Hiraeth

Elrond Peredhel X GN!Reader (POC friendly)

Pronouns: You/Your

Summary: You just want to go home.

Warnings: Angst, non-descript injuries.

Word Count: 643

A/N: My fanfic-ified take on the origin of Rivendell.

You can’t quite tell where exactly you are, and as you are unable to move, it is unlikely you’ll ever find out. You vaguely remember fighting. The battlefield was a blur of metal, fire, and screaming.

The quiet hum of devastation still rings in your ears. The smell of smoke, blood, and petrichor fills your nostrils. You can feel the wet earth beneath you, unsure as to whether it is because of water or blood that the dirt clings to your skin.

There is pain seeping through every part of your body, every breath more difficult than the last. You aren’t sure if it’s the pain or the exhaustion, but it feels like you are floating. Like you aren’t quite tethered to your body anymore, and could fly away at any moment, disappearing forever.

And then you hear it. A soft gasp, and the clanking of armour as footsteps rush to approach you.

A face enters your vision. You didn’t think you’d ever see that face again. His voice, gentle yet filled with urgency, calls your name.

“You’re alive.”

You blink, trying to focus on him, but the world around you is spinning. His face is like a beacon in the chaos, but you can barely make out the details.

Elrond kneels down beside you, his hands already moving over your broken body, assessing your obvious injuries. You feel the gentle touch of his fingers against your skin, the warmth of his presence grounding you.

You allow him to tend to you, unable to take your eyes off him.

“Elrond.” You whisper, breath ragged. “I want to go home.” The words sound surprisingly steady as they fall from your cracked lips.

Elrond’s eyes soften as he carefully bandages a wound on your arm, his movements practiced, soothing. “We’ll be there soon. Rest now, meleth nîn. You’ve been through much.”

You shake your head, wincing with the effort. “No... I want to go home. Our home.”

For a moment, there is silence. Elrond pauses, looking down at you, his expression unreadable, though the sorrow in his gaze was unmistakable. He continues tending to you, his healing touch delicate but firm.

You’ve spoken about it before. Building a home for the two of you, maybe even for more in time. These plans never made it past late night conversations, wrapped in soft silks, hands gently tracing intricate shapes on freshly bathed skin.

“I know.” Elrond murmurs, his voice barely a whisper heavy with the weight of centuries of wisdom and grief.

He finishes securing a bandage, and then he pauses again. “And we will have that. One day. I will make sure of it.”

He looks around at the battlefield, at the ruins of everything. It is as if he is searching for something. A flicker of hope in the ruins. After a moment, his gaze shifts back to you.

“We’ll make one.” He says softly, his words more certain than anything. “Right here. Right now. We are home.”

You look up at him, still unable to fully comprehend his words, but his presence, his unwavering love, anchor you. The world seems to hold its breath for a moment, and in that silence, in that fragile flicker of peace, you feel something more, something deeper than any of the pain you are enduring.

Elrond’s shifts you closer to him, his touch steadying you. There is a shimmer of unfallen tears in his eyes, though there is also something else, something akin to determination and devotion.

“We are home.” You repeat, finding comfort in the certainty of his words, and though the world is still broken around you, in that moment, you know he will build something for both of you from the ruins.

With him by your side, in this valley, brimming with potential, you will build a place you can truly call your home.

Lord of the Rings Masterlist

Masterlist

Thank you for reading <3

Tags

lotr elrond x reader

Insomniacs with a z

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader x John Walker

Summary:

“Damn it, John, let go,” you whisper under your breath, carefully trying to pry one of his arms off your waist. No use. His super soldier strength is in full effect, and all you manage to do is shift the grip higher—great, now he’s got you in a chokehold. And as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough for choosing this sleepover, Bob snuggles closer behind you. You feel the warm tickle of his breath against your neck as his nose nudges into your hair, his arm casually thrown across your side like it belongs there. “Not you too,” you mutter, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to wiggle free. But with John locked on one side and Bob clinging to you like a sleepy koala, your options are severely limited. Or You form the New Avengers' very first sleep sub-unit. You, John and Bob all struggle to sleep, so you sleep in the same bed together to help each other out. And it's definitely platonic.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, fluff, little angst, threesome, p in v, oral sex (female and male receiving), creampie, sex dream, John and Bob being cute

WC: 9.5k

A/N: Started this ages a while ago but finally finished it. I wrote this because who wouldn't wanna be in a John and Bob sandwich, and I feel like since it's May (Challengers month but every month is Challengers month imo) I need to write threesomes. And I love Sentryagent, Thunderbolts has brought back the multishipper in me. Enjoy!

***

Sleep was something that often escaped you. After the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen, you’re surprised you sleep at all. It’s like your mind refuses to shut down, always racing, always bracing for something that never comes. Like there's a part of you that's always on watch, never letting you fully rest unless your body gives in from pure exhaustion.

So here you are again, wide awake at god-knows-what hour, standing in the kitchen in your sweats, staring into the fridge like it’s going to offer you something other than the same sad leftovers and a questionable bottle of juice. You close it. Two and a half seconds later, you open it again.

You pace. Open a cabinet. Close it. Lean against the counter. Wander to the sink. Insomnia’s a bitch. The hum of the fridge is loud in the quiet of the night, and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet is the only rhythm to your restless routine.

“What are you doing up?” a voice asks from behind you.

You turn to see John standing in the doorway, looking tired, his old white army shirt wrinkled, hair an adorable mess (not that you’d ever say that out loud). His expression is soft, caught somewhere between concern and exhaustion.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say, shrugging. “Staring at my ceiling was starting to drive me crazy. What about you?”

John exhales deeply, like he’s carrying the weight of something heavy. “Same. Too much on my mind.”

“Feel free to join me,” you say, hopping onto the counter next to him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just moves around the kitchen trying to get his bearings. You sit on the counter, watching him as he searches the cabinets.

You never quite knew what it was. It wasn’t anything obvious, just something about seeing him like this, all comfy in his pyjamas. You liked it more than you probably should.

"You're staring," He says, snapping you back to your senses.

"Am not."

