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REBEL COWBOY

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 6.5K Rating: E

Summary: You are a lawyer representing Jack after a patient's mother files a lawsuit on claims of misrepresentation and ethical misconduct. Initially, your focus is solely on ensuring that your client’s reputation remains intact. However, over time, the lines start to blur between your objectivity—and personal attachment to your client.

Warning: minor spoilers for 1x4-1x7 (Kristi—teen girl medical abortion storyline), slow burn (forbidden romance vibes?), mentions of abortion, workplace stress, reader is friends with Frank (they have know each other since college), implied age gap, frustration with healthcare system, angst (emotional argument), yearning, language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation (f), mutual pining, flirting, feelings, did i mention sexual tension?

A/N: This is going to be a quick 2-parter. The amount of research I had to do to write this was actually insane. Reminder, I am not a lawyer, so blame Google if any of this is inaccurate. A lot of people always say that they were fascinated by Jack fudging the numbers for the teen girl, and I thought writing a fic about the aftermath could be interesting. Lastly, I know those episodes are about a sensitive and controversial topic between the debate on medical ethics and whatever a viewer's feelings may be about abortion in general—so my intention was to handle this with the utmost care and respect. However, feel free to just keep scrolling if this just ain’t it for you because of the topic at hand.

Forehead smooches to @ozarkthedog, who made this story possible with gifting me the above GIF.

Jack Abbot Masterlist

IN THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE WESTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA

Eloise Wheeler, Plaintiff, v. Dr. Jack Abbott, M.D., and Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, Defendants.

Case No.: 2025-CV-785431

COMPLAINT FOR MISREPRESENTATION AND ETHICAL MISCONDUCT

Eloise Wheeler, on behalf of her minor daughter Kristi Wheeler, alleges that Dr. Jack Abbot, a physician employed at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center engaged in misrepresentation and ethical misconduct concerning the medical diagnosis and treatment of Kristi. Specifically, Kristi was pregnant, and ultrasound measurements conducted at the facility indicated that she was past the gestational limit for medical abortion procedures in the State of Pennsylvania. Despite this, Dr. Abbot purportedly falsified or manipulated the ultrasound data for the medical abortion to proceed. The plaintiff claims that these actions constitute a breach of medical ethics, patient trust, and professional standards, and have caused significant emotional distress and potential health risks to Kristi Wheeler. The lawsuit seeks appropriate remedies for the alleged misconduct, including damages and injunctive relief.

"Would your firm pick up this case?" Frank asked you, taking a long swig from his beer as you both sat at your usual booth at his favorite dive bar.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the thick stack of papers in front of you. "Frank, I need to finish reading this. The complaint’s about a million pages long—give or take."

Frank rolled his eyes slightly, a hint of impatience crossing his face. "That’s not answering my question."

"Why this case? You’ve told me about lawsuits at the hospital before, but never once have you come to me about my firm providing legal representation for anyone."

He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. It’s just… this guy, Dr. Abbot, he’s a good guy. I’ve known him for years, and he’s my mentor’s best friend. But I’m worried hospital leadership might throw him under the bus if this blows up. I don’t want him to get ruined over this."

You took a sip from your beer, considering. 

"Well, if this complaint is accurate, then Dr. Abbot could be liable for misrepresentation, ethical misconduct, and medical malpractice. And the hospital might even be vicariously liable for his actions. That’s a serious situation, Frank." You paused, your tone turning more analytical. "If the allegations hold up, there’s a lot at stake for this guy."

"Come by the hospital tomorrow. Just…meet him and the board."

You hesitated.

"Frank, I need to review all the details first. I can't just jump into anything without knowing the full scope."

He nodded, sensing your reluctance but eager to push the point. "I get it, I get it. Just… consider it. No commitments, okay? But the sooner, the better. This thing’s moving fast."

You took a deep breath, weighing your options.

"Alright, I’ll come by tomorrow. But I’m not promising anything,"

"Next round’s on me," he said, pushing his chair back with a slight groan.

You watched him go, then reached into the folder of papers in front of you. Carefully, you began flipping through the twenty-page complaint, your eyes scanning the detailed allegations.

Lowballing measurements to help a teen girl get an abortion?

Well, you couldn’t lie—you were definitely intrigued.

Count I: Fraudulent Misrepresentation

A week had passed since that night at the bar, and you had taken the case after meeting with Dr. Abbot and the hospital board. You had gone through the complaint thoroughly.

Every detail.

Every allegation.

"Dr. Abbot," you began, sitting across from him in some hospital conference room, "I want you to know I’ve reviewed everything. The complaint is structured into several counts, but for now, I want to focus on the first one." You paused, making sure he was following. "This count alleges that you provided falsified ultrasound data indicating a smaller gestational age, thereby enabling Kristi to qualify for the medical procedure. Therefore, her mother is claiming the falsification of your data led to Kristi receiving an abortion under false pretenses."

He nodded slowly.

"Now," you continued, "her mother, has demanded a trial by jury on all issues so triable. I’m going to fight like hell to make sure that doesn’t happen. But, if it does. That means this case is heading toward a full courtroom confrontation, with witnesses, evidence, and the chance to challenge every aspect of the allegations." You paused, letting that sink in for him. "So, we need to prepare for a serious fight, especially if a jury is involved."

"A jury, huh?" he said nonchalantly.

You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on the table, giving him a no-nonsense look.

Sharp.

Direct.

Eyes locked on his.

"Dr. Abbot," you said, voice measured but unwavering, "before we go any further, I need to remind you of client-attorney confidentiality. Everything you tell me is protected under law. It’s crucial for me to do my job right. So, I need honesty—full disclosure. Now, tell me—was the ultrasound data manipulated?"

He hesitated, his brow creasing.

Thinking.

Weighing.

You didn’t rush him.

Just kept your gaze steady, the kind of look that left no room for games.

After a beat, you pressed gently but with purpose. "Remember, clear and honest communication is what gets you the best defense. I need the truth."

Finally, he looked up, eyes cautious, "Yeah," he said softly. "That’s what happened. What she’s saying is correct."

"Good," you said, my voice level and confident.

He blinked, puzzled. "Good?"

You gave a small, deliberate smile—nothing showy, just enough to let him know you meant business. "Yes, I’ve had clients who lie, and it doesn’t work if you lie to me. Transparency is key. We can only build your defense if I know exactly what went down."

He exhaled slowly.

"Start from the beginning," you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out your laptop. As you powered it on and typed, you kept your focus on Dr. Abbot, whose words began to flow. His hands rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly—almost subconsciously—as he recounted what happened.

His posture was upright, shoulders squared, a stance that spoke of discipline—a trait no doubt honed during his military service. Every now and then, he glanced down briefly, eyes narrowing in thought.

You kept your fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard, capturing every detail, every nuance, every flicker of emotion that flashed across his face. You noticed his features—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a hint of stubble—he was handsome in a way that was almost distracting. In fact, at one point, you didn’t realize that he had finished speaking.

Dr. Abbot took a steadying breath, his Adam's apple bobbing as he cleared his throat softly.

"So… what do you think?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for some sort of reassurance. Then, with a hint of concern, he added, "Am I in complete shit here?"

You bit your lip. "I think… you didn’t intentionally falsify ultrasound data—any discrepancies could be due to genuine measurement errors or technical issues."

He raised his eyebrows at you.

You continued. "And we can present expert testimony from radiologists or medical professionals who can testify that ultrasound measurements can vary and that any inaccuracies can occur—unintentionally."

He looked at you.

Really looked at you.

With eye contact you had never really experienced before.

The attention was driving you crazy.

"In fact, I think you acted in good faith, believing your measurements were accurate and within legal limits."

He fell silent, and you could tell that he was gathering his thoughts and planning his words carefully.

"Are you being sarcastic?" he said maintaining, eye contact.

"No. I’m being your lawyer. And the strategy here is that you relied on standard medical procedures and that any conflicting data was a result of an honest mistake, not ethical misconduct. You have historically shown adherence to hospital policies—" he scoffed when you said that, "and you acted within the scope of your authority and professional standards."

He muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

He smirked. "That’s an interesting interpretation."

"Well, things aren’t always black and white, Dr. Abbot. You should know that better than anyone,"

"Jack’s fine, by the way," he grunted, his eyes never leaving yours.

You decided to break the tension with a bit of lighthearted honesty. "You know, Jack," you said, tilting your head with a small smile, "I feel like doctors usually prefer when people use their titles. Like, it’s a sign of respect or something."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "When Frank graduated from medical school, he was insufferable about it. Still is. He loves telling everyone he's Dr. Langdon."

Jack chuckled softly, a warm sound that didn’t quite fit the serious tone of the conversation. "Well, I only need my patients calling me that." Then his brows tilted slightly, his gaze shifting away, and he swallowed nervously. "Fuck, they may not be calling me that by the end of all of this."

"You’re not going to lose your medical license," you assured him. "That’s not going to happen."

He opened his mouth to speak, then annoyance flickered across his face.

"And, how do you know that?" Jack finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Because I’m damn good at my job. Didn’t Dr. Langdon—" you rolled your eyes, "tell you that."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"So, how do you know Langdon?"

You closed your eyes and thought back to the first frat party you ever attended, and the moment you came face-to-face with Frank for the first time.

"Since freshman year of college. Frank kind of… helped me out when one of his friends asked me to do a keg stand," you snickered.

"Well, did you do the keg stand?"

You couldn't help it, you giggled. That hadn't been at all what you were expecting to share about yourself. "No, I was too chicken shit." You admitted.

He lifted one shoulder. "Or maybe you were just smart,"

A few moments of awkward silence passed as you stared at each other. Your heart rate had slightly picked up now. You looked away while your fingers traced a pattern on the surface of the table.

Jesus, this man was good-looking.

"You know, I shouldn’t say this—" You swallowed tightly, "But, I wish more people were more willing to challenge the status quo," you whispered. "Kristi traveled from another state, likely due to restrictions, lack of resources, or limited access to reproductive health services. And you chose to prioritize Kristi’s autonomy and well-being. You helped a patient in a vulnerable position. That’s fucking brave."

As the words left your mouth, a subtle pause settled between you and Jack. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the weight of your admission lingering in the air.

His eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t speak, his tongue running over his bottom lip.

"The line between right and wrong often blurs. And sometimes, the hardest part is accepting that. It’s an uncomfortable reality. But—" you stopped yourself short and cleared your throat awkwardly before continuing, "you’re a good man."

Jack’s eyes burned holes into you. "I’m fucking not."

You frowned and pursed your lips. "You are."

Jack’s eyes searched yours, as if trying to decipher whether you were offering him sympathy, understanding, or perhaps a shared sense of the moral gray area you’d just acknowledged.

Count II: Ethical Misconduct and Medical Malpractice

A few months had passed since your initial consultation with Jack, and during that time, you had been meticulously building your case. You knew that a straightforward motion to dismiss on the grounds of insufficient evidence would likely be too weak—especially given the gravity of the allegations and the stakes involved. Instead, you completed a comprehensive investigation: interviewing hospital staff, reviewing medical records and policies, and securing expert testimony to support Jack and the hospital's claims.

Everything was going well… until it wasn’t.

After Dr. Collins interview, you realized that you needed to explore settlement options with the opposing counsel.

She disclosed that her fetal measurements did not match the measurements recorded by Jack.

This was new fucking information to you.

You had reviewed Dr. Robby’s ultrasound images and logs, which corresponded closely with Jack’s original notes—suggesting that Dr. Robby’s independent measurements aligned with the official data.

Yet, given Dr. Collins’ discrepancies, it strongly implied that Dr. Robby’s re-measurements were performed specifically to confirm or 'fit' the official reports that Jack had previously documented.

Which meant that Dr. Robby had committed an illegal act.

If this went to trial—he and Dr. Collins would be put on the stand.

And, lying under oath just wasn’t a fucking option.

So, you were engaging in negotiations with opposing counsel aimed at resolving the dispute amicably, seeking to avoid the uncertainties of a courtroom.

Opposing counsel was being downright stubborn, refusing to budge on the settlement and insisting they were ready to take this to trial. Their refusal to consider a reasonable resolution was making your stomach knot up—every day that dragged on felt like walking a tightrope, and you were starting to feel the weight of the stress piling up.

Honestly, you were fucking overwhelmed.

You had never cared this much about the outcome of a case before.

Why did this one matter to you so much?

The pressure to handle this delicately, to avoid a disastrous courtroom showdown, was getting to you. So, you found yourself at a bar after work, just trying to drown out the chaos for a little while. Frank was there, chatting away, asking questions about the case—probably trying to get a sense of what was really going on. You had to remind him, firmly, that you couldn’t tell him anything.

