, assessing your obvious injuries. You feel the gentle touch of his fingers against your skin, the warmth of his presence grounding you.

You allow him to tend to you, unable to take your eyes off him.

“Elrond.” You whisper, breath ragged. “I want to go home.” The words sound surprisingly steady as they fall from your cracked lips.

Elrond’s eyes soften as he carefully bandages a wound on your arm, his movements practiced, soothing. “We’ll be there soon. Rest now, meleth nîn. You’ve been through much.”

You shake your head, wincing with the effort. “No... I want to go home. Our home.”

For a moment, there is silence. Elrond pauses, looking down at you, his expression unreadable, though the sorrow in his gaze was unmistakable. He continues tending to you, his healing touch delicate but firm.

You’ve spoken about it before. Building a home for the two of you, maybe even for more in time. These plans never made it past late night conversations, wrapped in soft silks, hands gently tracing intricate shapes on freshly bathed skin.

“I know.” Elrond murmurs, his voice barely a whisper heavy with the weight of centuries of wisdom and grief.

He finishes securing a bandage, and then he pauses again. “And we will have that. One day. I will make sure of it.”

He looks around at the battlefield, at the ruins of everything. It is as if he is searching for something. A flicker of hope in the ruins. After a moment, his gaze shifts back to you.

“We’ll make one.” He says softly, his words more certain than anything. “Right here. Right now. We are home.”

You look up at him, still unable to fully comprehend his words, but his presence, his unwavering love, anchor you. The world seems to hold its breath for a moment, and in that silence, in that fragile flicker of peace, you feel something more, something deeper than any of the pain you are enduring.

Elrond’s shifts you closer to him, his touch steadying you. There is a shimmer of unfallen tears in his eyes, though there is also something else, something akin to determination and devotion.

“We are home.” You repeat, finding comfort in the certainty of his words, and though the world is still broken around you, in that moment, you know he will build something for both of you from the ruins.

With him by your side, in this valley, brimming with potential, you will build a place you can truly call your home.

Lord of the Rings Masterlist

Masterlist

Thank you for reading <3

BUCKY BARNES | SEX POLLEN TROPE

main masterlist | note: as the trope includes smut, all of the fics include +18 content. also since at least one party is under the influence of some kind of a chemical, this is dubious content. please proceed with caution and minors dni. enjoy!

toxic heat • bucky barnes x reader | by @nyletac

summary: while waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off. (smut) (6,4k words)

take you there • bucky barnes x reader | by @heli0s-writes

summary: sam plays a game called fuck or die. it's like he willed it into existence as you and hucky explore the basement of an old hydra lair. (smut, dub-con) (3,8k words)

louder than fear • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @godmadeaterribleerror

summary: missions involving hydra often go very wrong. this is different. this is worse. this is a strange bioweapon, nobody telling you exactly what's wrong, and staring at the ceiling as bucky roars you name. it’s echoing in your brain. and you love him. (smut, light angst) (8,5k words)

lustful agony • bucky barnes x plus size!reader | by @fatecantstopme

summary: after getting hit in the face with a pink dust during a visit to an old hydra lab, you are confused as to what happened. thankfully, your mission partner knows what it is, and thankfully he knows the solution. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, masturbation)

what was rule number #2 again? • tfatws!bucky barnes x reader | by @satinestales

summary: messing around in banner's lab, the night before your mission wasn't as good an idea as you thought, and you begin to question your actions the moment you step out of it. things worsen when you realize the super soldier serum isn't immune to an unknown contagious disease. (smut)

delirium • bucky barnes x reader | by @flowersforbucky

summary: stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, angst, friends to lovers, avenger!reader) (4,1k words)

play pretend | part two • bucky barnes x reader | by @wkemeup

summary: when bucky is injected with a substance that leaves him desperate for release, you offer your help. (smut, dub-con) (7,8k words)

summary of pt.2: in the aftermath of munich, bucky struggles to go back to how things were before. but now that he knows how it is to love you, he's not sure he can. (smut, mutual pining) (5,8k words)