“Are too,” he replies smugly, finally retrieving a jar from the cabinet like he just found buried treasure.

“You’re such a child,” you say, rolling your eyes, though you’re smiling despite yourself.

“And yet, here you are. Watching me like I’m the last man on Earth who knows how to make a sandwich,” He says, going over to the fridge to grab bread.

“I’m just making sure you don’t burn the kitchen down,” you lie, folding your arms.

“With peanut butter?” John questions, eyebrow quirked up.

“You never know.”

He rolls his eyes at you and tosses his bread in the toaster as he goes to try to find the jam for his PB&J.

Just then, there's a quiet creak, the unmistakable sound of someone stepping into the kitchen. You and John both glance over to see Bob walk in, clearly not realising anyone else is there yet. He grabs a glass, eyes still adjusting to the light, then turns around.

He stops in his tracks when he sees the two of you. His hair’s sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed, and he's holding his empty glass like he’s just been caught stealing. In an instant, his powers kick in, the glass shattering in his hand.

“Oh shit, I’ll…” Bob blurts, immediately rushing to pick up the broken glass with his hands.

John’s on the move before the words even finish leaving Bob’s mouth, already halfway across the kitchen, he heard the glass break. “Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself—”

“I can’t get cut, remember?” Bob says with a small grin, crouched and collecting the shards like it’s no big deal.

John hesitates, hand still extended like he might intercept him anyway. He often forgot just how strong Bob actually was, it wasn’t something he ever led with. Something about the way he carried himself made you want to protect him, even if he was as strong as a God. Same for the rest of the team, probably.

“Still…” John mutters, his concern clinging stubbornly to the edge of his voice, even if it had no real argument to stand on.

You hop off the counter, bare feet, making a quick dash to the broom closet. “What are you even doing awake, Bob?”

“My mind was too busy. Plus, I’m kind of hungry,” he replies, tossing the glass shards in the bin. You start sweeping up the remnants of glass left on the floor when you get an idea.

“Wanna have a midnight snack?” you offer, already reaching for a cabinet.

“It’s 3 a.m.,” John cuts in, after glancing at his watch.

You flash him a quick grin. “Wanna have a 3 a.m. snack?”

Bob nods, his grin matching yours now. You make quick work of sweeping up any remaining glass on the floor, and the two of you start raiding the fridge like a pair of delinquents. John watches from the side, towel slung over his shoulder, arms crossed. He rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I swear, the two of you are going to be the death of me.”

There’s a beat of silence as you and Bob settle on cereal, clinking spoons against mismatched bowls.

“Do you smell that?” Bob asks, nose wrinkling slightly.

There’s a very distinct burning smell filling the room, thick and bitter.

“The toast,” John grumbles, fingers running through his hair.

“I told you,” you gloat with a smug grin, watching as he rushes to the toaster.

He yanks the lever up and pulls out what is no longer a slice of bread but a small, blackened slab of charcoal.

“It’s cremated,” Bob says through a mouthful of cereal, casually stabbing another spoonful into his mouth.

John just sighs in defeat.

“Just join us in having cereal,” you tell him, nudging the box toward him with a smirk.

“Fine,” he grumbles, grabbing a bowl. Eventually, the three of you relocate to the couch, cereal bowls in hand, because the counters weren’t exactly comfortable, and the kitchen still smelled like a small appliance fire.

“So… what’s keeping you both up tonight?” you ask, nestled between them on the couch.

John answers first, his voice monotone. “The usual.”

The usual being everything he never says out loud, all his regrets, everything he’s lost, everyone he’s lost. All the weight he still carries. It’s been quite some time since the divorce, but he still hasn’t quite gotten used to sleeping alone, constantly tossing and turning, wanting someone to be there.

Bob chimes in, “Same. The usual.”

His mind was always too awake at night, too weak and susceptible to slipping back into the darkness. It was impossible for him not to think about everything that haunted him. He was unbelievably touch-starved. He knew touch was one thing that could help soothe the restless chaos inside. Sleeping alone, just feeling the cold sheets on his skin, only made the emptiness grow louder and kept him up.

You raise an eyebrow. “What an open group we have here.”

John glances over. “What about you, then?”

You hesitate, staring down at your cereal for a beat, then sigh. “The usual…”

The silence that follows is oddly comforting. Each of you lost in your thoughts, shoulders brushing lightly, grounded only by the shared sound of quiet crunching. You all finish your cereal, the moment hanging in the air like a soft exhale.

Bob stands, collecting the empty bowls. “I’ll wash these.”

“Are you guys going back to bed?” you ask, stretching slightly as you glance between them.

John shrugs, sinking further into the couch. “I’ll stay here for a bit…”

Bob returns a few moments later from the kitchen and flops down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Same.”

The three of you start shuffling around on the couch until everyone finds a spot that feels comfortable, John leaning back with his feet on the coffee table, Bob sitting close enough that your knees touch, and you tucked between them like the final puzzle piece. From there, the conversation seemed to flow, distracting you all from what was keeping you up at night.

“I mean, you turned my shield into a taco,” John says, deadpan but with a slight edge. You’ve always known he was a little bitter about it.

“I said I was sorry!” Bob defends himself, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “I was a different man then.”

You chuckle at their banter, head resting back against the cushion as their voices wrap around you like a blanket. The warmth of their presence, the soft glow of the living room, and the gentle rhythm of familiarity start to lull you to sleep.

You don’t even remember when your eyes close. Just the sound of them, bickering, laughing, still talking as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist.

***

You wake up the next morning, so well rested, you’d think you slept on a bed of clouds and dreams.

John’s arms are draped loosely around your waist, his fingers just barely brushing your skin beneath the hem of your shirt. Bob’s head rests gently on your shoulder, his breath soft and warm against your neck, making you shiver even as you smile sleepily.

The sun is barely peeking through the curtains, casting a soft golden hue over the quiet living room.

You know you can’t stay here forever, so with great care and a ridiculous amount of flexibility, you begin to untangle yourself from their limbs.

You pause once or twice as Bob shifts slightly or John murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep, but they don’t wake.