You couldn’t tell Frank that his mentor had committed a crime, too.

Fuck.

So, it didn’t take long before you were back to pounding back drinks and stressing over what the hell was going to happen next.

"Abby wants a Birkin for her birthday," Frank told you, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

A smile tugged at your lips. "Birkin bags have an average annual increase in value of 14.2%, outperforming the S&P 500."

He sighed. "I could buy a small island with that kind of money, or at least a really nice used car."

You glanced at your watch, the faint glow of the dim bar light reflecting off the face. It was already nearing 11:00 PM. You grimaced slightly, realizing you had an early meeting tomorrow, and the last thing you needed was to drag yourself into the office exhausted.

"Alright, dude," you said, pushing your chair back and gathering your purse. "I should probably head out. Got an early start tomorrow."

You reached for your wallet, sliding a few bills across the table to cover both your drinks. "On me tonight. You need to save up for a Birkin," you teased.

He grinned as you gathered your things. "You good? You don’t usually drink this much."

"I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all. Nothing to worry about," you quickly waved him off, a little too casually.

You didn’t feel drunk.

Tipsy at most.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he nodded and gave you a quick hug. "See you at Tanner’s birthday this weekend, then?"

"Definitely," you replied, forcing a smile. 

As you stepped out of the bar, the cool night air hit you, and you instinctively reached into your purse for your phone to order an Uber. The city hummed softly around you—distant car horns, footsteps on the sidewalk, the faint glow of streetlights. You were just about to tap your screen when a voice stopped you, and you heard your name.

You blinked, turning toward the sound. Standing a few feet away was Jack. He was dressed in his black scrubs.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, a little surprised to see him here, especially at this hour. "Jack," you said, "What are you doing here?"

He didn’t answer you.

Instead, he took a slow, steady step closer, his tone even and calm. "How’re you getting home?"

You gestured to your phone. "Uber. I’m just waiting for the ride."

He studied you for a beat.

"I’ll drop you off."

"No, that’s okay. I’ve got it—"

He gently raised his hand, cutting you off.

"Let me take you home," he said softly but firmly.

You hesitated, glancing at his scrubs, then back at him. "You just got off—"

Jack reached out, his hand taking yours.

His grip was firm but not aggressive.

It was reassuring.

His eyes met yours. "Let’s go."

Without waiting for a response, he motioned with his head toward his car—a sleek, clean vehicle parked just a few feet away. He was already walking ahead. When you followed, he opened the passenger door smoothly and gestured for you to get in.

"Thanks," you mumbled, climbing into the seat.

Jack closed the door gently, then moved around to the driver’s side with a composed grace. He slid into his seat, his eyes already focused on the road ahead. As he started the car, he looked over with a slight, smirk. "So, where do you live?"

You gave him your address.

As Jack navigated the car through the dark streets, he cleared his throat softly, a subtle but deliberate sound that drew your attention. He glanced over briefly, his eyes flickering with a hint of hesitance before he spoke.

"You look nice," he said. There was a pause, and then he added. "Were you on a date?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A slow, genuine laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. "A date?" you echoed, shaking your head with a chuckle. "Come on, Jack. I don’t really have a life like that. How would I even find the time?"

You looked down at your outfit—business professional, as always—your blazer, crisp blouse, and tailored skirt. For a moment, a wave of insecurity washed over you.

Did he think you dressed like this for dates?

Or was it just habit?

You couldn’t help but wonder if he thought you were boring.

Predictable even.

Your cheeks warmed slightly as you shifted in your seat, your eyes briefly dropping to your clothes again. Maybe he thought someone like you was the kind of person who’d wear this kind of outfit out on a romantic evening.

Or maybe he just thought you never had fun.

Why did you care what he thought?

"I was with Frank."

Jack scratched his chin, his gaze scanning in front of him.

"Langdon's been pretty concerned about you," Jack said softly, glancing over. "He told me you’re up for partner. Said he thinks you’re running yourself into the ground."

"What?" you snapped, a surge of anger rising. "He told you that?"

"Yeah. He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. You’ve been pushing too hard, working crazy hours, not taking care of yourself."

A flicker of bitterness crept into your chest as Jack’s words sank in. His concern sounded genuine, but it felt hypocritical coming from him—especially knowing how often Jack worked long, grueling hours. He was always at the hospital, late into the night, running on empty, just like you.

Your jaw tightened. You feel a flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or frustration. "So that’s your way of saying I look like shit?" Your voice cracked slightly, bitter. "What, you think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know I’m burning out?"

His eyes widened in alarm. "That’s not what I’m saying—"

You cut him off sharply, voice rising. "Then what the hell are you saying? Because I know what’s running me into the ground. This fucking case. Because Frank tells me about the shit you’ve been doing recently in the OR—bending rules, cutting corners, doing whatever the fuck like some arrogant man. I just don’t get it. Why? You literally have a fucking lawsuit on your hands."

He pulled the car to a stop in front of your house. The engine idled as he turned to face you fully. "Look—"

"No," you cut him off again, voice sharp. "You don’t get it. You’re worried about me? Well, when you’re deciding to play 'rebel cowboy', it just makes my job harder. If this case goes to trial, they are going to analyze everything you’ve done. They will scrutinize everything—everything that happened before Kristi’s case and everything that came after. They’ll dig up every mistake, every misstep, every questionable decision, in an attempt to find anything they can use to disqualify you or pin something on you. They won’t stop until they’ve torn apart your record and left you with nothing. So right now, you need to be doing everything strictly by the fucking book."

You were breathing heavily.

Your head was throbbing.

Your chest ached.

Your throat felt tight.

His brows knit together like he was in pain, and it broke your heart a little. "Look—if you’re telling me to stop being a doctor, I can’t do that."

"That’s not what I’m asking. I’m telling you, there’s a way to push back against the system, to challenge it, while still respecting authority and the law and—"

He scoffed, frustration boiling over. "That’s bullshit. You either follow the rules or you don’t—there’s no in-between." His voice was sharp, angry now. "You think the system cares about fairness? About justice? All they care about is making sure they win—by any means necessary. Just last week, I had to tell two parents that their insurance wouldn't cover the surgery their daughter needs to stay alive. A simple procedure that could save her life, but the hospital won’t do it pro bono, and the insurance company refuses to pay."

Jack’s eyes suddenly grew glossy, the shimmer of unshed tears gathering at the edges but never spilling over. His gaze flicked away for a moment, as if he couldn’t bear to meet yours fully. Then, voice trembling with quiet despair, he whispered, "That little girl is going to die. And I can’t fucking do anything about it."

He paused, swallowing hard. "So…if sometimes I 'bend a rule' or 'cut a corner' when I can, it’s because I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut.

Jack was a man who’d weathered storms and still stood tall.

"I’m sorry," you said after a long, tense moment. "I’ve been drinking tonight. My outburst was totally uncalled for."

"Don’t apologize," he said while licking his bottom lip. "Even though, I have to admit, there's something about seeing you all riled up that’s really entertaining," he said with a playful tone, causing your cheeks to flare with heat.

"Well, I’m glad you find this side of me entertaining. Maybe I’ll have to show you more of it sometime," you replied with a sly smile.

"I would love that," he breathed. His expression suddenly was unreadable, his eyes dark and intense. "Listen, if this goes to trial—then it goes to trial. I’ve made my peace with that. I did what I did, and I would do it all over again."

"Aren’t you nervous at all?"

You looked into Jack’s eyes, a mixture of curiosity and vulnerability flickering across your face.

He smirked, leaning in just a little closer, his hand lightly brushing against your arm. His voice was confident but teasing. "No," he replied with a grin. "I’ve got a damn good lawyer, haven’t you heard?"

You smiled back, a little shy but flattered by his words. He grinned wider, leaning even closer, his hand now gently pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering briefly against your cheek, and he looked like he was about to kiss you.

But just as that moment seemed to tip toward something more intimate, a wave of clarity washed over you. Your senses sharpened, and reality snapped into focus. You gently placed your hands on his shoulders, your breath catching in your throat as you steadied yourself.

"Wait," you whispered, your voice filled with longing yet tinged with regret. Your eyes searched his, pleading silently for him to understand. "We can’t do this. You’re my client."

He paused, a flicker of disappointment passing over his face. His hand slowly rose, fingers gently clasping yours, "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, voice heavy with frustration, as if he too knew that crossing this line was dangerous.

He breathed roughly, lifting one of his hands to your cheek. "You know at first, when Robby told me Langdon had a recommendation for a lawyer, I didn’t think much of it. Just another name to add to the list. But then you walked into the room."

He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips as he remembered.

"The moment you stepped in, I swear, I thought, god, who is that beautiful woman? There was something about you—how you carried yourself, the way you spoke with confidence but also kindness."

His eyes softened, and he pinched your chin between his fingers.

"And I realized it was more than just beauty. You’re incredibly smart—sharp as a fucking blade. You listen, you think, and you don’t just speak to fill the silence. The hospital board, they were visibly intimidated by you. Their egos—mostly male, of course—couldn’t handle someone like you challenging them, questioning everything. They tried to keep you at bay, but you just pushed through, unshaken."

His voice grew warmer.

"You know, it might sound crazy, but one of the reasons I don’t regret what I did—what I had to do—is because it led me to you. And honestly? That’s a fucking privilege. Just having you in my life, even amidst the chaos and the mess, it means more than I can put into words."

You felt him hum, the sound rumbling against his broad chest. "You’re not just someone I hired. You’re someone I want to get to know better. Someone I want to trust with everything. And I hope I get that chance one day."

Then he was silent.

His breath slowing, chest rising.

It was the nicest thing somebody had ever said to you.

And you knew he meant it. Every single word.

It was the first time you had ever seen him look truly vulnerable—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that made you want to kiss every inch of him.

Even though you didn’t say a word in response.

You could feel the weight of his words lingering between you.

Your silence wasn’t indifference.

It was an acknowledgment.

A silent understanding that his words had reached you deeply. 

You traced his jaw with your finger, your touch delicate and loving, and his muscles tensed like he was bracing for something catastrophic.

You leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot."

Jack’s eyes lingered on you. He nodded softly, a small, genuine smile curling his lips. "Goodnight, counselor,"

You stepped out of the car, the cool night air brushing against your skin. As you closed the door behind you, you hesitated for a moment, then turned back toward him.

Your eyes met his across the distance. The sight of his flushed face and heated stare had you feeling something down there, and it took every ounce of strength you had to not invite him inside.

"For the record," you called softly. "I want to get to know you better, too."

A slow, hopeful smile spread across Jack’s face as he watched you walk inside your home.

Count III: Breach of Medical Duty and Standard of Care

The room was tense.

Eloise Wheeler and her lawyer, Robert, sat stiffly around a long conference table at the hospital.

Jack was right there beside you.

Quiet but alert, like a coiled spring.

Frank had been correct—in the beginning, the hospital board was trying to throw Jack under the bus. They fucking sucked. You reminded them that the hospital was being sued for vicarious liability. That meant, at the end of the day, the hospital was responsible for Jack’s actions. So, instead of trying to distance themselves from him, they needed to support him. Because if they didn’t, they were only hurting themselves. The allegations were about more than just data manipulation. They were also about the health and emotional well-being of Kristi.

"Objection," Robert said, cutting in, voice a little too quick. "That’s irrelevant to this case."

You shot him a sharp look, cutting him off before he could get any more snippy. "With all due respect, Robert, what’s relevant is the way Kristi’s health risks aren’t being communicated. You refuse to let us speak directly to Kristi or consult independent medical experts who can testify about her current condition. That’s telling—it’s retaliation, plain and simple. This isn’t about Kristi’s health; it’s about punishing Dr. Abbot."

Robert's eyes narrowed slightly, and his tone hardened. "Kristi hasn't been seen because she's choosing to keep her distance. She’s a minor, and she's under a lot of emotional distress right now, and I think we should respect her privacy."

Jack stared straight ahead, patiently waiting for the argument to settle.

"You don’t want us to speak with her because you know she’ll say that Dr. Abbot and this hospital did nothing wrong." You turned directly to Eloise. "Eloise, I have to ask—what is your end goal here? You say you’re concerned about your daughter’s well-being? Yet, you’re blocking access to unbiased medical opinions. Why? Is it because acknowledging that Kristi is healthy, alive, and safe, because this hospital performed a procedure you approved, undermines your narrative of misconduct?"

Before Eloise could respond, Robert quickly raised his hand, signaling her to hold back. "Eloise, I advise you not to respond," he said sharply.

"This case isn’t about medical malpractice—it’s about control… and regret," you pressed on.