strawberries • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @ellemj

summary: bucky, the man with a long list of girls on his roster, gets exposed to a sex pollen in the field. will he fuck the first girl he calls or the girl he's wanted for the last two months? (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, size kink, fuckboy!bucky) (7,5k words)

does it hurt? | bonus chapter • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @ellemj

summary: bucky never would've gone out of his way to help you if he knew that hydra was still watching his every move, if he knew that it would shift their focus to you. when you're targeted and taken, it's his fault and he'll do anything to save you. anything. (angst, smut, unprotected sex, abduction, violence, voyeurism, mentions of sa) (24,3k words)

summary of bonus ch.: when you're finally out of hydra’s clutches, the recovery process drives you and bucky farther and farther apart. you can't decide if what you felt between you was real or chemically-induced. what will it take to sway you? (smut, angst, non-descriptive smut) (12,4k words)

untitled • bucky barnes x reader | by @myfictionaldreams

summary: it was your first mission out with your mentor, bucky, but not all goes to plan when you stumble across an old hydra laboratory and accidentally trigger a trap. (smut, dub-con, grumpy x sunshine, rough sex, praise kink)

high for this • new avenger!bucky barnes x reader | by @buckysleftbicep

summary: during a mission, you and bucky are exposed to a gas meant to strip away restraint. he resists, and well, you try. but when the heat fades, it’s not the mission that haunts you both, it’s what happened behind that door. (smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, angst, regret) (3,8k words)

desperate | uncertain an sure • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @buckets-and-trees

summary: enemies? rivals? it's always been reluctant teamwork between you and the winter soldier, but when put in a situation where personal feelings have to be put aside, maybe actual personal feelings are uncovered. (smut, kidnapping)

desperate measures • bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader | by @simplyholl

summary: when you encounter a mysterious substance during a mission, it forces you and your mission partner to get closer. (smut)

petals • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @biteofcherry

summary: it was supposed to be so simple. a boring reckon mission. just to check the cabin and secure any samples of the ongoing experiments the former hydra doctor ran the place. however the unexpected comes in the form of a flower. (smut, dub-con, fingering)

unleashed • avengers!bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @veltana

summary: during a mission, bucky is exposed to something that removes his inhibitions and all he wants is you. (smut, slight fluff, possessive!bucky, unprotected sex) (4,2k words)

crimson fever • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @mandoalorian

summary: in the icy shadows of 1944 occupied europe, you uncover a dangerous hydra secret that could shift the war’s tide. but hydra’s ruthless scientist, arnim zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drug—“crimson fever”—that set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. as you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with sergeant bucky barnes, your childhood friend from brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the war’s chaos. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, violence, torture) (6,7k words)

ALWAYS WITHIN REACH

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 1.3k synopsis: Jason Todd doesn’t love loudly but he shows it with his constant presence and actions. a/n: To my anon who requested this, I love you and I loved writing this, but this made me feel so single. I need a man like Jason 😭

The first time you noticed it—really noticed it—was when you were heading out to grab a coffee.

You’d only grabbed your keys and a hoodie, ready to walk the two blocks to the corner store. The weather was mild, the streets quiet, and you hadn’t planned on being gone more than fifteen minutes. As you crouched to tie your laces, yawning mid-sentence, you called out lazily, “I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Want anything?”

Jason was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, blanket twisted around his legs. He’d groaned not five minutes ago about needing a nap and you figured he’d be out cold by now.

But then you heard the couch creak. He was sitting up.

“I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “You just said—”

“I’ll drive.” He was already pushing to his feet, reaching for his keys like it wasn’t up for debate.

You stared, baffled. “Jay, I’m literally going across the street.”

He didn’t seem to hear you—or more likely, chose not to. Shirt half-buttoned, boots barely tied, he grabbed his jacket in one hand and your fingers in the other, dragging you gently toward the door. You didn’t argue, mostly because you were still sleepy and not quite ready to match his brand of  stubborn.