It isn’t as easy as you’d think it’d be, especially once you realise you’re caught in a trap. John’s arms tighten around you in his sleep like you’re some kind of oversized teddy bear he refuses to part with.

And as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough for choosing this sleepover, Bob snuggles closer behind you. You feel the warm tickle of his breath against your neck as his nose nudges into your hair, his arm casually thrown across your side like it belongs there.

“Not you too,” you mutter, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to wiggle free. But with John locked on one side and Bob clinging to you like a sleepy koala, your options are severely limited.

It takes at least fifteen minutes before you finally manoeuvre your way out of the human bear trap that is your two oblivious teammates.

Once you’re out, you decide to have a little fun. You gently lift Bob’s head and nestle it against John's shoulder, shifting John's arm so it's draped protectively over Bob. The sight almost makes you stay.

Finally, you tuck a blanket around the two of them and step back, admiring your work with a sleepy smile. They looked peaceful. Safe.

You leave the room quietly, knowing full well someone, maybe Yelena or Bucky, would be the first to stumble in and find the two of them cuddled up like that.

They wake up hours later, the distant hum of activity signalling it’s definitely already afternoon.

“Walker?” Bob murmurs groggily, his voice rough with sleep, as he blinks at the ceiling. Then he turns his head and freezes, feeling John’s arm slung comfortably across his waist.

They both jolted upright like someone had hit a panic button.

“Nothing happened,” John says immediately, running a hand through his hair, eyes wide.

“Obviously,” Bob replies, a bit too fast, already scooting to the far end of the couch.

But any attempt at saving face is promptly ruined when Ava walks by with a mug in hand and a wicked grin.

“You two make a cute pair,” she teases without slowing, not even sparing them a second glance as she disappears down the hall.

They sit there for a beat, stunned, before Bob mutters, “Please tell me no one took pictures.”

John groans, rubbing his face. “We’re never hearing the end of this.”

***

The next few nights are tough. Worse than jetlag, worse than missions, worse than running on three hours of sleep and no espresso. You toss and turn like your sheets are made of sandpaper, pillow doing nothing to muffle the ache of absence beside you. You wanted to ask them, just once, to sleep beside you again. Just to see if it would help. Just to see if it meant anything.

But how were you supposed to do that? Knock on their door and go, "Sleep with me!"?

Mortifying.

Still, the restlessness was eating away at your nerves. So, gathering all the courage you can possibly muster, you decide maybe, just maybe, you’d go to both of their rooms and… ask. Or not ask. Maybe just stand there awkwardly until they read your mind.

You stumble out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and go to open your door—only to stop short at the sight of a tall brunette swaying nervously right in front of it, arm halfway raised to knock.

“Bob?” you whisper, blinking.

He jumps slightly, caught red-handed. “Oh… hey.”

You tilt your head, heart thudding. “What are you doing out here?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I was just… walking. Or, not really. Thinking. Or maybe… not sleeping.”

You smile, because yeah, you know exactly what that’s like. “Same.”

There’s a pause. The moment stretches, as you both tiptoe around the same thought. Then, finally, you take the leap.

“So do you… wanna stay in here?”

Bob’s eyes flick up to yours, and his smile is small, but relieved.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Both of you lie next to each other on your bed, talking about nothing and everything. It feels more comfortable, and you can feel your body starting to relax a bit.

But ten minutes later, there’s a knock on your door. You and Bob exchange a look, and you walk over to your door to see John standing there. He looks as tired as you are, eyes rimmed red, posture slack, like sleep has been eluding him for days.

John notices Bob already there, sitting cross-legged on your bed, half-wrapped in one of your throw blankets.

“I’m interrupting, aren’t I? I can—”

“Stay. Please, it’s okay. The more the merrier,” you say quickly, stepping aside. You were happy to see him, and judging by the soft smile tugging at Bob’s lips, so was he.

“So, I’m assuming you’re both here to sleep with me,” you start, watching as they both sit down on either side of you. They pause. Blink. The silence stretches, thick with implication.

“Well, you know what I mean,” you clarify, cheeks heating. “Sleep next to me. Next to each other in a totally platonic and cool friend way.”

“Yeah, like that…” John says, nodding way too seriously. “I actually slept really well when we crashed on the couch the other day, so…”

“Same,” Bob adds. “I… haven’t really slept since then. Not like real sleep.”

You look between the two of them, then glance at your bed.

“So… how are we all going to fit?”

There’s a beat of silence before John offers, “I’ll take the edge.”

“I don’t mind an edge either,” Bob shrugs. “Unless you want it.”

“I want pillows, that’s what I want,” you say, flopping backwards across the bed. “We’ll make it work.”

And somehow, you do. There's a bit of shifting, a tangle of limbs and blankets, someone’s foot ending up in the wrong place and being shoved off with a muttered complaint. You’re in a Bob and John sandwich, and it’s actually very comfortable. Just knowing that you didn’t have to fall asleep alone did more for you than you thought it would.

You smile to yourself and relax, the warmth of them on either side soothing you more than any blanket ever could.

“Are you guys asleep?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bob lets out a soft, “No,” and John follows with a groggy, “I was.”

“I thought of a name for us. We’re ‘insomniacs… with a z,’’ Good right?” you whisper with a grin, and though you can’t see his face in the dark, you know John rolled his eyes at that.

“You need to go to sleep,” Bob murmurs, leaning into you, his voice low and full of fondness.

You hum in response, already halfway to unconsciousness again, feeling his hand settle gently on your waist while John’s leg brushes yours under the covers.

***

For the next few nights, the three of you fall into an unspoken routine. Cramming into your bed, trading dumb jokes and half-whispered stories until sleep takes over. It’s oddly comforting. Easy. You've never slept better.

Sometimes when you’d walk in, John and Bob would already be there, lying next to each other, leaving just enough space for you, but close enough that their legs touched under the blanket. You saw it even if they didn’t. The way Bob’s shoulders relaxed just a little more when John was near. The way John’s usually guarded face softened around him. Bob’s quiet glances when he thought no one was looking. John’s compulsive need to take care of him, even in the smallest ways, like adjusting the blanket around Bob’s shoulders or handing him a snack before he could ask for one.