Eloise’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to respond. "My concern is for my daughter’s well-being. We’re concerned about possible risks—"

You quickly interrupted. "Risks that you refuse to fully understand or disclose. Kristi made her choice, and Dr. Abbot followed the standard protocols designed to safeguard her. Unsafe abortions happen across this country every day—women seek them, sometimes in dangerous, unregulated environments. Kristi trusted this hospital, trusted her doctors, and she made her decision with your consent. Now, you want to tear Dr. Abbot down because you’re unhappy with her choice?"

Eloise finally broke.

Shouting at Jack with raw emotion.

"I want my grandchild back!"

The room plunged into an unsettling silence.

Her words hanging heavily in the air.

For a moment, not a single sound broke the stillness, and everyone in the room seemed to freeze.

Even Jack.

His gaze was fixed on Eloise as if trying to process what she’d just said.

Robert’s eyes flicked to hers, a sharp warning flashing in his gaze—she had said too much. He quickly straightened, standing up abruptly. Gathering his papers, he cleared his throat, his tone firm but tinged with urgency.

"Eloise, that’s enough. Don’t say anything else." Robert said, voice steady but commanding. "We’re done here. We’re leaving," signaling them to gather their things. Without waiting for further discussion, he turned and strode swiftly toward the exit.

Jack slowly pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on Eloise as she hesitated in the doorway. With a quiet, expression, he looked at her and softly said, "I'm sorry."

Eloise, her cheeks streaked with tears, reached up with trembling fingers to wipe them away.

Then she simply nodded once and exited the room without a word.

You watched Jack carefully, then rose to your feet as well. He turned toward you, concern shadowing his face. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.

You paused for a moment before replying, "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Frustration edged into your voice as you continued, "Also, why did you apologize? Apologizing shows fault."

He took a slow step forward.

"Just because I don’t agree with her," he said, "doesn’t mean she isn’t hurting. She’s allowed to feel what she feels. Sometimes, the most honest thing we can do is just acknowledge that people are hurting, even if we see things differently."

You felt a strange flutter in your chest.

The sudden quickening of your heartbeat caught you off guard.

He was so genuine.  

Unguarded.

You just stood there, realizing how rare and precious that kind of understanding truly was.

His hand twitched subtly, a telltale sign that he was holding himself back from acting on an impulse—perhaps from reaching out, touching your arm, or closing the space between you.

"Want to grab lunch?" he asked.

You glanced at your watch. “I wish I could, but I’ve got to get back to the office.”

He nodded.

But it was clear he was disappointed.

It had been a few weeks since he dropped you off after what almost happened. You hadn’t intended to be standoffish. But you had been less frequent in stopping by the hospital, fewer phone calls, less of the casual contact that once felt so natural. It was just... easier to keep a bit of distance.

That night, after he almost kissed you, you did something you honestly hadn’t done in a while. You laid in bed and dipped two fingers inside of you as you touched yourself and circled your clit. You fell off the edge quickly because you imagined his fingers inside of you. Coming down from your orgasm, you realized that your feelings for Jack were dangerous.

Engaging in any form of sexual activity with a client was a violation of professional conduct.

His unrelenting gaze seemed to size you up. "Haven’t seen you in a while."

"I’ve been busy," you said, looking down at your shoes, unable to look him in the eye

He clicked his tongue, frustration flashing in his expression. "You’ve been avoiding me."

You looked up and were overwhelmed by his stare.

Blood pounded in your ears. "I’ve just been busy," you repeated.

His expression hardened, anger flashing in his eyes. "Bullshit."

He slowly closed the distance between you. His tall frame loomed over yours, each step deliberate, almost predatory. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air thickening with unspoken tension.

You could barely breathe. You needed to say something, but unfortunately, he spoke first. "Give in already."

His face was just inches from yours now.

You hesitated, your breath hitching as your mind screamed at you to resist, to keep your professionalism intact. You knew if you did what you wanted, there would be no going back. But the pull was undeniable, and your lips parted slightly as you considered his words. Your body tensed, then relaxed just a fraction.

"Just give in," Jack pleaded, his eyes dark pools of lust. "It’ll feel good."

You opened your mouth to respond—maybe to push back, maybe to accept—but suddenly, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the charged atmosphere.

You heard your name as the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was the hospital’s legal counsel, a composed figure in a tailored suit, clipboard in hand. "How did it go?"

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then quickly composed yourself. "It went well," you said, clearing your throat. "I think there’s a very good chance we can negotiate a settlement after today's events. The hospital and Dr. Abbot’s position is strong, and I believe we’re on the verge of resolving this without going to trial."

The legal counsel nodded, extending a hand. "Good to hear. I’ll let the hospital chair know. Thanks for the update."

You shook his hand briefly, then looked around, realizing Jack had already stepped back from you, his posture reverting to neutral, almost as if nothing had happened. You caught a fleeting glimpse of the door closing behind the legal counsel as Jack exited the conference room without looking at you.

You drove to work with hot tears finally trailing down your cheeks.

You couldn't shake the ache of frustration that settled deep in your chest.

It felt so unfair.

Why him?

Why Jack Abbot, with his intense eyes and his dangerous charm?

You hated how easily you’d been drawn in, how your mind replayed his words, his touch, as if they’d etched themselves into your memory with cruel precision.

You wondered why he couldn’t just be some guy you met at a bar.

Someone ordinary.

Why couldn’t he be a stranger in a crowded room, someone you wouldn't have to analyze, second-guess, or worry about?

He was chaos and complication.

You remembered your mother once telling you that sometimes feelings could sprout in the most unlikely, inappropriate places.

And no matter how much you wished it, you couldn’t unfeel what had already taken root.

You stepped out of your car, your heels clicking softly against the pavement as you headed toward the building. Going up the elevator, you pressed the button and waited briefly, then greeted the janitor along the way with a friendly smile. Upon reaching your floor, you stepped out and made your way down the corridor, and pushed open the door to your office.

Inside, you settled into your chair, sighed deeply, rubbing your temples as you scrolled through the latest updates on your cases. As you sat amidst the clutter of papers and flickering screen, your mind drifted to another case that had been weighing on you all day—you needed to check in with Alex, your junior associate on the case.

Frowning slightly, you reached for my phone and pulled up his contact, then tapped the message: Hey, just wanted to confirm you filed the paperwork for the Johnson case. Let me know when it's done.

A few moments later, your phone buzzed with a reply from Alex: Yes, I submitted the paperwork this morning. All set on my end.

You read the message and nodded slightly, feeling a bit of relief. You quickly typed back: Thanks, appreciate it.

With that confirmed, you turned your attention to the upcoming court prep for another case. You pulled out the relevant files, spread them out on your desk, and began reviewing your notes.

A few hours later, the office was almost deserted. The only sound was the quiet tapping of your fingers on the keyboard. Just as you were about to wrap up, there was a soft knock on your door. You looked up, blinking tiredly.

"Come in," you called out.

The door opened, and your boss, stepped in. He was also the partner on Jack’s case, and he was holding a piece of paper in his hand. His face was serious but controlled.

"Hey," he began. "I know it’s late, but I wanted to let you know—Wheeler’s lawyer just faxed over something. Thought you’d want to see it before you headed out."

You sat up straighter. "A fax? Who even faxes anything anymore?"

He smirked faintly. "Apparently, some people still do. Anyway, you probably want to look at this."

He handed you the piece of paper. You took it, glanced at the top—your eyes narrowed as you read the hurriedly typed heading. Then, you unfolded it and started reading, your brow furrowing deeper with every line.

"Holy fucking shit," you whispered under your breath.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

If you are interested in part 2, comment below, and I’ll tag you! Feel free to reblog your thots 😘

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Writing Worksheets: Magic & Rituals

MAGIC

The People

What are people called who practice it?

Is everyone born with it?

Through ritual or training?

Is it considered "normal"?

Is everyone born with an equal share of it?

How long does it take to acquire?

Is there a magical elite?

Does it manifest from birth?

Why do people wish to acquire it?

Does it change in any way depending on…

Age?

Race?

Or gender?

Mechanics

How is it summoned?

Does it require additional resources?

Are there limits to its use?

Why is it necessary to the world?

What is its source?

What are the consequences of using it?

Is there a limited amount of it in the world?

Are there dangers to using it?

Does it change according to location?

What is it called?

What does it make easier?

What does it make more difficult?

The World

Has it always been in the world?

What events led to its discovery?

What lore has grown up around its use?

Why is it considered magical?

Is it "good" or "evil" or both?

Are there institutions that regulate its use?

What objects or symbols are associated with it?

Does it have a spiritual aspect?

How does it shift the balance of power?

How does it influence politics?

How does it influence human relationships?

How does it influence the environment?

RITES & RITUALS

Rite—a ceremonial act or action Ritual—the established form for a ceremony

Name of rite or ritual:

What transition does this rite or ritual mark?

Is it difficult or painful?

Who undergoes the transformation?

Is the rite or ritual mandatory?

What is the nature of this rite or ritual?

Is it public or private?

Is it dangerous?

Does it involve a sacrifice?

Is there a prize?

What happens if it succeeds?

What happens if it fails?

Who officiates?

Where does it take place?

How long does it last?

Is there a formal ceremony?

Does it change the individual's status in society?

Is it possible to distinguish those who have passed?

Source ⚜ More: On Fantasy Writing References: Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ Worldbuilding

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black coffee, no sugar (ja)

summary: when your son wants a slightly more expensive birthday present, you pull a double to earn the extra cash, but you're stuck working with his dad too.

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader

word count: 4.8k

warnings: age gap (reader - 30s/jack - late 40s), the reader wears glasses but there are no other descriptions of how the reader looks, exes-ish (there's feelings there somewhere but not spoken about), boy dad!jack, co-parenting, jack being soft for the reader in his own little way, probably incorrect medical jargon because i make people feel better with food for a living - i am not a doctor/nurse, mentions of patient loss and off page death, one mention of a past sexual encounter between the reader and jack, food poisoning (sorry shen), like one joke about jack being older, not sure if that's everything but let me know

a/n: i had an idea and i tried my best to write it....but hey, look, my first abbot fic. i was hooked from the minute he said 'don't worry, you'll get there soon enough,' to mel. i don't like the ending but honestly didn't know how i wanted this to end. do we want more of these two??? feedback is always appreciated

6:28 PM

Heather stretches her arms, fingers wiggling as she unfurls her hands. “I can't wait to get home to my bed,” she says, and the sentiment is shared by the few nurses around you. You, however, had your head resting on your arm, trying your best to beat off the impending fatigue, a patient’s record - Mr Hernandez - up on the screen, waiting to be completed. “What about you?” She looks down, sharing the same tired expression.

“I wish,” you sit up, shoulders rolling back, “Shen's still out with food poisoning.” Bad sushi. You and Jack had laughed about it until your sides had hurt, you bent over, tucked into the warmth of his side, your couch becoming Jack's temporary bed for a quick nap, after swinging by that morning to see Auggie.

“You're pulling a double?” Her voice pulls you away from the warm memory, your body growing quickly cold as the sounds of heart monitors, the distant carnage of the overcrowded waiting room, and the chaos happening in Trauma 1 pounds your ears.

“I need the hours,” you mumble, inputting Mr Hernandez's last check up results. You tuck your fingers under your glasses and rub your eyes. A quick nap in an on-call room would be enough to get you through the night shift. And maybe a cup of coffee, or three. “Auggie’s already been with my mom all day, so she’s gonna take him tonight. It’s all sorted.”

Her arms fold. “And you're sure you want to work with Abbot?”

“You make it sound like we can't play nice.”

Trinity pops up beside Heather, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, making you both jump. “Wait,” she looks down at you, “the nurses were telling the truth about you and Doctor Abbot?”

Princess, Donnie and a young blonde named Anna all dart in different directions, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your hard stare. It was just as good as Jack's. Anna turns to her computer, pretending to read a chart. Princess had ducked behind a curtain, checking in on a patient. And Donnie made a break from the staff room. You shake your head, turning your lips up into a partial smile.

“So?” Trinity was still waiting for an answer. Her smile can only be described as wicked. “What's the story? Messy breakup? Did one of you cheat?”

“Dr Santos!” Heather clears her throat.

“Oh, come on,” Trinity sighs, slapping her hands down on the top. Heather glares hard at her and she turns and walks away, grumbling something under her breath.

“You got that mom stare down perfectly, by the way,” you log off and groan as you unfold from the chair, swearing you could hear at least three different joints cracking as you stretch.

She sighs. “Just missing the important thing.”

“You can have Auggie.”

“He's a good kid, but no thanks,” she shakes her head, turning with you as you take a steady walk through the Pitt, “it's like being around a miniature Abbot but pumped with aquarium facts.” You snort, but she was right. Loose, dark curls. The same eyes, hidden behind red framed glasses. Grumpy in the morning, chaos at night. Two perfect sides of the same coin. “But, seriously, you know he'll try to make you go home, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do,” you throw her a knowing smile and she rolls her eyes, “and it’ll be fun to tell him no.”