The drive took three minutes. He didn’t say much, just rested one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your skin like he needed the contact more than the caffeine. Even when he pulled up to the drive-thru window, when you took the drink with a grateful smile and settled back in your seat, Jason didn’t let go. He shifted the wheel easily with one hand, the other still anchored to you, thumb still stroking your skin. 

You didn’t think much of it at the time.

The next time it happened, it was at the grocery store.

You were pushing the cart down an aisle while Jason trailed just behind, his hand warm and steady on the small of your back. It stayed there for most of the trip—absentminded, comforting. Sometimes he’d give a gentle nudge when you paused too long comparing brands, or he’d slide his fingers up your spine for no reason at all except to feel you there.

At one point, somewhere between the produce section and the towering shelves of canned goods, Jason muttered that he needed more protein powder. His voice was low and distracted, already halfway turned toward the far end of the store. He didn’t look back, thinking you were following but instead, you nodded vaguely and veered off toward the ice cream aisle, figuring you could cover more ground that way. 

You moved slowly, eyes scanning the frosty rows of half-gallons and pints. The doors of the freezer hissed quietly as you opened one, cool air spilling out as your reached for two pints, debating between cookie dough and mint chocolate chip. 

You weren’t even half way through the aisle when you felt him behind you again. 

His arms sliding around your waist and wrapping you up without a word. The warmth of him sank through your hoodie, his body pressing close to yours. A moment later, the weight of his head dropped gently onto your shoulder. His breath ghosted over the curve of your neck, soft and steady, the contrast to the chilled air in front of you making your skin prickle.

Leaning back into him just a little, you tilted your head, angling for a glimpse of his face, searching for something—an explanation, maybe. But all you found was the slope of his brow pressed close to your temple, his mouth relaxed, his lashes lowered like he might stay there forever if you let him.

“You okay?” you murmured.

He gave the smallest of nods, the movement brushing his cheek against yours. You stayed like that for a moment longer, Eventually, your fingers drifted toward the freezer door again, and you began to move. His arms loosened, but just enough to let you walk without pulling fully away. One of his hands slid down, fingers catching yours, while his other reached for the cart, reclaiming it without comment, guiding it forward to where you wanted to go.

And that’s when you started to see the pattern.

Jason always walked on the side closest to the street, his body subtly shifting until you were on the inside of the sidewalk, sheltered from traffic. Every single time. Even if it meant cutting mid-conversation to switch sides, or gently tugging you across with a hand to your waist or a brush of fingers against your wrist. It didn’t matter how casual the outing—he’d never let you walk street-side.

He held doors open without thinking, reaching out before you could even touch the handle. And whenever you were out together, his hand was never far. Sometimes laced through yours like second nature, your fingers intertwined as you walked in step. Other times, it rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through doorways, around corners, through crowds. 

He insisted on coming with you for errands. Always. It didn’t matter how mundane the task or how quick the trip—Jason was already pulling on his jacket before you finished asking, sometimes you didn’t even have to. And he never complained. Not once. Didn’t check his phone or sigh impatiently. He carried the bags. He waited while you debated between brands of ice cream. Even standing in line, he’d hook a finger through your belt loop and tug you back against him, chin on your shoulder, arms looped loosely around your waist as you two waited.

At gas stations, he always got out with you—even if all you were doing was grabbing gum and a drink. He filled the tank, too, waving off your protests with a quiet, “I got it.” In bookstores, he trailed behind you with a hand on your back, the other juggling the growing stack of titles you kept passing him with a sheepish smile. He never complained about those either. 

In crowded spaces, his arm always found its way around your waist or over your shoulders, pulling you into his side without a word.

And when you ran into people you knew—coworkers, old classmates, friends of friends—he didn’t interrupt or try to charm them. He didn’t puff up or shrink away, instead he seemed content to speak when spoken to. Otherwise he was content to stand at your side. One hand stayed low on your back, rubbing soothing circles.

They often stared at him warily—he was hard not to notice, after all. Tall, sharp-jawed, rough-edged. And yet, despite how intimidating everyone else found him, Jason was soft with you. Protective, yes. But never overbearing. He didn’t tell you what to do or try to keep you in a box made of fear. He just wanted to stay close.