You even caught John absentmindedly running his fingers through Bob’s hair once, his other hand resting casually on your shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, for the three of you, it was.

It was your little (not-so-secret) secret. Until one morning when Bucky catches you all red-handed.

He rounds the corner, coffee mug in hand, just in time to catch John and Bob exiting your room. They're both rumpled and sleepy-eyed, Bob rubbing the back of his neck, John trying to quietly shut your door.

They both freeze when they see him.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, lips already twitching.

“It really isn’t what it looks like,” John says quickly, holding up his hands like he’s surrendering.

Bucky takes a slow sip from his mug, never breaking eye contact. “And I’m really not sure I want to know, Walker.”

Bob makes a small noise of protest, like he wants to clarify something, but then thinks better of it.

“But whatever helps you sleep at night,” Bucky deadpans, walking past them.

John takes a breath while Bob chokes on air.

Trying to eat breakfast after that was… an ordeal, to say the least. Ava was in the kitchen, minding her business but clearly listening, her facial expressions and raised brows doing all the talking. And Alexei (of course) was making himself at home, throwing not-so-subtle glances your way that made you want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Alexei comments casually, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Young people need warmth. Back in my day, we shared beds all the time for survival.”

“Right,” you mutter, pushing cereal around in your bowl.

“Nothing brings people closer than shared body heat,” he continues.

“Ugh…” you groan, dropping your spoon. But all this was worth it. You needed them in your bed… for completely platonic reasons. Obviously.

That night, you open the door to see John already leaning against the frame like he owns the place.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say with mock grandeur, stepping aside to let him in.

John heads straight to your bed, dropping onto it like it's his. He leans back, gets comfortable, then pauses—his brow furrowing.

“Have you been eating cookies in here?”

“…No,” you lie, a little too quickly.

John shifts, brushing a hand across the blanket with exaggerated suspicion. “I can feel the crumbs,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes, not wanting to hear the full lecture. “Okay, maybe one cookie. Or maybe it was more like… four.”

John sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly fighting the urge to launch into a full monologue about hygiene and cookie crumbs.

“I’m not sleeping in your cookie-infested bed,” he mutters, shooting you a look. “Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, used a plate instead of just rawdogging it with your comforter?”

“Who takes a plate of cookies to bed?” you argue, arms crossed, as if this is a totally reasonable lifestyle choice.

John just stares at you. “People who respect baked goods and their sheets,” he rebuts dryly, rubbing his temple like you’re this close to giving him a headache. “When Bob gets here, we’ll just go to my room instead.”

But ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

And still—no Bob.

You glance at the clock, then at John. “Think we should check on him?” you ask, the teasing drained from your voice now.

You were both beyond concerned.

Something wasn’t right.

John nods, and you follow behind him in silence, heart tight in your chest, hoping Bob’s alright.

“Bob? Are you in there?” John calls out, knocking once, then again, louder this time. But there’s no response.

He tries the handle. Unlocked.

Pushing the door open, you’re met with a rush of cold air. The window had been left wide open, the curtains fluttering slightly in the night breeze. The room is dim, quiet, and strangely still.

Then you see it—a Bob-shaped lump curled in the corner, knees drawn in, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hold something in… or keep everything else out.

“Bob?” you say gently, voice soft but urgent, as you and John step carefully inside.

He doesn’t move. Still cradled in the same position. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

The two of you lower yourselves to the floor, sitting near but not too close, not wanting to spook him, not wanting to leave him alone either.

“I’m fine,” Bob says after a long silence. His voice is thin. Flat. The kind of “fine” that clearly means anything but.

“This doesn’t look fine,” John replies quietly, a mix of concern and frustration in his voice.

You take in his dishevelled form—hair messy and clinging to his forehead, eyes wet with tears that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. His whole body looks like it’s holding something heavy, like whatever’s going on inside him is too much to carry alone.

“You can tell us when you’re ready,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the ache building in your chest. “But we’re not leaving you alone.”

“We’ll stay on the floor with you all night if we have to,” John adds, firm and honest, with no hesitation.

Bob looks between the two of you, eyes wide and shining, like the idea of someone staying is new and almost too much to believe.

“You don’t understand…” he whispers, voice cracking. “If I lose control... I don’t hurt just me. I hurt everyone.”

Bob closes his eyes, and the memories hit him like a freight train—what happened in New York flashing through his mind as vividly as if it were happening again. He can still hear the screams, the panic in the streets, the chaos he caused. What he became. The helplessness of knowing that at any moment, it could all slip again. He could become that thing. And there’d be no undoing it.

“Bob,” you say gently, grounding him, your voice pulling him back from the edge.

His glassy eyes flutter open to the sight of you and John. He could see that you cared, more than he was used to.

“If you lose control,” you continue, steady and unwavering, “every single one of us will be here to bring you back.”

“This will never be something you have to fight on your own. Never again,” John says, his voice thick with conviction.

And that’s when Bob breaks.

The weight he’s been carrying finally cracks, and he collapses into John’s arms, sobbing, raw and unfiltered. He reaches for your hand, grip tightens around it as soon as you find it.

You stay there, the three of you, only the sound of Bob’s soft, trembling breaths audible. No one rushes him. No one lets go.

By the time you’re all finally drifting into sleep, slouched against each other on the floor, the first light of morning is creeping through the window.

***

The next day is a lot brighter.

The whole team is sent out on a mission that almost goes smoothly, if you don’t count the narrowly avoided international incident and the flaming jeep that somehow ended up in a fountain. But no one’s seriously hurt, and considering the usual chaos, that’s practically a win.

By the time you all make it back to the tower, bones are aching, eyes are heavy, and moods are dangerously close to cranky.

Then someone smells it.

Food. Real food.

The delicious scent winds through the hallways. The team practically floats toward the kitchen on instinct, lured like cartoon characters by the promise of actual food.

You spot Bob at the stove, apron slightly crooked, sleeves rolled up, a little flushed from the heat. You rush over to him, ruffling his hair without hesitation.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, smiling.