7:45 PM

A-U-G-G-I-E. You trace your thumb over each individual bead, the black lettering a little chipped from constantly wearing it. It was an amalgamation of reds and blues; for Spiderman, your five year old had mumbled, when you asked what colours he was going to use to make it.

“Mommy, are you listening?” Auggie's voice pulls you back to reality.

“Of course, bud.” You swap your phone between your hands, pressing it to your left ear. “Grandma took you to the aquarium, yeah?”

“Yep!” He pops the p. “The crabs were my favourite; they had a king crab, a snow crab, and spider crabs…” His words become a jumbled mess as he excitedly lists off each species of crab, probably remembering them all in less than five minutes, making sure he and your mom didn't move on to the next thing until he knew them all.

“The crabs were your favourite? Not the jellyfish?” He'd been bombarding you with jellyfish facts that morning before your mom came to pick him up.

“They were cool but they weren't as cool as the crabs,” Auggie mumbles, voice muffled like he had just put something in his mouth. Probably his thumb. He always chewed on it when he was getting tired. “Grandma got me a new book,” he tells you, “it's all about sharks!”

“Mom?” You sigh, dropping your head into your hand. This kid had everyone wrapped around his little finger. If it wasn't your mom buying him a gift every weekend they spent together, it was Dana sneaking him sweet treats, Robby giving him piggyback rides around the Pitt, or Jack agreeing that he could have a puppy.

“What?” Your mom dismisses you. “I can't say no to this gorgeous face!” Auggie giggles. “It's one of his birthday presents.”

“One?” You ask, arching your eyebrows. “How many are you buying him?”

“As many as the kid wants.”

“Well, there goes my inheritance,” you joke.

Auggie yarns down the phone. “When are you coming home, Mommy?”

A spear of guilt lodges itself beside your heart. There was still time. You could go home, not get yourself involved in any more cases, leave the next twelve hours to the night shift. But Auggie wanted a specific bike for his birthday and you would give anything to see his face light up in six weeks. That would be worth the price tag and the extra hours.

“I'm sorry, bud,” you sigh, already picturing the droop of his mouth. “There's a lot of sick people who need mommy's help tonight, but you and Grandma are gonna have a sleepover. That sounds like fun, right?”

“Are you helping them with Daddy?”

You hum, nodding your head to no one. “I will. Want me to say hi for you?”

“Please!”

“Why don't you go clean up and get ready for bed?” Your mom's voice comes from the other end. “Huh, wait, not so fast, little man. Say goodnight to Mommy.”

“Goodnight, Mommy!” Auggie shouts, and you smile to yourself, listening to his footsteps hurrying away from the phone.

“I'm sorry about this,” you mumble, shoulders sagging as you slump back against the wall.

“Don't apologise for giving me more time with my grandbaby, but you know, sweetie, August will be fine with any red bike.”

“I know, but remember the birthday present you got me when I was his age?”

“Yeah, I remember.” It was a beautifully handcrafted, Victorian style dollhouse, with powered blue walls, white accents and three floors. You were obsessed with it. That was until your baby cousin got jealous one day and broke two of the windows. “Your father worked more hours than he should've to save up for it, but it was worth it seeing that look on your face.”

“I want that with Auggie, Mom.”

“So why not ask Jack-”

“No, Mom,” you cut her off, nudging your glasses back up your nose, “I’m not asking Jack for money.”

“You're stubborn, just like your father,” she laughs, and you could only agree.

Saying goodbye, you pocket your phone, fix your scrubs, and step out of the stairwell and back into the Pitt. It was no calmer than you had left it, the patient in 19 was still screaming, despite already being given something to help with the pain, an elderly man waiting on a bed upstairs had been moved into the hallway, and Jack's intense stare met you from the opposite side of the room, like a hawk watching its prey. It would've made anyone else crumble, but not you. You stare back with the same intensity and wait for him to make the first move.

“What are you still doing here?”

“Working,” you mumble, looking up to check the board. Mr Singh in 13 could be discharged and told to come back in the morning if the pain in his stomach persisted, freeing up a bed. “The same as you.”

“But I haven't already just done a twelve hour shift,” Jack fires back, attempting to take the pad from you. You jerk your arm, giving him the same look you would give Auggie when he refuses to eat his greens. He sighs and slips his hand into his left front pocket. “What are you doing?”

“Discharing Mr Singh.”

9:57 PM

You rap your knuckles softly on the door, your runaway teen admitted this afternoon looking up from her spot on the gurney. One of the nurses had managed to get her to change into some clean clothes, but a quick search of her pockets came up with nothing. You had her first name, Cassie, but no idea where she had come from, or how long she had been unhoused. Longer than you could probably imagine.

“How are you doing, kid?” You slip your hands into your pockets, pulling out a granola bar. It wasn't much but hopefully an incentive to get her to trust. “Hungry?”

She lowers her eyes.

“It's not much, I know, but if you think you can stomach some hospital food, I can get you a sandwich.”

She tucks a messy strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I don't like tuna,” she whispers, any quieter and you would've missed.

“Got it.” You smile. “No tuna.”

“What's her story?” Jack asks, waiting to catch you as you leave. He was leant up against the nurses’ station, arms folded, a to-go coffee cup sitting on the counter.

“You're like a bad smell.” His lips twitch, leaning into you as you saddle up next to him. His cologne was warm and earthy, like a hug you never knew you needed until it happened. “Cassie, fourteen, possibly older, came in this afternoon after she was found unconscious on a park bench.”

“Social services?”

“She wouldn't say much to Kiara.”

“What about missing persons?” You shake your head. “What are you thinking?”

“Foster kid, maybe,” you glance up out of the corner of your eyes. He was already looking at you, eyes intense but with a softness around the edges. “We've had a few cases come in before of kids running away from group homes, found sleeping rough in parks and the usual spots for the unhoused. All similar to Cassie.”

You shrug and nudge your glasses back up your nose. Earning Cassie's trust was more important to you. And these were the type of cases you couldn't jump to conclusions with. Doing so might just be the difference between Cassie going home to a bed and hot meals, and spending another night on the street.

“Keep her overnight and contact someone in the morning to see if they can identify her?” Jack suggests and you agree, nodding your head, before letting it fall against his shoulder. The left side of his mouth hitches and he reaches for the cup. “Here.”

“Black, no sugar?” You tiredly mumble.

“Always.” You take a sip and wince. Jack snorts. “It's not that bad.”

“This,” you gesture to the cup, “is disgusting.”

You take another sip. “And yet you're still drinking it.”

"It's this or crash in the break room.”

Jack unfolds his arms, the backs of his fingers brushing against your side, gooseflesh prickling your arms. “You could just go home.”

“Mateo’s pulling a double. You're not on his ass about it,” you grumble, drinking more coffee.

He leans down, his left temple pressing into your hair, fingers stretching to softly grasp at your scrubs. “Can I let you in on a secret? I don't care about Mateo the same way I care about you.” You turn your head deeper into his shoulder but Jack feels the smile you're trying to hide. His expression stays neutral, successfully hiding his own, but his chest is alive with a warm gooey goodness. “At least tell me you took a proper break?”

“I tried.”

You lift your head, absentmindedly using his shoulder to nudge your glasses up as you pull away. That had probably been enough to give the nurses something new to gossip about in the break room. You'd probably hear about it from Dana or Perlah when you return on Tuesday, followed by Heather pulling you to the side, asking you if there had suddenly been a change in yours and Jack's ‘relationship.’ Which was a no.

“Go take a twenty minute break.”

“Not a chance,” you step away from the nurses' station, his to-go cup still clutched in your hand, “I have to get Cassie some sandwiches, Mr Johnson's blood work is back, and…” You take a sip of his coffee. “...I need to add about five packets of sugar to this.”

“Do not tarnish my coffee with sugar!” Jack snorts as you stick your fingers in your ears, pretending not to hear him. At least now he knew who taught it to Auggie.

00:39 AM

“How are we doing, Mrs Simmons?”

“Gloria, please,” Mrs Simmons insists, a friendly smile beckoning you forward into an atmosphere of warmth. “I keep telling this one the same,” she points to Ellis, “but she won't listen.”

Ellis looks over her shoulder, Mrs Simmons's chart becoming a secondary focus. “Thought I saw you whizzing about earlier.” She offers you her friendliest smile, which isn't much, but you were one of the few to ever see it. “Pulling a double?”

“Need the money,” you simply tell her, shrugging your shoulders. “Auggie's got expensive taste.”

“Birthday present?” You nod. “Auggie's his kid too, remember? Get him to pay for some of it.”

“That's the thing, he would,” you glance at Mrs Simmons, who'd be flicking her eyes between you and Ellis, listening to every word, “but let's talk about this later.” Ellis nods and turns her attention back to the patient's record. “Gloria?”

“I'm okay,” she answers, folding her hands in front of herself. “I'd better in my own bed though. Can't I go home and come back later?”

“Unfortunately not, Mrs Simmons,” Ellis says looking up for a beat.

“How long on a bed being available upstairs?” Ellis shrugs.

They had the space upstairs for more beds. It wasn't a secret. There was an empty floor, ready to be filled with beds and nurses. But refusing to hire the staff meant more patients were waiting hours, if not days, for a space to open up. The lives of patients were being gambled with because those in charge refused to put the money where it was needed, and nothing made you more angry.

You force it down, the bubbles of frustration popping as you take a breath, calming yourself. Mrs Simmons didn't need to hear a lecture about the ways the system was failing those in need.

“Are you sure there's no one we can call?” You ask for the second time that night. “A husband? Children? Even just a friend?”

“I'm old, sweetie, most of my friends are either dead or close to being dead.” You awkwardly laugh, her bluntness surprising you. “My husband too.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” you offer comfort and she accepts it with a kind smile. “What about children?”

“Just my son,” she quickly shakes her head, “but he lives in Italy now. It's just me, dear.”

You meet Ellis’s gaze. “What about leaving him a voicemail?” She asks, mirroring your stance on the opposite side of Gloria. “I'm sure your son would want to know you're in the hospital.” Gloria nods, unhappy to be defeated. “Good.”

“So, who's the dreamboat?” Gloria points and you follow her finger until it stops at Jack and Mateo. “Not the pretty one, the one on the left.”

“Dr Abbot,” you answer, ignoring Ellis and her smirk.

“I saw you two earlier.”

Ellis's eyebrows meet her hairline. “Oh?”

You look down at your pad, skimming your eyes over Gloria's notes. “Still keeping an eye on everyone?”

She shrugs. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Nurse?” Ellis asks.

“Thirty five years,” she says with pride, eyes brightening. “Looked pretty cozy, you and Doctor Dreamboat. What's the story?”

“No story-”

Ellis barks a sharp laugh. “Oh, there's a story there, alright,” she cuts in, the edges of her lips curving upwards. “Or was Auggie just an immaculate conception?”

“Either way, it's in the past,” you say tightly, and brush a hand down the front of your scrubs. “Don't you have other patients to see, Dr Ellis?” You didn't make it a habit to air out your dirty laundry to all your patients, and Ellis might just do so if you let her stay much longer. “I think there's a case of food poisoning with your name on it.”

“Who is it? Shen?” She teases, making her exit, giving Gloria a sharp nod.

“Didn't look like it was in the past to me, sweetie,” Gloria continues, fixing her sheets. Eyes float to ‘Doctor Dreamboat,’ lingering for a beat, just long enough so he wouldn't feel you staring. Gloria watches you; her gaze not hard like Jack's, but soft with curiosity. “Have you told him how you feel?”

You suppress the laugh that bites at your throat, a flash of warmth hitting your cheeks, the memory feeling hot and fresh for something that was seven years ago. Heather's birthday, too many beers, and a recently broken heart had led you to a quick and awkward fumble in the back of Jack's truck. Your dress hadn't even been hitched up your waist when you had mumbled something about wanting to do this for a long time. Jack's agreement had been the thing that took it all from fantasy to reality.

“It's complicated,” you settle on, giving your patient a slight frown.

“That's love.”

3:55 AM

“You look different.” Bridget stirs sugar into her coffee, the nurse trying to work out for the last five minutes what was so different about you tonight. She leans back against the counter, narrowing her eyes and studying you. “Not pregnant again, are we?”

“I'm not sure immaculate conception is a real thing,” you nearly choke on your water, screwing the cap tight on your bottle. If you were lacking one thing in your life, it was definitely a sex life.

“She's wearing her glasses,” Jack mumbles, briefly looking up from the medical journal in front of him, occupying the space across from you at the table.