It was subtle, but constant. And the truth was…you kind of loved it.

He was protective in the kind of way that didn’t feel like a cage—it felt like shelter. Like he needed to keep you close not because he didn’t trust you or because he thought you were weak. He stayed close because he knew what the world could be like. He didn’t want to control you. He just didn’t want to lose you.

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was why, no matter where you were or what you were doing, you never had to reach far to find him. In a room full of people, he was there. Even in sleep, he found you. Always.

Because while the world knew Jason as the Red Hood—fearless, violent, deadly—you knew this version. The one who always held your hand, who never let you walk alone, whose constant presence promised you that he was always there for you.

And in the spaces between who he was and how the world saw him, you found the truth of him. A man who had lived through hell, and loved you like it was his personal vow.

pairings: john walker x reader cw: smut, afab reader, heavy details on bodily fluids (cum), dry humping, pain play-ish, reader and walker are both kind of switches (mostly dom!walker though), very faint non-con. translations: знал, что это дерьмо случится → 'knew this shit was going to happen'

you woke up in a pissy mood.

maybe it’s because you woke up late. you let the thought plant itself in the garden of your mind as you make up the bed, tripping over your phone charger in the process—cursing as the plastic brick snags your toe like it has a personal vendetta against you. or maybe it’s because alexei had eaten all the pancakes when you went downstairs for breakfast, plate licked clean and stacked with crumbs like a taunt. bob had given you that same apologetic smile he always did when things went wrong—soft and sunny like butter melting on hot toast—murmuring that there hadn’t been any more mix left for him to make you any.

maybe it was the fucking weather in new york. the gentle splatter of rain against the glass panes of the tower had started out soft, like a lullaby, but now it just sounded annoying. like the world was chewing with its mouth open.

or maybe it was because it was wednesday.

training.

val’s orders.

mandatory hand-to-hand sparring. because she liked everyone nice and angry and bruised up. and sure, you had training every day, but today? today was the one day of the week where you were paired with walker.

so when he purposely bumped into you in the hallway outside the gym—his shoulder knocking against your bicep hard enough to make your teeth click—you didn’t throw a punch, even though the thought crossed your mind like a reflex. he was taller than you, broader too, all chest and attitude and smug american confidence. so maybe it wasn’t your shoulder. maybe it was your whole goddamn side that he nudged like a dog staking territory.

“who pissed in your cereal this morning?” he asked, voice low and conversational, like he didn’t just bump you hard enough to jostle your spine.

you didn’t say it was him, even though it was. even though his voice made your skin itch and your jaw lock.

“woke up on the wrong side of the bed, walker,” you said instead, brushing past him, not waiting for the inevitable comeback. you could feel his smirk behind you like static.

the tower’s gym was unruly-huge. it felt like it echoed your mood back at you. equipment you couldn’t name lined the walls in tight, militaristic rows, all matte black and heavy metal, and the smell of rubber and sweat lingered in the air like a stain. a few punching bags hung lazily near the corners, one still swaying from when bucky had kicked it clean across the room last week.

“it’s too weak,” he’d said.

(you’d made a mental note never to spar with him again.)

and in the center of it all was the ring. four corner posts, padded ropes, and too much room for bad decisions.

it wasn’t required that the whole team show up—and even though you’d begged yelena to join, she’d refused, laughing into her smoothie. said she didn’t want to be “stuck watching you two dry hump like deranged squirrels again.” you’d told her to fuck off. but now, standing in the gym with only the distant hum of the a/c for company, you wished she’d been there just to cut the tension. or at least pass you a weapon.

you took a swig of lukewarm water from your bottle and turned to face walker, forcing yourself not to stare at how his compression shirt clung to him. it wasn’t tight—it was painted on. every line of muscle was on full display, shoulder to waist. you could practically hear the fabric stretch when he moved.

“do you… want to do some warm-ups first?” you asked, making a conscious effort to keep your tone neutral. maybe even disinterested. you didn’t want him here. this wasn’t voluntary. this was an obligation. mandatory misery.