“I felt better today,” Bob says, glancing at you shyly, then smiling a little more freely. “So… I thought this might help. Everyone seemed like they needed something good.”

His eyes flick briefly to John, who’s leaning against the doorway, watching with soft approval.

“Well, thank you. We really appreciate it,” John says. “Plus, it’s definitely better than whatever the hell Alexei made last week.”

Alexei pipes up from the table, “It was fusion.”

“It was a war crime,” Ava mutters.

Everyone laughs, the tension melting into the kind of easy camaraderie that doesn’t come often, but when it does, it means something.

The whole time you eat, you feel it, that strange warmth in your chest, like a string pulled gently taut between the three of you. You catch yourself looking forward to nightfall in a way you never used to.

Like clockwork, they enter your room that night, John with a tired smile, Bob already carrying a pillow under one arm like he’s making himself at home. You scoot over to make space as they settle in on either side of you.

“Can you both do something for me?” you ask softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Name it,” Bob replies without hesitation, already leaning closer.

“No judgment,” you say, a bit embarrassed, “but… can you run your fingers through my hair?”

There’s a beat of silence, then two sets of hands move almost simultaneously. No teasing. No questions. Just soft fingers brushing through your hair, careful and gentle.

You lean into their touch. Each stroke sends a calm shiver down your spine, melting tension from your body. You don’t mean to fall asleep, not that fast, but your eyes flutter shut and the weight of the day slips away before you even realise it.

“She’s been falling asleep a lot quicker lately,” John comments quietly, pulling the blanket up over you.

Bob nods, watching your steady breathing. “Yeah… think she just needed to feel safe.” His hand lingers for a moment, brushing a stray strand from your face before settling back. Then something happens that makes them question everything.

You moan.

“Did you…?” John starts with a mix of hesitation and curiosity, but he’s cut off when you mumble in your sleep.

“John…” you whisper softly, dream-heavy and far too sweet.

Both of them freeze. Bob’s hand goes still on the blanket, and John stares at you like you just hit him with a truck. You continue, a few more unintelligible whimpers slipping out. They’re soft, needy little sounds that make both men immediately and awkwardly alert.

Your brows scrunch in your sleep, and then another mumble: “Bob…so good…”

Their hands are completely out of your hair now, as though it burned them. They exchange a wide-eyed look.

“What’s happening?” Bob says, whispering like the room itself might judge him.

“She’s dreaming,” John mutters back, blinking at you. “But… of what exactly?”

“She said both our names.”

“I know.” A pause. “Do you think we should wake her up?”

“No,” Bob cuts in quickly, eyes fixed on you, like you might say something even more incriminating. “We should let her sleep.”

They both sit stiffly now, backs straight, trying very hard to think about anything else as you sigh contentedly in your sleep, clearly having a very different kind of night than they are.

“Whatever it is,” John finally mutters, “it must be really good.”

“Walker…” Bob says, voice low and barely above a whisper.

“I’m just saying,” John mutters, lifting his hands in defence. The blonde’s ears were still pink, eyes wide. “I’ve never heard her make noises like that. That had to be… something.”

Bob runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “Yeah, something. Something that included both of us.”

John sinks a little deeper into the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “That’s what I’m saying.”

You gasp softly in your sleep, a breathy “Holy shit…” slipping out before your voice finally fades into silence. Your breathing evens out, those needy little noises replaced by soft, peaceful snores.

They both freeze, eyes locked on you like you’re a live grenade in the middle of the bed.

And then, finally, you shift slightly and curl in, utterly unaware of the absolute panic you’ve left in your wake.

John exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s just… go to bed.”

“Goodnight, Walker,” Bob says, still sounding dazed.

They lay back down, each careful not to touch you or each other as if contact might electrocute them. They eventually fall asleep, but their minds? Nowhere near quiet. And between the memories of your sleep-talking and the unanswered questions hanging thick in the air, it ends up being the most uncomfortable restful night either of them has had.

***

The blankets rustle and shift, and you move closer to the two of them, shuffling about as you fight to get comfy.

“You need to stop moving,” John grumbles, his voice gravely as he's already half-asleep.

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you argue, shuffling over to press against Bob, who whines in protest.

“You really do need to stop moving like that,” Bob chimes in, his voice a little breathy, not entirely annoyed.

John’s hand finds your hip, firm but gentle, holding you still. “John…” you whisper, suddenly aware of how close his body is pressed against your back.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Do you want this as much as we do?”

You look between the two of them and let out a soft, shaky breath. “Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, and then John’s lips are at your neck, slow and deliberate. Bob’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you.

“Can I?” he asks gently, his eyes searching yours.

“Yes, Bob…”, you reply, and he leans in, your lips meeting in a kiss that’s careful at first, but quickly deepens. It’s a little messy, a little desperate, like he’s been waiting too long to do this. Pulling back, you gasp softly, breath mingling in the space between you.

Looking up at both of them, your words are a whisper, “I need you so bad.”

Your pleas are interrupted as John’s hands climb up your shirt and under your bra. It’s like everything he did was made to make you fall apart.

As if you weren’t overwhelmed enough, you feel Bob’s lips on your neck. His tongue tracing patterns, his lips kissing your sensitive spots so hard that it makes your toes curl.

Then suddenly all the touches stop, and you find yourself trying to catch up to the shift in the air. You’re about to open your mouth and whine about it when you notice them looking at each other.

It’s charged and quiet, electric, even.

Then John’s hand lifts, tentative, almost hesitant, and his fingers curl into Bob’s hair, like he’s done it before, or thought about doing it a thousand times. He leans in, and they kiss. It’s entrancing, the way their bodies shift toward each other like magnets finally giving in to the pull.

You’re sure you saw tongue.

Watching them kiss was a once in a lifetime experience and the fact that it was happening on top of you, “Holy shit…”

Was this heaven?

You wake up, still a little dazed from that crazy dream you had, but feeling refreshed nonetheless. But you can’t lie, you wanted (needed) to see the end of that dream, but life couldn’t be so easy.