Bridget accepts his answer with no problem, sipping slowly on the hot coffee. It needed more sugar, and she grabbed another sugar packet, ripping it open.

“Coffee, anyone?” She offers to both of you. “Fresh pot.”

Jack taps the back of his finger against his cup, not the same one you walked off with earlier. “I'm good.”

“No, thanks,” you scrunch your nose, trying not to look too disgusted.

Jack closes the journal, marking the page with his thumb. “Why are you wearing your glasses?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him. He knew you didn't need to have a reason to wear them. “Lose your contacts again? You didn’t fall asleep in them, did you?”

“I did that one time.” You roll your eyes. “And no, I didn't lose them. I’m wearing them for Auggie.”

“Why?” Jack straightens up. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, not really.” You shake your head, trying to defuse the alarms ringing so clearly on his face. A sigh tumbles off your lips. “It's just the other day, he said he didn't want to wear his glasses anymore because they make him look stupid.”

He frowns. “He said that?”

“I think one of the other kids might have said it.”

“Whatever happened to kids just being nice?”

“Most kids are,” Bridget answers, taking the seat next to you, happy to rest her feet, even if it was just for a few seconds. You nod, agreeing with her. “But some just don't know how to play nice.”

“Doesn't explain why you're wearing yours.” Jack flicks his eyes away from Bridget, back to you.

“I'm thinking maybe if he sees me wearing mine, he won't feel as embarrassed to wear his,” you explain, unscrewing your water bottle. You take a sip, shrugging your shoulders. “It's not my most creative plan, but he didn't make a fuss when I asked him to put his glasses on this morning.”

Bridget touches your wrist. “It's a sweet plan, hun.”

“D’you think I should start wearing mine more around him?”

“You've already been mistaken for his grandpa once before,” you tease, giving his foot a soft tap under the table. “Might just happen a few more times if you go around in those old man frames.”

Jack grins, tapping your foot back.

“Y/L/N?” Mateo pokes his head around the break room door. You glance at him, eyebrows arching, not liking the droop of his mouth and the panic in his eyes. “It's your patient in 18. Mrs Simmons.”

4:48 AM

Jack finds you in your usual hiding spot, bottom of the stairwell, obscured by a potted plant, head in your hands, body hunched over to make yourself look as small as possible. It works. People pass by without acknowledging you. Or maybe they do, but decide not to. He approaches quietly, knees cracking as he lowers himself down to join you, a groan rolling easily off his mouth.

“It-”

“Don't,” you mumble, voice muffled and broken, “I don't want one of your motivational speeches right now.”

Jack snaps his jaw shut, lips pursed together tightly. He tips his head back, meeting the wall behind, and looks up at the ceiling.

He remembers the first time he found you here, two months into your residency, the first glimpse of what was really behind that stubborn exterior. Multiple deaths from a vehicle pile up would do that to you. There was no motivational speech that night. He just sat and waited with you until you were ready to go back to work.

A few months later, you would ask him why he did that, and he would just shrug and mumble something about it feeling right in the moment.

It's in this spot, that he found out you were pregnant. And for all of thirty seconds, his world came crumbling down.

He hadn't thought about a life that involved children. Not ever, not really. Was there even a justifiable reason to bring a kid into a word that couldn't get its shit together? His thirties mostly consisted of friends with kids asking when it was going to be his turn. It came down to him making the decision that if it didn't happen before he was forty, then it just wasn't meant to be. And then you stormed into the Pitt, all stubborn, not backing down from a challenge, matching his every step.

A drunken decision became his whole world and he wouldn't take it back.

“Can I talk yet?”

“No,” you gruff out, but know it won't be enough to stop him. He'll say whatever speech he has stored up and you would just have to listen.

“It wasn't your fault,” he says, voice soft, trying to comfort you. He hesitates, but reaches out, settling his hand on the back of your neck. “Come here,” is all he mumbles, cupping your head as you fall against his side. His thumb strokes slowly, making patterns in your hair. “It wasn't your fault,” he repeats, emphasizing each word.

Your fingers play with your scrubs, hands dropping from your face and into your lap. Jack tucks you beneath his chin, and you welcome his warmth and comfort in one big breath.

Your bottom lip wobbles. “It was.”

“No, it wasn't.” He trails his hand down your back and drapes his arm around your middle, holding you tighter. “You followed every procedure, this was just one of those things that snuck up on us.”

“It shouldn't have,” you disagree, always the hardest on yourself. “I should've caught it before it was too late. I'm better than that.”

“Look at me.” You do, chin turned upwards, sniffling as you fight to keep the tears away. “We're human, but we're not perfect, okay?” He dips his head, looking at you directly. “We try things. We make mistakes. We fall, we get hurt, but we always rise up again. This one thing doesn't make you a bad doctor. How many mistakes have you made with Auggie? Doesn't make you a bad mom doesn't it now?” His thumb brushes away the first tear, calloused pad rough against your cheek. “You're a damn good doctor. I'd tell you if I thought otherwise.”

A small smile plays on your lips. If Jack blinked he would miss it. “You can't just let me feel defeated once, can you?” You huff, feigning your annoyance.

He takes his arm from around you, letting you sit up. “I can't, I like your smile too much to see you upset.” You glance at him wide-eyed and he just chuckles. Catching you off guard with subtle and not-so-subtle admissions was always fun for him.

“I'm not the one who needs to smile more,” you say, pushing your hands into the floor and standing up. Jack takes your hand as you offer it to him, groaning as he slowly gets up. “People might think you're less of a grump.”

He shakes his head. “I save my smiles for my two favourite people.”

You tilt your head. “Auggie and the waitress at Frankie’s?” Frankie’s was a diner still stuck in the seventies and the only place that made pancakes good enough for your son to eat. Jack did take offence to that.

“Okay, three people.” He points to you and counts you off on his opposite hand, “Auggie and Bertha,” two more fingers go up.

“Bertha’s been happily married for forty three years.”

“What Bertha and I have goes beyond marriage.”

You snort. “She only has a soft spot for you because you saved her husband from choking on bacon that one time.”

“And now I get my coffee for free.” He reaches out to fix your glasses. “You good?”

You shrug, a crooked smile twisting your mouth. “Is that twenty minute break still on offer?”

“Go,” he nods. “I'll find you if we need you.”

7:28 AM

Jack waits for you, his army rucksack slung over his left shoulder, mouth tight, forming a smile as you exited the hospital. “Everything good?”

“All good,” you mumble, nodding. “Just needed to give something to Dana.”

He tips his head, fishing his keys from his cargo pocket. “Something important?”

“Depends on your definition of important. I wrote a letter to Mrs Simmons's son.”

“Taking a leaf out of my own book, huh?” Warmth blooms behind his ribs. “Said everything you needed to say?”

Just about. Letters to the patient's loved ones was more Jack's thing, so you were unsure at first what you wanted to say, but once you started, it was hard to stop. The general stuff was in there, how sorry you were for his loss and how you had done everything possible in your power to keep her alive. But you also included how she was a beautiful and kind woman, someone who he could be proud of.

“I think so,” you say, giving a glance back at the double doors. The next forty eight hours would be bliss compared to the last twenty four you just had. “I picked up the extra hours to pay for Auggie's birthday present,” you turn back to him.

“Huh?”

“Last night, you asked me what I was still doing here, and, well, that's why.” You fix the strap looped over your shoulder, the front dotted with badges with various aquatic animals. It was like carrying a piece of Auggie with you to work. “It's a bike that's stupidly expensive but it's the only thing he's asked me for this year and I really want him to have it.”

His lips twitch. “The red one, with the white stripes on it?”

“Kinda matches his glasses?”

He hugs his arm around your shoulders. “Yeah, I already have it in my garage.” You gasp and give his side a soft punch. “Hey!” He groans, clutching your shoulder tighter, pulling you against him. “I didn't know he had asked you for it too.”

“I'm gonna kill you Jack Abbot,” you grumble, spinning out of his arm.

He chuckles, lips perked at the corners. “No, you're not. Who else is gonna take you to breakfast?”

You playfully roll your eyes. “You only want to go Frankie’s so you can see Bertha, I have nothing to do with.”

He swings the loop of his key chain around his finger. “Yeah, you're right.”

tagging: @livinginastory

---

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)

---

🌸 How Do You Hold A Moonbeam In Your Hand 🌸

(Chapter 3: Navigating & Negotiations)

GIF by elronds-pointy-ears / Divider by olenvasynyt / Support by saradika

Pairings: Elrond Peredhel / OC (Isilmë, daughter of Gil-galad)

Summary: Continuing where we last left them, Elrond and Isilmë find themselves navigating the murky waters between propriety and their undeniable attraction to one another…

Warnings: None. Complete and utter fluff.

AO3 Link

Chapter 2: 🌸

Word Count: 2.6k

Isilmë’s little sailboat drifted leisurely into a secluded cove, the water calm and glittering, like liquid sapphires under the midday sun. Towering white cliffs framed the shoreline, their jagged slopes softened by lush greenery and the dusting of bright yellow flowers. A small inlet lay waiting just beyond the shallows, covered in glittering iridescent sand. 

It was the perfect place to drop anchor, take in the sun, and enjoy a humble picnic. Isilmë finished tying off the sail, and sprawled luxuriously across the stern. Tilting her face towards the sun, she exhaled a self-satisfied sigh. 

“Now this is a perfect day,” she declared, beginning to undo the clasps below her neckline.  

Elrond, who had been diligently tying off the remainder of the ropes, glanced over just as she pulled her tunic over her head, revealing the cropped linen shift beneath. He opened his mouth, then promptly closed it as she loosened her belt and shimmied out of her loose linen trousers, leaving her in nothing but her small clothes.  

She caught his eye and smirked. “Something the matter?”  

Elrond turned back to secure the boat with measured focus. “No, nothing, nothing at all,”  

Still reclined across the sun-soaked planks like a wild sea spirit, Isilmë propped herself up on her elbows. The sea breeze tugged her long silver hair as she basked, eyes closed, savoring the warmth of the sun on her skin.  

“Isn't this nice?” she mused, rippling the water with her fingertips, as her arm hung lazily over the edge. After a pause, she added casually, “You should remove your tunic too, mellon nîn, it's stifling,”  

Elrond, all too aware of just how little she was wearing, exhaled sharply. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you, Princess,”  

“Are you?” Isilmë hummed, resting her cheek against her palm as she watched him work. “Because you seem a little… tense.”  

“I wonder why…” Elrond grumbled under his breath, finishing his task with a sharp tug of the rope.  

Isilmë chuckled, thoroughly enjoying herself. “Elrond,”  

He turned. Hesitant. Expecting more teasing from her. But for a moment, she only looked at him, really looked at him. Her typical playful expression softened…slightly, blue eyes sparkling like the deepest depths of the bay.  

“Relax,” her voice was softer now, a touch of sincerity slipping through the mischief. “Enjoy this with me, if only for a little while.”  

Elrond held her gaze a moment longer before breaking away, exhaling a slow, measured breath. Then, much to her surprise, he slowly began to gather his tunic. Pulling it over his head, he folded it neatly and lowered himself onto the stern beside her. 

For an elf with such a lithe frame, his chest was well-defined. Isilmë watched as a bead of sweat traveled down his neck, along the firm planes of his chest, following the soft surface of his waist, until finally it disappeared beneath the hem of his trousers.

She swallowed hard. Then, after recovering some level of decorum, grinned impishly. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”  

Elrond gave her a pointed look, then, without warning, shifted his weight to one hand and, with the other, gave her a solid shove. With a startled gasp, Isilmë tumbled over the edge of the boat and into the water with a loud splash. Elrond smirked, leaning over the edge as she resurfaced, sputtering and laughing all at once.  

“By the stars, Elrond!” she gasped with mock offense, slicking her hair back as she blinked seawater from her eyes.  

“Sow the wind - reap the whirlwind,” he replied with a subtle smirk, utterly unrepentant.  

Isilmë’s laughter turned wicked. “Oh, I see how it is,” Cupping her hands, she retaliated with a solid stream of seawater aimed at his face.  

Elrond barely had time to flinch before he was drenched. For a moment, there was silence. Then, slowly, he turned back to her, water dripping from his dark limp curls.  Isilmë clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “You look like a very angry cat!”  

In a display of sheer recklessness, he immediately dove after her.  Isilmë shrieked, laughing as she tried to swim away, but he was more adept in the water. In moments, Elrond caught her, wrapping an arm around her waist.  

“If I remember correctly… you wanted me to enjoy this with you, did you not?” he murmured, lips pressed firmly against her ear, before promptly dunking her under.  