“let’s get this over with,” he said. “three rounds. best out of three.”

you raised a brow. “and for the rules?”

he smirked—of course he did. “we don’t need rules.”

“we kinda do,” you replied, already feeling the irritation twist under your ribs. “because last time you dropped me on my ass so hard i had a bruise for a week.”

walker stepped into the ring first, ducking under the ropes. “maybe you should’ve blocked.”

“maybe you should stop fighting like you’ve got something to prove.”

that earned a glare from him, which you ignored—attempted to.

you climbed in, shaking out your arms, your boots hitting the mat with soft thuds. the padding underfoot felt springy—too bouncy, too reactive. you hated it. or maybe you just hated that you were here, facing him, already sweating despite the cold air.

he circled you lazily. like a goddamn lion. you mirrored the motion, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet, trying not to get distracted by how his eyes tracked your hips rather than your stance.

you both moved at the same time.

the first few exchanges were quick—jab, parry, dodge. the rhythm came easily. it always did. as much as you hated to admit it, you were well-matched. you could read each other’s timing, counter without thinking. the frustration came not from the fighting, but from everything else—the way his hands lingered too long when you grappled, how his chest would brush yours if you got too close. you hated how your body noticed.

and then it happened.

a misstep—your heel caught slightly on the edge of the mat, enough to tip your balance, and walker lunged to take advantage of the opening. except instead of pinning you, the two of you collided—not forcefully, but clumsily, almost chest to chest. you let out a sharp exhale as your thighs tangled, knees bending instinctively to catch the fall.

but he was already halfway crouched, one arm wrapping instinctively around your waist to steady you, the other pressed to the small of your back. your weight shifted forward—too close, too warm—and suddenly you were halfway in his lap.

“shit—sorry,” you breathed, trying to shove off him, except—

except his thigh was right between yours, and your hips—

fuck.

you didn’t mean to move, but the balance was off and the mat was soft and your legs shifted on instinct—and suddenly, unmistakably, your core dragged against the muscle of his thigh in a way that was so subtle and accidental and deeply not.

both of you froze.

your breath caught. his eyes were already locked on yours, stunned for a half second—then unreadable. his hand was still on your back. you weren’t sure if it tightened or if you imagined it. you weren’t sure if you moved again or if the air conditioning just kicked on. you weren’t sure why your thighs clenched.

“uh…” you started, but your voice sounded weird. hoarse. too close to a moan.

his gaze flicked to your mouth, then away, fast. “you okay?”

you nodded too fast. “fine. just… awkward footing.”

he didn’t move his hand. neither did you.

your legs still straddled his thigh in a way that felt like the world’s worst balancing act. or the start of a very different kind of training session. there was a beat of silence—like the air itself was watching.

“you sure?” he asked again, quieter this time.

and it wasn’t even the words—it was the way he looked at you. like he wasn’t talking about the stumble at all. like he felt that exact moment too. the press of your pelvis. the grind. the breath you tried to swallow.

you nodded again, slower this time. “yeah. just… caught me off guard.”

you pushed off him, finally, but it was too late. the air had shifted. you could feel it between you, clinging like static. his hands fell away, but your skin still burned where they’d been. you turned back to face him, but the next round didn’t come right away. he was still watching you.

and your body? your traitorous, terrible body?

your thighs were still clenched.

fuck wednesday.

“again?” you asked, voice too level for how shaky you felt inside.

walker nodded once, that cocky little tilt of his mouth returning like it never left. you circled again, sweat already clinging in places it shouldn’t—your lower back, your neck, the inside of your thighs. the room felt hotter than before, too hot for the a/c’s dull drone.

you launched first this time—an elbow aimed high, followed by a sweep low that he sidestepped with infuriating ease.

“you’re getting predictable,” he said with a grin.

you lunged. “so are you.”

he blocked. his palm slammed against your forearm, then he turned his body and shoved. the motion was clean, rehearsed. you fell back onto the mat with a thud that wasn’t entirely painless.

before you could roll, he was on you.

a forearm pressed against your collarbone, his weight straddling your hips, one thigh locked between your legs like a goddamn puzzle piece. his free hand pinned your wrist down beside your head.

the heat of his body sunk into yours instantly.

you squirmed. “walker—fuck—”

“hurts?” he murmured, his voice rough, amused—condescending.

the way he said it—hurts?—like he already knew the answer. like he knew it didn’t.