As you start to shake off the haze, you’re expecting the usual warmth, an arm slung around your waist, maybe a leg tangled with yours. Instead, there's nothing but cold sheets and the sharp absence of closeness. Your hand stretches out and touches only air. You blink groggily and glance around to see both Bob and John at opposite ends of the bed, practically clinging to the edges like there’s a force field between them, and you.

You let out a big, unfiltered yawn, and both of them twitch. Like actual startled animals.

They exchange a glance above you, a rapid, silent conversation with widened eyes and furrowed brows before both sit up like someone just sounded an alarm.

“What’s up?” you ask, squinting at them suspiciously. “You two look like you just got caught doing something illegal.”

“N–nothing,” Bob stammers, eyes flicking to John, then back to the floor. “I should get going, though. Breakfast… cleaning… stuff.”

“Yeah, I’ve got training,” John says, not meeting your gaze either. “Mission later, gotta prep.”

“Guys?” you press, voice dipping slightly with confusion.

“I need to, uh, do some chores. Important chores. Early morning chores.” Bob’s words tumble out of his mouth clumsily as he untangles himself from your sheets. “I have to go.”

And just like that, they both bolt, practically tripping over each other in their haste to leave the room.

You're left blinking at the door, your head spinning.

“…What the hell just happened?” you mutter to no one.

Did you miss something? Or worse, did you do something?

Because whatever it was, they’re clearly spooked.

All day, they ignore you, and you’d never seen either of them act like this before.

John, who’s normally a chatterbox, could barely talk to you on the mission; it was like when it came to you, it was like he couldn’t even hear your voice. And Bob, sweet and usually glued to your side, sat across the room at dinner like being near you might set him on fire. Every time your eyes met, he looked away.

To make matters worse, they break their ‘Insomniacs with a z’ club commitment. You wait up at night, waiting for them to come, but they don’t. Midnight, 1 am, 2 am, and they’re still not here, so you lie down in your sheets on your cold and empty bed, trying to sleep. You can’t, though, it’s the first sleepless night in a while, and there’s no other reason than the fact that they’re not by your side.

You wake up alone again and with a mood. It was one thing if they didn’t want to do it anymore, but to drop you with no explanation wasn’t fair.

You were practically a walking sigh at this point.

Moping in the kitchen, tragically stirring your cereal like it personally offended you.

Moping in the gym, aimlessly walking on the treadmill like your heartbreak was some dramatic indie film montage.

You even moped in the laundry room, staring into the dryer like it could somehow spin your problems away.

And Yelena had had it.

“You want to talk?” she asked finally, catching you mid-mope as you stood in the hallway holding a half-folded towel like it was a fragile relic of a better time. “Because this sad little ghost routine is killing the vibe around here.”

You groaned, dragging the towel dramatically over your face. “They don’t want to sleep with me anymore.”

Yelena blinked. “Wait, what?”

You lowered the towel. “No—I mean—not like that.”

She arched a brow.

“I mean like… they used to come into my room. And sleep. With me. Next to me. It was a whole thing. We’d talk, they’d run their fingers through my hair, but no funny business, and now? Nothing. They’re avoiding me like I’m radioactive.”

“Well,” Yelena says dryly, “There’s only one way to fix it.”

“…How?”

“Easy. Corner them. Trap them. Use emotional honesty and eye contact. Or—if that fails—lock them in a room until they start talking like adults.”

You blinked.

“You’re a genius.”

“That’s what I keep telling people,” She gloats before she disappears down the hallway.

You just had to lure them in. That night, you send them a message that’s sure to have them running to you.

“Where’s the spider?” They ask, both rushing into your room at the same time.

You appear behind them, locking the door behind them, “Fools.”

They froze. Like deer in headlights.

Bob blinked first. “You… tricked us.”

“You sent a code red spider alert,” John added, accusatory, like that was the crime here.

“And it worked. You two aren’t leaving until I get some answers. So now, sit. Talk.”

They hesitated, glancing at each other like maybe, just maybe, one of them could break down the door and flee. But they decided not to test your wrath.

“Why didn’t you show up last night?” you repeated, slower this time, folding your arms like a disappointed parent. “You can’t just… vanish, and not just that, but you’ve been avoiding me. It’s been miserable.”

“Did I do something?” You ask quietly, and from the subtle little flinch, you know it’s true. “Oh…”

You suddenly feel self-conscious and start rubbing your arm to subconsciously comfort yourself. Bob then steps forward, unable to let you be so distressed. “It’s not really your fault. It’s not like you can control it.”

You tilt your head at him, confused, “Control what?”

They both take a deep breath, doing their whole little silent conversation thing before obviously deciding on something. “Your dreams,” John…

“My dreams–” You cut yourself off as your memories of last night's particularly steamy dream come to mind. Did you talk in your sleep?

“Did I.. Oh, I did, didn’t I?” You cry out before almost launching yourself into your bed headfirst.

“It’s not a big deal, I mean it’s understandable,” John says, gesturing to himself with his usual little grin. “I am kind of dream worthy.”

You want your bed to just swallow you whole. “This is unbelievable. I’ll never be able to get over this. This will quite literally haunt me for the rest of my life.”

You lie still like a plank, bathing in your self-pity before a question snaps you out of it.

“What happened exactly?” Bob asks, and your head snaps towards him.

“You want to know what happened in the dream?” You question, your mouth agape.

Rolling onto your front, you suck in air as you replay the dream in your head, both of them shirtless, Bob’s lips on your neck, John’s fingers rubbing your clit through your panties, watching them kiss. “I don’t think that‘s the best idea.”

“It involved a few things here and there…” You say hesitantly as you try to downplay it, but the way they were looking at you from either side of you.

“We want to know,” John says, sitting down next to you. At this point, they’re both crowding around you, and you thought you were the one supposed to be trapping them.

“Well, as you can probably guess, it was a sex dream.”

You twiddle your fingers as if that’s going to make things any better and delay the inevitable awkward silence.

“And we all kissed,” you finish, voice barely above a whisper.