Isilmë came up spluttering, eyes wide with delight. “Oh, so you do have a mischievous side,”  

The corner of Elrond's mouth twitched. “It has been said,”  

With a bright smile, she sent another playful splash of water his way. “I could get used to this side of you Herald, does he plan to stay?”  

Elrond chuckled, treading water beside her. “I think I’ve indulged you quite enough for one day, Princess,”  

Isilmë merely smirked in response, floating lazily on her back as she watched him drift closer to the boat. In one fluid motion, Elrond hauled himself back onto the boat with ease. Water trickled down his body as he reached a steady hand to her. She took it, her fingers cool and slick with seawater. Bracing himself against the other end of the boat, he helped her climb aboard.  

Just as she set her foot on the edge of the boat, however, it rocked suddenly from an unexpected swell. With a startled gasp, Isilmë lost her footing, and slipped forward directly onto Elrond. They tumbled together in a tangle of limbs, the impact softened by a pile of loose canvas sails. Elrond let out a surprised oof as Isilmë landed on top of him, her palms pressed flat against the deck, arms caging him under her.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other.  Her silver hair, still dripping wet, glistened like starlight against the midday sun. But it was her wide, bright eyes that held him. How her gaze lingered, unabashed, only to flicker to his lips… then back again in an instant. Elrond could feel her heartbeat against him, rapid and light as a bird, mirroring his own. Her skin was still cool from the water, yet he was acutely aware of the warmth where her body pressed against him. Isilmë’s breath hitched, her lips began to part. 

"Sorry!" they blurted in unison.  

A beat of silence. Neither of them moved.

Elrond swallowed, his hands resting lightly on her waist, unsure whether to steady her or push her away. “Are you all right?" His voice was lower than intended, edged with something he wasn’t quite ready to name.  

Isilmë nodded, though she made no move to rise. "Perfectly," she murmured.  

Another moment passed. The boat rocked gently beneath them, until the world beyond became nothing but the sound of waves lapping against the hull.  Then slowly, almost reluctantly, Isilmë pulled back, shifting off of him with a small unreadable smile. 

"Well," she began, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. "That's the second time since we met that you've kept me from falling on my face,”  

With a humored, if not exasperated, sigh, Elrond sat up and leaned an arm against the gunwale. “You certainly seem eager to make a habit of it,"  

Isilmë grinned, and though the tension of the moment had passed, something between them had shifted. “And you,” she replied coyly, “seem just as eager to catch me when I fall,”  

Elrond huffed a quiet laugh, “Someone has to be.”

“Varda’s stars, Elrond, enough…” Isilmë groaned, rolling her eyes as she watched him pace back and forth in front of her, hands clasped tight behind his back. 

“I cannot stress enough how important today is, Princess,” 

“On the contrary, I believe you have…repeatedly, extensively-”

“Then why do I have the nagging feeling that, after weeks of careful preparation, you are a breath away from telling me you plan to ‘wing it’...?”

“Because, after a month of these very thorough and entirely captivating lectures, you’ve come to know me exceedingly well,”  

“Isilmë,” Elrond sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Your father has entrusted us, you in particular, with a very important - no - critical trade negotiation. A test of all you have, hopefully, learned during our time together. Yet here you sit, without a care in the world,”

“You should take note, mellon nîn, no one will ever trust your leadership if you look like you may fall to pieces at any given moment.” she replied with a lazy shrug.

Elrond stopped pacing, his mouth forming a light line, though no retort immediately came to mind. There was wisdom in her words as much as it pained him to admit it. 

This was going to be a very, very long day.

The great hall was filled with a rich assembly of voices, and the frequent clank of goblets, as Isilmë sat opposite the delegation from Khazad-dûm. Unlike the stiff formality common among the Elves, this meeting had an almost lively atmosphere. The Dwarves spoke plainly, laughed heartily, and drank deeply within the serene halls of Lindon. Isilmë matched their energy with a relaxed confidence that seemed to put almost everyone at ease.  

Everyone except for Elrond. 

To all in attendance he looked composed, dutiful, the picture of Elven repose as he sat beside his princess. But under the table… his leg bounced with nervous agitation. He watched carefully as Isilmë leaned forward, legs crossed, resting an elbow on the table with a cheek cupped in her palm. An unthinkably casual posture for a princess of the Eldar. 

Not that the Dwarves sitting across from her seemed to care.  

“So, Lord Dûnal,” Isilmë began, refilling his goblet with a generous pour of Greenwood wine, “we agree that the timber Lindon provides shall be of the finest quality, and in return, you will construct new roads to ensure the prosperity of trade and travel within our region. But I wonder, what say you to a little… extra incentive? An exchange of knowledge, perhaps?”

Elrond choked on his wine. Dwarves were exceedingly precious with their language, culture, and especially their crafts. It was rare - no - almost unheard of, that they would openly share such knowledge, especially with any of the Firstborn. Had he not stressed this many, many times - at nauseam - during his lessons on Dwarven relations?

Isilmë didn't acknowledge his obvious distress, as she continued her proposition, “Your best smiths could work alongside our master artificers for a time, and we yours. A proper mingling of craft and skill,”  

Dûnal, the broad-shouldered leader of the delegation, stroked his dark, intricately braided beard thoughtfully. “A bold offer, Princess,” he mused after a lengthy pause. “I’ve never known Elves to offer collaboration. More often than not, it teeters closer to… exploitation,”  

Isilmë nodded, then tilted her head with a subtle smirk. “A shame… and a testament to the hubris of my kin, wouldn't you agree?”  

A few of the Dwarves chuckled at that, nudging one another. Elrond, meanwhile, arched a brow, feeling his fëa nearly abandon him completely. This was not the approach he would have taken, suggested, or even considered. He had been prepared to help gently navigate the intricacies of this negotiation, ensuring both sides walked away satisfied but with neither yielding too much. Carefully maintaining the status quo between Elves and Dwarves. 

And yet…  

Lord Dûnal let out a deep, rumbling laugh and banged a fist on the table. “I like you, Elf. You don’t speak in circles like most of your kin. Very well. We’ll send one of our finest smiths to Lindon for a season, so long as we receive the same in return,”  

“Of course,” Isilmë replied smoothly. “Imagine the wonders yet to be forged from such a partnership: Menegroth and Nargothrond were well known for their beauty and prosperity. Let us take the first steps in building something even more impressive, together, during this new age of peace.”  

 Dûnal grunted, nodding. “Aye, Fandûna, I’ll drink to that,”  

“Ayadurzu!” Isilmë toasted, clinking her goblet heartily against his own. Her pronunciation was awkward, neglecting the gruff tonic accent of Khuzdul completely. But the honest attempt was appreciated, and all in attendance raised their cups in solidarity.

Elrond joined the toast and drank deeply. He had anticipated a much harder road to securing this trade deal. Having spent many a long night in preparation, anticipating the negotiations to last multiple days, and planning for all manner of contingencies. But Isilmë had bypassed all of his carefully laid strategies entirely. Accomplishing even more, not by force, nor by trickery, but by something far more rare among the Elves: genuine respect for the Dwarves.  

The hall was alive now with laughter and the deep, resonant voices of the Dwarves. Goblets clanked loudly as Isilmë threw back another gulp of strong dwarven ale. The drinking contest had begun as a simple jest, a friendly challenge from Lord Dûnal’s second-in-command, a burly dwarf named Nár. She had surprised them all by holding her own, even outdrinking one among the delegation, who was now slumped over the table in defeat. But Nár, with many, many years of experience behind him, and a renowned Dwarven constitution, had bested her in the end. Leaving Isilmë swaying slightly, blinking up at Elrond with glassy amusement.  

Elrond, who had refrained from indulging, at least to the same degree, let out a long-suffering sigh. “Princess, you appear to be… indisposed,”  

Isilmë grinned lazily. “I’m perfectly fine, Elrond. Just-” She hiccupped, waving a hand vaguely in front of his face. “-resting my eyes.”  

Elrond glanced at Dûnal, who chuckled and clapped Isilmë on the back. “Aye, she did well! Better than most of you featherlight Elves,”  

“An honor, truly,” Elrond responded dryly, before crouching beside Isilmë. “Come, let us end the evening on a high note, shall we?”  

She pouted but didn’t resist as Elrond wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her up, steadying her against him. “You’re warm,” she murmured as he guided her towards the royal quarters. “And tall. Very tall.”  

“Mmhm, or perhaps you are just very short,” Elrond replied, amused despite himself.  

The walk to her chambers was slow, Isilmë stumbling slightly now and then, but Elrond kept his grip firm, guiding her through the dimly lit halls until they reached her door. With one hand, he pushed it open, then carefully lowered her onto the bed.  

Isilmë sighed as she sank into the mattress, stretching with a contented groan. She then slowly turned her head towards Elrond, silver hair spilling over the pillow, and peered at him with a lopsided smile. “You’re very attractive, you know,”  

Elrond exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “And you, Princess, are very inebriated.”  

“Yes,” she agreed with a giggle. “But that doesn’t make it less true.” She lifted a hand, poking his chest with each syllable. “Even when you’re scolding me… no, especially when you’re scolding me.”  

Elrond stared at her, feeling the warmth of a blush bloom across his cheeks. He should have expected such a confession. Isilmë sober was nothing if not bold. And intoxicated? Even bolder. Nevertheless, his chest tightened.  

“You should sleep,” he replied softly.  

She gave an exasperated sigh, then yawned with defeat. “Mmm… Fiiiine.” 

But just as he moved to step away, her fingers brushed the sleeve of his tunic. “Elrond, will you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”  

He hesitated. But seeing her gaze linger with anticipation, a soft smile forming on her lips, fingers slipping away as exhaustion took hold… he couldn’t refuse her.  Elrond let out a quiet breath and, against his better judgment, pulled a chair beside the bed. Just for a little while, he told himself.  

And as he watched over her, he realized, despite the absurdity of the evening, he was happy to stay.

---

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.

---

no. 1 party anthem — clark kent (superman) ! ᢉ𐭩

⟢ synopsis. what was supposed to be a night for work takes an unexpected turn when you run into clark kent—alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date who seems to have no intention of showing up. poor guy.

⟢ contains. clark kent x reader, ots and lots of fluff! it is one of the more romantic things i have written, cute blind date, characters are dumb, set up date, lois is a mastermind, i do not know anything about journalism, pinning from both sides but too shy to do anything about it.

⟢ word count. 5.8k+

⟢ author’s note. i can’t get this man outta my head pls help me 😣 the voices!!! also feel free to imagine this as any clark (and i mean any i swear: comic book, adventures with superman, tom welling, david corenswet, henry cavill, or even reeve)

“Hey, you’re gonna hate me but I’m gonna be like 10 minutes late. You go ahead and check in and order. The table should be under my name. I’ll pay the bill. I’m so sorry!”

You weren’t exactly surprised when the message lit up your phone screen. You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose. If there was one thing you knew about Lois Lane, it was that urgency wasn’t always her strong suit—unless it involved an exclusive scoop or a headline-worthy disaster with Superman. Still, considering this was supposed to be a work-related meeting, you had half-expected her to arrive early, not leave you waiting.

You typed out a quick reply, telling her it was fine when it really wasn’t, telling her to take her time when you wished she wouldn’t. Then, slipping your phone back into your bag, you made your way toward the hostess stand.

“Table under the name Lane?” you asked, offering a polite smile.

The hostess nodded, flashing you a warm smile in return. “Right this way.”

As she led you through the restaurant, you took in your surroundings with subtle curiosity. The place was charming—exactly the kind of cozy, floral-accented spot Lois would dig up for an ‘informal work chat.’ The kind of place that felt like it had stories tucked between its soft candlelit tables and ivy-draped walls.

You tried to dress the part, too—professional but approachable. You weren’t here for a casual dinner, after all. This meeting was supposed to be a quick sit-down with a lawyer Lois had arranged, someone who could confirm a few key details for a piece you were both working on. A case involving a corporation and some shady legal maneuvering—Lois had the sources, but you were the one handling the research. You’d spent the past week buried in legal jargon, piecing together statements and contracts, and now you just needed a professional to verify what you suspected before the article could go to print.

By the time you reached your table, you were already running through the questions in your head, mentally preparing for the conversation. The restaurant wasn’t grand, but it was stunning in its own way. You admired the decor, taking in the quiet hum of conversation and the delicate clink of silverware.

At least if Lois was late, you had time to go over your notes one more time.

You ran your hands over your portfolio, smoothing the cover absentmindedly as you flipped through the pages. The neatly typed notes stared back at you, but none of the words really registered. All you could do was wait—for the lawyer, for Lois, for some sign that this wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time.