“yeah?” he pushed again, voice dropping lower this time, something smug curling around the edge of the word like smoke. “right there?”

and fuck, you hated the way your body responded to that tone. you hated that your thighs instinctively squeezed around the leg slotted between them. you hated that your hips bucked up, just once, hard enough that your pelvis grazed his in a motion too slow to be mistaken.

your ass dragged against the hard ridge in his pants and he whined, a fully on whine you sweat—barely—but you heard it. felt it in the tension of his thigh. his hips jerked forward, subtle but deliberate, a shallow grind that answered your body without permission.

you sucked in a breath. “get off—”

“you first,” he said, and dipped his hips again, just to feel the friction. he’s desperate now, you can tell.

it was a war now. a different kind of sparring.

you twisted under him, trying to gain leverage, but he only adjusted his grip on your wrists, forearms flexing as he kept you pinned. you shifted your hips to throw him off—but the motion only made things worse.

your core ground against his thigh again, heat blooming under your waistband, obscene in how clothed you both still were. the contact was friction, soft and aggressive, the kind that sent sparks up your spine.

you bit back a noise. it didn’t sound angry. it didn’t sound like protest.

“fuck—get—off—me—” you tried again, but you weren’t moving to escape anymore. not really.

you arched again, more desperate this time. maybe to get him off. maybe to get more.

walker’s breath caught. he bucked into you again, this time slow. deliberate. testing.

you gasped. “don’t—”

“then stop moving,” he groans which broke off into another whimper.

but neither of you stopped.

he leaned in close, face hovering over yours, and you could smell the sweat and laundry soap and faint bite of cologne coming off him. his breath was hot against your cheek.

you surged up again—this time forcing him to lose some of his balance, your knee coming up to knock his side. he grunted, twisted, but still didn’t move off you.

instead, the shift made him rut against you harder, this time with a quiet, breathless curse.

“goddamn it—” he muttered.

you moaned before you could stop yourself. not loud. just a little choked noise in your throat.

walker froze. then slowly, he ground his hips down again. testing pressure. the thick line of his cock pressed through both your pants, dragging across the exact spot that was already aching.

“you’re not helping your case,” he murmured.

“shut the fuck up—” but it sounded breathy. weak. your thighs clenched again.

you twisted your wrist free and shoved at his chest, but he caught your hand and pinned it down again. the struggle only brought you closer, your hips meeting in another mindless grind that made both of you gasp.

it wasn’t smooth. it wasn’t graceful.

he rutted into you, clothed, thick denim grinding down against your leggings, and your hips met his like you needed it. you did. every part of you felt like it was humming now. frustration and arousal tangled into something reckless. every motion made it worse—more heat, more friction, more of your body giving away things your mouth would never say.

walker leaned down again, chest nearly flush against yours, his hips working in slow, rhythmless pushes. “say you want it,” he said, low.

“i don’t,” you lied.

he ground harder, your clit catching against the crease of your waistband, and your back arched off the mat in response.

“you sure?” he whispered.

you weren’t.

your hands gripped the mat, desperate for stability, but he was dragging against you just right, his thigh rocking into your core and making your cunt throb. your hips moved again—this time without thinking—and now you were the one rutting into him. your core pulsed against the friction of his jeans, every scrape of the fabric sending heat flooding low through your stomach.

his hands fisted in the mat on either side of your head. his biceps bracketed your face. he looked down at you like he didn’t know whether to tease you or fuck you into the floor.

you rolled your hips again, your leg wrapping slightly around his as you chased the next wave of contact. you weren’t pretending anymore. he wasn’t either. this wasn’t a spar—it was a dry fuck in slow motion.

and he gave in.

he bucked forward, hard, and his cock pressed along your clothed heat, grinding with rough, eager friction. the motion dragged a moan out of you you couldn’t swallow. your head tipped back. your neck arched.

your clit caught again on the seam of your leggings and your hips jolted. he rutted into the motion—again, then again—shallow thrusts that barely moved you on the mat, but each one made your breath catch. your body burned. you could feel the heat soaking through the cotton. your thighs trembled.