“Like… we both kissed you or…” Bob asks, eyebrows raised, needing the clarification more than anything else, though his voice is gentler than you expected.

“We all kissed,” you reiterate, firmer this time, like saying it with more certainty would somehow make it less embarrassing.

Bob opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly processing before glancing over at John, who’s staring off, lost in thought, his brow furrowed as if trying to puzzle something out.

“Huh…” John finally says, scratching the back of his neck.

Bob exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… not what I expected, but, uh, not entirely unwelcome.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“So…” you begin, your voice quiet, unsure. You hesitate, wondering if you’re about to cross a line, if you're reading too much into the charged glances, the way they’ve both been orbiting closer each night. “Want to make it a reality?”

You almost regret the words the moment they’re out. But then, to your surprise, they both say yes.

You blink. They’re closer than you remember them being, shoulders brushing, heat pooling in the small space between the three of you.

They look at you, clearly unsure where to start. Taking things into your own hands, you reach for them gently, fingers threading into their hair. Bob’s hair is soft and slightly damp from a shower; John’s is shorter and messier, like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times today. They both look at you, wide-eyed, alert, hungry for your attention but waiting to be guided.

You kiss Bob first, slow, deliberate. He melts into it, moaning into your mouth like you're his salvation.

Then you turn to John. His kiss is different—deeper, more controlled—but just as wanting.

You pull back, eyes flicking between them, your hand still in John’s hair as you whisper, “Kiss him.”

They hesitate, eyes locked on each other. But only for a second.

Because they trust you and they trust each other.

You watch as they lean in, cautious at first, a brush of lips like testing the edge of something new. Again, another enlightening experience. It’s softer than when it happened in your dream, but no less passionate.

They pull apart to breathe, Bob laughing a little as he catches his breath. He catches the look on John’s face and immediately goes to explain himself.

“No, it’s just your beard is tickling my face,” Bob says with a shy smile.

Bob chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling.

John opens his mouth, about to apologise or say something, but Bob stops him gently.

“No, it’s okay… I like it,” Bob admits quietly.

They turn to you, noticing the way your eyes linger, how much you liked seeing them together.

“Oh, you really like that, huh?” John teases, a smug little grin on his face as he runs his fingers through your hair, right behind your ear, like he knows exactly how much that gets to you.

Bob leans in closer, voice softer but no less intense. “Didn’t know watching us would get you this worked up…”

Then, in a rush, like they can’t wait another second to get their hands back on you, they start removing their clothes. Shirts pulled off, pyjama pants too, movements frantic but focused.

You could scream.

It’s one thing to have one good-looking, shirtless man standing in front of you. It’s another to have two, both looking at you like you're the only thing in the room that matters.

You know exactly what they’d put in your autopsy report if you died right now:

“Cause of death: Abs.”

And honestly? Worth it.

It’s a mix of heat and motion, hands everywhere, so much that you don’t even know who’s touching you half the time. Fingers trailing your skin, lips brushing yours, pressure and pleasure blending until it’s all one glorious blur.

Your hands glide up and down Bob’s abs, firm and warm beneath your palms, while your lips trace along John’s bicep—so close you could just…

Before you know it, your teeth sink into him, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

“Did you just bite me?” John asks, blinking at you with a half-shocked, half-amused chuckle.

“Sorry,” you mumble, grinning. “Intrusive thoughts took over.”

“Bite me all you want,” he says, voice dropping low, “I can take it.”

Bob leans in from behind, his breath ghosting over your neck. “We both can.”

Just hearing that stole all the air from your lungs. In a flash, you’re lying on your back, as John ruts against you. You suspect he’s been hard ever since he and Bob made out, and you don’t blame him.

Bob’s on the sidelines, completely entranced by John railing you, his desire on full display. Without hesitating, you reach out and palm his cock in your hands. “Can I?” You ask, and Bob swears your lips have never been so inviting.

“Yeah, I…yeah.”

You take him into your mouth, with a kind of reverence that takes him by surprise.

When you feel the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, you gag, a well of spit dripping out of your mouth onto the bed.

“Doing so well,” Bob praises, watching you in awe, as he starts using your mouth more confidently. You moan desperately in response, and that’s all you're capable of right now.

It’s almost too hard to keep up with. And you swear you’ve never been more full in your life. Your eyes screwed shut in pure ecstacy as you try to breath through your nose... You can’t think.

“That’s a good girl,” John says as he pulls you close with each snap of his hips. You had to admit, you loved the praises they were giving you. Each one brings you that much closer to the edge.

Suddenly, you feel Bob’s cum flooding your mouth, his hand holding onto yours as he comes down from the high you had given him.

Then John pulls out of you, climbing off the bed and pulling the bottom half of your body with him.

“John…” You whine, needing him back inside of you as soon as possible, because how dare he deprive you of his touch for even a second?

“I know, I know... so impatient,” He laughs. You’re about to complain at him, but you’re interrupted by him getting on his knees, licking at your hole. “John!” You scream out. No part of you was expecting him to start eating you out. Every part of your body, is freaking out and your hands scramble until they find Bob.

As if to placate you, he kisses you, tongue invading your mouth just as John’s invades your pussy.

You and Bob pull apart, a line of saliva still connecting your mouths as John continues to wreak havoc on your sanity—hands, mouth, voice, all driving you further under.

“Need you, Bob,” you whisper, breath shaky, and your mouth finds his neck, lips and teeth leaving a trail of heat. You press open-mouthed kisses along his throat, then bite down, again and again, each mark deliberate.

Bruises blooming like constellations across his skin.

You always thought he’d look nice all marked up with love bites, gasping out your name like you’re all he needs.

And now you know he definitely does.

Just as you pull back to look at your masterpiece, John’s mouth pull away from your core only to be replaced with his cock.

You hold onto Bob as John starts fucking you, each thrust hitting your sensitive spot dead on. “Please, John… please,” you gasp, voice wrecked with need as your words dissolve into incoherent babbles. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore—his hands, his mouth, just more.

You feel him smirk against the back of your neck, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His grip tightens, steadying you.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and teasing in your ear. “But I like you like this—messy and desperate.”