With a sigh, you reached for the glass of wine you ordered a few minutes ago, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. You had to pace yourself, or you’d drain the whole thing before anyone even showed up. You checked your phone, hoping for an update, but the screen remained frustratingly blank.

Disappointed, you rested your chin on your hand, eyes drifting across the restaurant. The warm glow of golden light reflected off polished wood and delicate floral centrepieces, the soft murmur of conversation blending with the occasional clink of silverware. Your waiter had already stopped by twice, politely offering more appetizers while you tried not to look as painfully alone as you felt. If they came by again, you weren’t sure if you’d accept out of politeness or embarrassment.

And then, just as you took another sip of wine, a familiar figure walked through the entrance.

Clark Kent.

You blinked, watching as the hostess led him inside, guiding him through the rows of neatly arranged tables. Even from where you sat, you recognized the way he carried himself—like he was constantly trying to shrink his presence, shoulders slightly hunched, movements careful and deliberate. It was ironic, really, considering how much space he naturally took up. Clark was tall, broad-shouldered, and impossible to miss, yet he carried himself like he didn’t want to be noticed.

You knew him, but not really.

Not as much as you want to.

You were office acquaintances at best—two reporters who shared the same workplace, desks across from each other, but rarely the same conversations. There had been moments, though. Fleeting ones. Catching his lingering glances during late nights at the Daily Planet, both of you working in near silence, save for the tapping of keyboards. A handful of polite exchanges over the coffee machine, his voice always gentle, soft-spoken. And then, of course, there were the times someone would call out "Hey, Smallville!" across the office, earning a sheepish smile from Clark as he adjusted his glasses and ducked his head.

He looked nice tonight. Not too different from his usual work attire, but more relaxed. A crisp button-up, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal a strong line of his forearms, dress pants fitted just right. He had forgone the tie, leaving the top button undone. Simple, but put-together. Effortless in a way that shouldn’t have been so charming, but somehow was.

And then you realized the hostess was leading him closer.

You quickly dropped your gaze, staring into your half-empty wine glass like it suddenly held the secrets of the universe. The last thing you wanted was to be caught staring, especially while sitting alone, nursing a drink, and very clearly sulking.

Maybe, just maybe, if you looked busy enough, you could avoid drawing any attention at all.

And for a moment, it worked.

You picked up your phone again, checking the time for what had to be the hundredth time that night. With a little too much urgency, you started to type out a message to Lois—something casual, something that wouldn’t sound desperate, something that would make it seem like you weren’t upset about currently sitting alone in a nice restaurant, swirling the last remnants of your wine waiting for her to get there. You were so focused on forming the perfect text that you almost missed it—

Your name.

Spoken softly, but clear. Familiar.

Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard. The voice had a weight to it, warm and steady, like someone genuinely surprised but pleased to see you. You swallowed and glanced up, feigning a search for the source before your gaze finally landed on Clark.

He wasn’t seated directly beside you but rather at the table across, angled just enough that you had to turn your head slightly to meet his eye. His lips curled into a sheepish smile, glasses slipping just a little down the bridge of his nose before he quickly pushed them back up again.

“Hi.”

That was all. Just hi. Simple, unassuming, but it made something settle in your chest, something you hadn’t even realized was tense.

You couldn’t bite back the smile forming on your own lips. “Hi, Clark.”

“Hey.”

A kind man with few words.

Though you’d heard him talk endlessly before, especially with Lois—deep in discussion, debating headlines, getting lost in conversations about ethics and reporting. But with you, it was always something short and sweet. A few words here and there. And yet, even the simplest conversations had a way of lingering. Would it be silly to admit that your brief, slightly awkward chats with Clark kind of made your day? Even when it was just him asking to borrow an extra pen?

God, you felt like a teenager again, having a crush on a classmate.

You watched as he rubbed at his cheek, the scruff there catching the soft glow of the restaurant lighting. His pointer finger rested idly at the seam of his lips, and you forced yourself to focus—not to stare at his mouth, not to let your gaze linger anywhere it shouldn’t.

He was your coworker, for fuck’s sake.

A really pretty one.

A really kind, really good-looking coworker.

You exhaled lightly, pressing your fingertips against the stem of your glass as if that might ground you. “It’s nice to see you.” The words came out before you could stop them, but they were true. It was nice.

It was almost like he perked up at that, his posture straightening just a little. “Yeah, great to see you too. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I... I could say the same.” Your cheeks were starting to hurt from how much you were smiling. You tried to temper it, but it was hard when Clark Kent was looking at you like that—all honey-eyed.

“Are you here for work?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio by your hands, stacked neatly beside your drink.

You glanced down at it as if you had momentarily forgotten it was there. “Um, yeah. I’m meeting with a source, so... they should be here any minute.”

Clark’s brows lifted slightly. “It’s your story on LexCorp, right?”

Your fingers, which had been absently tracing the condensation on your glass, paused. “Yeah, it is actually.” You blinked at him, a little surprised. “How’d you know?”

His smile was almost bashful, his hand brushing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was being modest. “Oh, I just remember you mentioning it a few days ago. It’s a great story.”

Something in your chest tightened—not in a bad way, just in a way that made you feel warm all over. You hadn’t expected him to remember, let alone bring it up. The conversation you’d had at work had been so brief, just an offhand remark about how you were stepping outside your usual comfort zone. No one else had really asked you about it since.

“You think?” You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I thought it was kind of a stretch. I mean, like—a stretch from what I usually write, you know? I don’t really deal with politics and corporate stuff and all that.”

Clark shook his head, that gentle, reassuring look in his eyes making it impossible not to believe him. “I’m sure it’ll be great. You’re an amazing writer.”

You were smiling even wider now. Compliments weren’t uncommon at the Daily Planet—people gave each other nods of approval, a “good job” here and there. But Clark said it like he meant it, like he had read your work, thought about it, believed in it.

It reminded you of the time he had quietly left a sticky note on your desk after an article of yours had been rushed to print. Really great work on this one! -CK. You’d found it hours later, after everyone had gone home. It had been such a small thing, but you’d kept the note tucked inside your notebook anyway.

You felt your cheeks warm. “Thanks, Clark. I think you’re a great writer too.”

He ducked his head slightly, smiling. “Thank you.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward, just something familiar to the pauses between you two at the office. Expect this time you didn’t have any work to distract yourself with. You hesitated before finally breaking it.

“If you don’t mind me asking… what’re you doing here?”

“I, uh… I have a date, actually.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But for some reason, you felt your stomach drop slightly, and you almost wanted to smack yourself in the head for not catching on sooner. Of course, he was here on a date, looking like that—all charming and shy.

He even smelled good, like fresh linen and something warm, something undeniably Clark.

“I know how it looks,” he started, and you noticed the way his shoulders began to hunch in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller. “Feels strange. I don’t think I’ve been dating since college.”

You let out a breath of amusement, nodding slowly. “Wow. Uh—good for you, though. I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah, I mean…” He hesitated, then glanced up at you, a little sheepish. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s a blind date, so I have no idea what this person looks like or who they are.”

You blinked. “You don’t know anything?”

“They’re a friend of Lois.” He exhaled lightly, shaking his head. “But that’s as much as I got.”

“Oh.” Your lips parted, then closed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Clark.” You shot him a small, hopefully reassuring smile. “I’ll be here for moral support.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve got your thing to worry about.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend out too.”

The words left your mouth before you had a chance to really think about them. Friend. You wondered if you could even call yourselves that. You were more acquaintances if anything—a friend of a friend. But Clark always did little favours for you, and he was always kind to you.

Like the time he had grabbed you a coffee when you’d been stuck in a seemingly endless editorial meeting, dropping it off at your desk without a word. Just a small smile, a quiet “figured you could use one.”

Or the time he’d helped you carry an entire box of research binders up three flights of stairs because the elevator was down. He had done it without hesitation, without you even asking, took it from your hands like it was weightless.

Then there was the time he had lent you his jacket when an assignment had left you stranded in the rain. It had been late, the Daily Planet nearly empty, and you had been standing by the windows, arms wrapped around yourself, shivering slightly as you tried to figure out how to make it home without getting completely drenched. Clark had passed by, paused, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. “Just give it back tomorrow,” he’d said.

But it wasn’t just him.

You had done things for him too.

The time you had stayed late to help him rework an article after an editor had torn through it with a red pen, sitting beside him as the newsroom emptied, tossing ideas back and forth until it finally felt right. He had looked at you then, something warm in his eyes, and said, “I owe you one.”

Or the time he had misplaced his glasses—how he had checked every possible spot, growing more and more flustered, only for you to walk over and pluck them from where they had been resting atop his head. You had laughed, shaking your head as you handed them back. He had gone pink in the ears, mumbling something about being forgetful, but the way he had smiled after made you think he didn’t mind the teasing.

Then there was the time you had covered for him when he had mysteriously disappeared right before a meeting. Lois had been looking for him, impatient and muttering about how he always seemed to vanish at the worst times. You had lied—just a small one. Said he had mentioned stepping out for a quick errand, and that he’d be back soon. You weren’t sure why you had done it.

Helping him out never hurt. So it shouldn’t hurt one more time.

Well, maybe it would. Just a little bit.

It might hurt your pride, mostly.

“Besides,” you continued, “I’ve been here for almost twenty minutes and no one’s showed up.”

“That’s... odd.”

“I know,” you muttered, glancing at your phone again, the screen glowing with no new notifications. You hesitated, thumb hovering over your messages before sighing and picking it up. “Can you excuse me for a second?”

“Of course,” Clark said, ever patient, though his brows knit together slightly in concern.

You slid out of your seat, weaving through the dimly lit restaurant. The warm hum of conversation filled the air, glasses clinking, silverware scraping against plates. A jazz melody played softly from the speakers, almost drowned out by the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. You stepped toward the front, near the entrance, where it was quieter, and pressed the phone to your ear.

Lois hadn’t answered your last two—three?—messages. You tried calling her once. The line rang and rang, then went to voicemail. You exhaled sharply and called again, tapping your fingers against the wooden counter near the hostess stand.

On the last ring, she finally picked up.

"Hello-?"

“Where are you?” You didn’t bother hiding the frustration in your voice, pacing a little near the door.

"I'm... on my way, I swear."

“You said that almost half an hour ago, Lois.”

"I know, I know—I’m sorry. I was just about to call—"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through your teeth. “And the lawyer, do you know when they’ll get here?”

A pause.

"I… I don’t know."

Your stomach dropped. “You don’t know?”

"No… now that I think about it… I don’t think I confirmed a time."

“Lois,” you breathed, dragging a hand down your face.

"I’m sorry. Maybe we should rain check. I’ll leave them a message or something and we can do this another day."

You glanced back toward your table, then toward Clark, who was politely minding his own business, idly staring at his menu. Your eyes flickered to your untouched portfolio, the very reason you had come out tonight in the first place.

“I need the papers approved by Wednesday.”

"And it’s Saturday night. You have plenty of time."

“This is rich coming from you,” you deadpanned, rubbing your temple.

"I know, just… maybe it’s a sign you gotta take things slow. You know, focusing on yourself instead of work. Maybe you should go to a club or something."

You scoffed, barely biting back an incredulous laugh. “Lois… this fucking sucks.”

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, okay? I’ll take you out tomorrow for brunch, swear on that. I promise. And I’ll transfer you for whatever you order tonight. Keep the receipt and give it to me."

You sighed, glancing down at your shoes. “I’m just gonna go home.”

"What? And waste a perfectly good night? You should stay out, meet new people, socialize with things that aren’t your laptop. Doesn’t that sound nice?"

You exhaled, staring blankly at the floor tiles. “I think a movie from my bed sounds really nice.”

"I’m not even gonna fight you on this."

“Bye, Lois.”

"Bye. Love you."

You ended the call with a quiet sigh, lingering in place for a moment, letting the frustration settle. You had spent the entire day mentally preparing for this meeting, running through questions, making sure every document was in order. Now, all of it felt like wasted energy.

With another steadying breath, you pushed off the pillar you had been leaning against, shoulders still tight with frustration, and made your way back to your table. The restaurant hadn’t gotten any quieter in your absence—if anything, the crowd had only grown as the night grew longer.

Clark glanced up as you returned, and the way his expression softened told you everything—he didn’t even need to ask how the call had gone. He just knew.

Still, before he could say anything, you beat him to it. “Your date’s not here yet?” You sank back into your seat, brushing a stray napkin aside as if the small action would help ground you.

Clark shook his head, and he didn’t seem too disappointed. “No, not yet.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet, observant way of his. “Is everything alright?”

You blinked at him, still half in your own thoughts. “Hmm?”

“The phone call,” he clarified, “you seem… a little… annoyed.”

That was putting it lightly.