“you gonna come like this?” he asked roughly, mouth right near your jaw. “grinding on my thigh like a brat?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

you only bucked your hips harder, clit catching again, again, your mouth falling open as a whimper slipped out. you were so fucking close now. you could feel it—low and tight and searing, the edge of something hot and humiliating and real.

“you like that?” he hissed, fucking into you now with full-bodied thrusts. “yeah—fuck—you do—”

you squeezed your eyes shut, choking on your own breath, your body arching into his. every grind pushed you closer. your hands gripped his shirt now, pulling him closer, keeping him there. his name slipped out of your mouth like a secret.

and walker—he didn’t stop. didn’t pull away.

if anything, he moved faster.

he wasn’t teasing anymore. he was chasing it. so were you. two enemies humping each other to the brink in the middle of the fucking training mat, slick with sweat and frustration, and god, you could feel it building again—hot, slick pressure, dragging through your core like a live wire—

“fuck—fuck—don’t stop—” you gasped, and his hips answered with another rough grind.

“come on, then,” he growled. “do it. come on my fuckin’ thigh, princess.”

and you did.

your hips jerked, breath tearing from your lungs, thighs clenching as a flood of wet heat soaked your panties. you came with a whimper, your back arching, every inch of you trembling.

walker groaned through his teeth and fucked into your convulsing body once more, riding it out, like he wanted to memorize the way you clenched under him. his own breath was ragged, jaw tight, hands still gripping your wrists like he couldn’t trust himself to let go.

when you finally opened your eyes again, he was still above you. still hard. still watching.

and you still hadn’t moved.

not until you heard the creak of the gym door open.

even then, it wasn’t really movement so much as tension—your entire body flinching under john’s just as your head snapped up, breath still ragged, hips still twitching faintly from what just happened.

yelena stood half in the doorway, smoothie in hand—half-drunk, the straw still perched between her fingers like she’d just stepped out of the kitchen.

she didn’t even blink. her eyes dropped to the sight of you pinned beneath walker—your thighs still spread around one of his, your hands twisted in his shirt, your expression frozen somewhere between post-orgasmic haze and absolute horror.

he didn’t move either. maybe didn’t know how to.

yelena arched an eyebrow.

didn’t really take a genius to figure out what was happening. what just happened.

she let the moment hang for maximum effect. her lip twitched—so subtle you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.

and then, with a casual sip from her smoothie, she muttered under her breath, voice thick with dry russian amusement “знал, что это дерьмо случится.”

she turnd without waiting for a reply, braid swinging behind her as she walked off with that same bored strut she used after throwing knives at a man’s groin.

the door creaked shut again.

silence.

you were still staring at it.

walker finally exhaled, a breath that sounded half-laugh, half-regret. his forehead dropped to your shoulder.

you groaned, hand dragging down your face. “we’re never living this down.”

“not a chance,” he muttered into your collarbone.

neither of you moved for another full minute. maybe two.

you were still too wet. he was still too hard.

and neither of you wanted to be the first to stand up.

DIY ~ rop!elrond x reader

so I have no excuse here

I promised myself that when Breathe got to 400 notes I would post another elrond fic I have hidden away (there's thousands of words of the stuff) and that happened yesterday! so have this!

modern au

word count: 806 words (a baby)

warnings: elrond is doing diy. need I say more

(not my image but I can't remember who's it is)

“Do you want a cup of tea, love?”

“Isn’t it a bit-” you cut yourself off as you look up from your book, seeing your fiancé Elrond leaning against the doorframe, “… hot.” He smiles softly at you which does nothing to help the butterflies stirring in your stomach, and sways a little where he stands with one arm holding onto the top beam of the frame. At some point he’d taken his flannel shirt off, obviously too warm in the current heatwave, so he’s just in the white vest he’d put on underneath. You try not to stare too much at his arms that are very much on show (the way he’s holding onto the doorframe does everything to make his muscles look more defined), and try to remember what his question was. 