He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should push further, then asked, voice gentle, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The simplicity of it—the way he just offered, no pressure, no expectations—unravelled some of the tension in your chest.

“I don’t wanna bother you about my stuff,” you said honestly.

“It’s no bother.”

You glanced up at him, at the unwavering patience in his expression. “You’re really sweet, Clark. You know that, right?”

A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears. “I wouldn’t say that…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s in your nature?” you teased.

He let out a small, awkward laugh, shaking his head. “I definitely wouldn’t say that either.”

That made you smile—something small, something real.

“Well, it’s true,” you insisted. “Must’ve been the way you were raised.”

“Must’ve been.”

Before you could say anything else, a waiter arrived, carefully setting a starter plate and a drink down in front of Clark. He thanked her politely, offering a small nod before she walked away.

“I, uh…” He gestured to the plate. “I ordered some nachos if you want some.”

You raised a brow. “Shouldn’t those be for your date?”

He gave you an easy, lopsided smile. “They won’t have to know.”

A small chuckle slipped out before you could stop it. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

The nachos were surprisingly good, crisp and warm under the layer of melted cheese, but you barely tasted them. Instead, your focus kept drifting—to Clark, to your phone, to the door.

At first, you thought about calling it a night. You could have told Clark you were heading home, and he probably would have understood, probably would have even offered to walk you to your car or wait with you for an Uber. But something stopped you.

Maybe it was the way he seemed at ease, talking to you like there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. Maybe it was how easy it was to talk to him tonight, without work looming over you, without deadlines keeping your conversations clipped and efficient. Or maybe—maybe it was the nagging feeling in your gut that kept telling you he was waiting on someone who wasn’t going to show.

You hated that thought.

You didn’t say anything, though, not when another ten minutes passed, not when he checked his phone for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time. You just sat with him, keeping him company, even if you dreaded the moment someone else walked through those doors.

Clark kept insisting his date would be there soon. But every time he said it, the confidence in his voice waned.

By the time another twenty minutes passed, you were sitting with your phone open in your lap, ready to call an Uber. You should go home. It had been a long day, and you weren’t exactly in the mood to be out any more. But you hesitated when Clark spoke again.

“They should be here any minute now,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You glanced up at him, watching the way his brows pinched slightly as he checked his phone again.

He had said that before. More than once.

You were starting to feel bad for him.

You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to get stood up for a date (work was something else you could get over by tonight but a date?)—to wait around, watching the minutes tick by, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the person you were waiting for was running late instead of ignoring you altogether. And worse, you were starting to get peeved. How could anyone ghost Clark Kent?

But you didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t seem upset.

Or maybe he was just pretending not to be.

Either way, you didn’t want to remind him of the rejection. If he was pushing through it, then so were you.

It wasn’t until another thirty minutes flew by—until the sky outside had fully darkened, the city lights reflecting off the windows—that you finally exhaled and set your phone down.

“My source isn’t coming.”

Clark blinked at you, pulling his gaze away from the door. “Oh?”

“Yeah, there was a mix-up with the times or something.” You waved it off like it was no big deal, even though frustration still sat heavy in your chest. You weren’t nearly as mad as you had been earlier, but you had still wasted your night on something that should have been simple.

Clark studied you for a moment, then gave a small, almost amused huff. “Looks like we’re both out of luck then.”

You watched as his gaze flickered back toward the entrance, and then, after a beat, he sighed.

“I don’t think my date’s coming either.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m sorry, Clark,” you said, and you meant it.

“Don’t be,” he told you, and before you could say anything else, he was already flagging down the waiter, asking for the bill. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he turned back to you and said, “Wanna get out of here?”

You blinked. “And go where?”

He shrugged, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Anywhere. I don’t mind.”

And somehow, that was how you ended up walking down the streets of Metropolis, shoulder to shoulder with Clark Kent.

The night air was crisp, cool enough that you tugged your coat tighter around yourself. The sidewalks were busy with people, cars rolling lazily through the streets, their headlights casting soft glows against the pavement.

You weren’t sure how you had gotten here—how a frustrating, dead-end night had turned into this. But you didn’t hate it.

In fact, you were enjoying every minute of it.

The streets of Metropolis buzzed with an early-night energy. Neon signs flickered, storefronts cast golden light onto the pavement, and the hum of conversation from passing pedestrians filled the air. You walked close to Clark, close enough that your arms brushed with every step.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was something trusted about it—something new.

You risked a glance at him. He was looking straight ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. But when the light of a passing car swept over his face, you caught the way his jaw tensed slightly, like he was thinking about something.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you asked.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable for a split second before softening into something reassuring. “Yeah. Why?”

You lifted a shoulder, tucking your hands into your coat pockets as you shrugged. “Just… getting stood up sucks. I figured you’d be at least a little upset.”

Clark exhaled a small huff of amusement. “I mean, yeah, I guess I could be. But I’d rather not waste my night sulking about it.”

You nodded, accepting his answer. But then, after a few seconds, you heard him add, quieter, “Besides… I’m having a nice time.”

Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip.

You kept your gaze forward, pretending like those words didn’t sink into you in a way that left you warm despite the cool night air.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time, it felt different. More aware. More weighted.

And then Clark suddenly spoke.

“Can I show you something?”

You blinked at him, surprised by the shift. “Uh… sure?”

He smiled, but there was something almost shy about it, something hesitant like he was second-guessing himself. “It’s not far.”

Curious, you followed his lead, stepping off the main sidewalk as he turned down a quieter street, where the glow of streetlights gave way to something softer, something greener.

Within moments, you realized where you were headed.

The city park.

You’d been here plenty of times before—Metropolis had its fair share of green spaces, a welcome contrast to the steel and glass of the skyline—but Clark led you past the more well-known paths, past the benches where couples sat talking in hushed tones, past the fountain that usually served as a meeting place.

Eventually, he guided you toward a narrow, gated pathway, tucked between a stretch of trees. He reached for the gate, pausing before glancing back at you.

“It’s, uh… it’s kind of a secret spot.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Secret?”

His lips quirked. “Sort of. I mean, it’s public, but not many people know about it.”

“Riiight... totally not a cheesy thing to say.”

“Just, come look.”

You watched as he pushed the gate open, stepping aside to let you through first.

You hesitated for only a second before slipping past him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest as you stepped inside.

And then you saw it.

A sheltered little garden.

It wasn’t grand, but it was beautiful. A small, enclosed space, with an arched trellis overhead wrapped in evergrowing vines. Flowers bloomed in neatly arranged clusters, their colours muted under the soft glow of the moon and city. A narrow stone pathway curved through the space, leading to a bench beneath another canopy of vines.

The whole thing felt… unreal. Quiet. Removed from the city entirely.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is…” You exhaled, searching for the right word. “Wow.”

Clark smiled, stepping further in behind you. “I found it by accident a while ago. It’s kind of nice, right?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. Kinda nice is an understatement, Smallville.”

The two of you lingered in the quiet, the city’s distant sounds muffled by the greenery around you. And when you looked at Clark again, you caught it—

That brief hesitation. That barely-there glance.

Something unreadable flickered across his face before he cleared his throat, looking away, suddenly busying himself with adjusting his glasses.

It was awkward. Endearing.

And for some reason, it made your heart beat just a little faster.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to break the silence. “So, what, you bring all your failed dates here?” you teased lightly.

Clark huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. Just you.”

His voice was light, teasing back—but something about it stuck with you.

Just you.

You had no idea what to say to that.

So instead, you just smiled. And hoped the darkness hid the warmth rising in your face.

Clark shifted beside you, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets, gaze flickering toward the night sky. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Just... don’t tell Lois about this place.”

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Or else it’ll be on the front cover of the Daily Planet and it won’t be so secret anymore.”

You snorted. “Figured.”

Then, almost immediately, your lips twisted into a frown. “Ugh, you know what? I’m still kinda pissed off with Lois.”

Clark’s eyebrows lifted. “Lois? What—why?”

You sighed, rubbing at your temple. “She was the one who arranged the whole meeting with the lawyer today. My source. She forgot to confirm or something and cancelled last minute. Can you believe it?”

Clark blinked. “Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither. She’s probably got caught up with Superman again or something—I don’t know.”

Clark’s head tilted slightly, brows drawing together. “Sorry? Superman?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s just an inside joke between us and our friends. Since she’s so close with the guy, we joke that whenever she’s acting weird, it’s because of him.”

Clark let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Does she usually?”

“Not really. But we like to watch her squirm when we bring it up.” You smirked. “Anyway, I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s been acting weird all week.”

Clark hummed, his gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I noticed that too. When she was telling me about this date, she just... wasn’t herself, I guess. Left a lot of things in the dark.”

Your steps faltered slightly, your brows knitting together as something in his words made your stomach twist. You turned to look at him, trying to piece together the implications of what he was saying.

“Wait—” You exhaled, mind racing. “Lois set you up?”

Clark slowed as well, blinking as if he’d only just realized you hadn’t put it together yet. “Uh… yeah?” He frowned slightly. “I did say my date was a friend of hers.”

“Right.” You blinked, mind catching up. “Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The sounds of the city—distant honking, the chatter of pedestrians, the hum of neon signs—faded into a dull blur. It was as if the entire world had taken a collective breath and was holding it, waiting for the two of you to catch up.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The pieces clicked together—Lois arranging your meeting, forgetting to confirm, being strangely vague about the details.

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach flipped as realization crashed over you like a tidal wave.

Clark’s eyes widened just a fraction, his breath hitching. And then, almost at the same time—

“…No way.”

You exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh, shaking your head as your mind reeled. Clark let out a chuckle of his own, one hand running through his hair, his fingers ruffling the strands at the back of his head. His ears—just barely visible under the glow of a nearby streetlight—had turned the faintest shade of pink again.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You just looked at each other, as if confirming that, yes, this was real, and yes, Lois Lane had absolutely just played matchmaker.

“Well,” Clark finally said, voice warm, laced with amusement. “At least we won’t have to spend the whole night getting to know each other.”

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Yeah. Guess not.”

The tension in your shoulders, the nervous energy, the awkwardness of the night—it all melted into something else entirely. Something softer. Something that felt… kind of nice.

Clark was still smiling, his blue eyes bright behind his glasses, and you had to resist the urge to look away, to keep from giving away the way your heart had started beating just a little faster.

He shifted, his hands slipping into his pockets as he glanced down for a second before looking back up at you.

And then, with just the slightest hint of something almost timid in his voice, he asked—

“Can I be honest?”

You tilted your head. “Sure.”

“When Lois was telling me about the date... I was hoping it would be you.”

“…Really?”

Clark nodded, lips pressing together like he was debating whether he should keep going. But then, in a quieter voice, he admitted, “Yeah... It was the only reason I agreed. And when I saw you at the restaurant, I was really excited—until you told me you were there for work.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Sorry I let you down.”

His head snapped up. “No.” He shook his head, quickly, almost too quickly. “You didn’t.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I still had fun,” he added, a little sheepishly.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, heart beating faster than you’d like to admit. “You should’ve just said something.”

Clark exhaled a laugh, glancing down again. “I know. I just... I’m not really good at this stuff.”

You smiled, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “You’re doing pretty good so far. Had me swept off my feet.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice just a little lower, a little softer.

“Oh yeah.”

A pause. A lingering look.

And then—

“We should do this again.” His lips curled, a little nervous but hopeful. “On purpose next time.”

You grinned widely, feeling warmth spread through you, from your chest to the very tips of your fingers.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I’d like that a lot.”

---

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

↓ masterlist below the cut ↓

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.

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Writing Worksheets & Templates

will update this every few weeks/months. alternatively, here are all my tagged Writing Worksheets & Templates

Chapter Outline ⚜ Character- or Plot-Driven Story

Death & Sacrifice ⚜ Magic & Rituals ⚜ Plot-Planning

Editing: Sentence Check ⚜ Writing Your Novel: 20 Questions

Tension ⚜ Thought Distortions ⚜ What's at Stake

Character Development

50 Questions ⚜ Backstory ⚜ Character Creation

Antagonist; Villain; Fighting ⚜ Protagonist & Antagonist

Character: Change; Adding Action; Conflict

Character: Creator; Name; Quirks; Flaws; Motivation

Character Profile (by Rick Riordan) ⚜ Character Sheet Template

Character Sketch & Bible ⚜ Interview your Character

Story-Worthy Hero ⚜ "Well-Rounded" Character Worksheet

Worldbuilding

20 Questions ⚜ Decisions & Categories ⚜ Worksheet

Setting ⚜ Dystopian World ⚜ Magic System (AALC Method)

Templates: Geography; World History; City; Fictional Plant

References: Worldbuilding ⚜ Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

all posts are queued. send questions/requests here.

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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.

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