“Maybe,” he says, pushing off the doorframe to stand just inside the living room and shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. You’re grateful that he’s moved, but it’s almost as though you’ve gone from the frying pan and into the fire. The way he’s slightly slouched with his curls out of place (they’d previously been hidden by the low height of the door) has your breath hitching in your throat. “I can get you something else if you like, my love?”

“Uh…” you swallow thickly, pretending your throat is dry from the heat of the weather and not from the way your fiancé is looking at you. “Water would be good?”

“Yeah?” He’s noticed that you’re not quite your normal self and steps towards you, pulling a hand out of his pocket to drag it through his mess of curls. You know that he is fully aware of what that action does to you, and you catch his stupid grin as he stops at your feet and sinks down to one knee. You’re reminded of the last time you were in this position: you sat on your favourite bench in the park, secluded while he proposes. This time he’s got a different look in his eyes though, and when he takes your hand to press a kiss to the back of it he doesn’t break your gaze. “Anything else?” Christ, his voice has gone low. 

“Just- just the water.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, turning your hand in his so he can kiss the inside of your wrist. 

“How’s the table?” Elrond lifts his head but doesn’t let go of your hand, and you almost wish you’d just asked him to get the water because you’re growing warmer by the second. 

“It’s getting there, it just got a bit hot working out in the sun so I thought I’d take a break. I’m nearly done now though.” You can tell he’s warm from the sweat on his forehead, the sheen covering his arms, and the little bit of chest exposed by the low neckline of the vest, and it makes the butterflies stir even more.

“Are you sure it’s gonna be stable?” You’re teasing him, trying to get a reaction. You know that his DIY skills are actually really good; it’s why you get him to do so many (and definitely not so you can linger near him and stare). 

“Well, we can always test it,” he says, trailing his fingers a little further up your wrist. Being engaged has clearly altered Elrond’s confidence levels, because his tone tells you that he’s insinuating something other than just putting heavy books on it. 

“Test?” You properly close your book now, manoeuvring the one free hand you have to put your bookmark in and placing it to the side so that you can lean forward. “Test it how?” You reach up to tuck a stray curl back, letting your fingers linger in his hair. 

“Well I imagine if it can hold your sewing machine and all your craft supplies it should be alright.” It’s not the answer you were expecting, but you can’t think properly now that he’s sat forward close enough that you can start counting the freckles on his cheeks. His free hand comes to your knee, resting on the fabric of your thin skirt and slowly moving his hand higher. “We wouldn’t want the legs to give out, would we?”

Your breath hitches and you know he hears it from the way his hand on your leg tightens slightly, and you inch your head forward a little. “Elrond, I-”

“I should grab your water,” he says suddenly, pulling back and standing. You stare up at him in incredulity as he heads to the kitchen, and scoff. 

“You’re an arsehole, Elrond,” you call after him, throwing yourself back against the pillows. You hear him laugh and mutter something and lay there for a moment more before following him, wrapping your arms around him until he gives in and plants a kiss on your mouth.

ask me and i'm there | masterlist

— summary: There's a shelf in Jack Abbot's head with all of the things he stores to deal with later. It's concerning how many of those things have to do with you.

— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but assumption is reader is late 20s and up while jack is mid-40s, not as pertinent to the plot but its there), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, grief, medical inaccuracies, eventual smut, mild sexual content, jack abbot and city girl being the best at doing everything but admitting feelings <3

*amount of chapters and titles are subject to change depending on my mood ;)

part one: bias

part two: where you are

part three: the lonely fight

part four: new faces in the dark

part five: holding on

part six: silver springs

part seven: into the feeling

extra:

Knicks in the playoffs (drabble)

a/n: the amount of love and support that this has gotten has been so mind-blowing. i read all of it and want you all to know that you have fueled my love for this story. thank you all for reading :)

this story is named after a fleetwood mac lyric, because he is so fleetwood mac coded to me.