"Please, fuck me harder," You whine, not caring what you needed to say to keep feeling this good.

Bob groans softly behind you, his breath hot as he presses kisses along your shoulder. “You should see yourself right now…”

And just like that, you're gone again.

“Please never stop,” You gasp out to both of them and with another thrust from John, your orgasm hits you so hard, you think you might be done for. “Fuck!” You cry out, your legs trembling as you slide down Bob’s body, landing in the sheets next to his thigh.

But John doesn’t stop, continuing to pound into it, not once losing pace. Damn that super solider serum. All your restraint and any trace of common sense were long gone. It had left the building as soon as their shirts came off.

You fade in and out, until you feel him fill you up with his cum, your name coming out of his mouth in pants.

John pulls out of you and immediately checks on you, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you puff out, chest rising and falling as you collapse onto your back, completely spent and dazed in the best possible way.

The room is warm with afterglow, breath and heat and tangled limbs. You barely register the sound of movement before John and Bob exchange a glance over you.

“Let me help you out,” John offers, seeing that Bob’s already half hard again.

“You sure?” Bob asks softly, hesitation in his voice. He didn’t want to inconvenience him, but the words falter when John moves closer, solid and warm, his presence filling the space between them.

“I’m sure,” John murmurs, voice low and steady, his hand finding Bob’s hip like it belonged there. His touch is grounding, confident, and it makes Bob melt under it, like everything he was holding tense finally lets go.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Bob adds, almost whispering.

John leans in, their foreheads brushing. “Maybe I want to.”

And with that, Bob exhales, letting him take control. His strong hands wrap around Bob’s dick, and Bob holds onto his arm, needing him so bad, he doesn't know what he’d do without him.

“Walker…John I—” He stutters as he moves his hips, thrusting into his hand with fervour. They look at one another. Bob’s eyes start glowing, the light pulsing with an intensity that feels almost alive. Unearthly, charged, and very imposing. It hums in the air between them, making John's chest tighten.

Afraid it might push Bob too far, might tip him into something he can’t come back from, John starts to pull away.

But Bob grabs him, firm, unyielding. “Don’t.”

It’s sharp, clipped, nothing like the sweet, careful way Bob usually speaks. The tension in his clenched jaw, the rawness in his voice, it’s not a plea. It’s a command. An order.

So John follows it.

He thrusts into John’s hand again and again, the control now flipped on its head, and John doesn’t mind one bit.

It was something else to see. Bob Reynolds, glowing, tense, his usual restraint stripped away. And still, like he was holding the universe back with his bare hands just to be gentle with him.

Then Bob’s eyes fall on you, intense and burning gold.

“Come here,” he says, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

He doesn’t wait for a response. You move, almost without thinking, drawn in by something magnetic and undeniable. You make your way over to him, and before you can even ask what he wants—

He’s kissing you. Like he’s been holding back for far too long.

John moves his hand away, letting Bob guide you until your back hits the bed.

“Are you ready?” Bob asks, smiling at you.

You consider your current position—John is beside you, lips trailing down one side of your neck, his hand firm on your waist. Bob’s cock is pushing against your hole, so close to giving you what you’ve been aching for. Your body is lit up like a live wire, and you feel like you might die.

And yet, heart racing—you let out a soft, breathy, “Yes.”

Bob pushes in slowly, and you find yourself mewling, John soothing you with his kisses. He starts slow, each thrust deeper than the last.

As you start to get used to it, he picks up the pace, just enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Everything about this—your sounds, your body, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing in the world—was making him lose control.

He didn’t know it could feel so... so good. Overwhelming, all-consuming, better than anything he'd imagined in the haze of lonely nights and quiet want.

His voice is rough when he speaks, barely more than a whisper:

“I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

And honestly, neither are you.

And when John starts rubbing your clit, it’s over for you. Your moans become higher-pitched until you whimper out, “Holy.. I’m gonna…”

A blinding orgasm hits you so hard, your back is arching off the bed. The sight is almost too much for them both, but especially Bob. When you come back down and relax against the bed, they both go back to touching you. Making sure you would have no peace while you’re with them.

Bob’s eyes glow again, and there’s a sharp cracking sound as a piece of your headboard is now somehow in his hand, splintered clean off without him even realising it.

Your eyes widen but there’s no time to focus on that, not while he’s fucking you into a new dimension.

A few moments later, your bedroom mirror shatters, fractured by the force of the moment as he loses himself in you completely.

He starts to hesitate, breath catching, the weight of everything creeping in, but then he feels John’s hand on his back, steady and grounding, soothing him.

“Keep going,” John says, and all Bob wants to do is listen.

He ruts into you, fingers digging into your hips so hard, you know they’re going to leave bruises.

Then Bob feels something, strong fingers threading into his hair as John pulls their lips together for the second time. This kiss is more desperate, more needy, like something inside him has snapped loose and there's no putting it back.

It’s messy and raw, and he doesn’t even try to slow down; his rhythm with you never falters, never once losing pace. You love a man who can multitask.

The kiss breaks only when breathlessness forces it, and Bob pulls back just slightly, eyes blown wide, lips swollen, his mind a complete daze.

“I’m close,” You tell him, and he moves faster, doubling his efforts to make you feel good.

“So perfect for us,” Bob says, matching his thrusts to how John was rubbing your clit. It feels too good to hear him say that. There’s something in the way he says us, the way his grip tightens on your waist… it makes you want to lose your mind. There was no holding on any longer, so you let go.

“I–” You start but cut yourself off with a guttural cry, as your climax rips through you. It’s like you're on fire with how the pleasure overcomes you. Your hip stutter against John’s hand, as your walls quiver around Bob’s cock.

The feeling of you orgasming around him became too much for him to bear, sending Bob into his own.

Bob finishes inside of you, his breath ragged as he buries his face in your neck, holding you tight as the last waves of his release shudder through him.

Your chest is heaving with effort and aftershocks, your body trembling, but this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

They're nowhere near done with you. You can feel it, see it in their eyes.

And when John leans in again, lips brushing your ear, voice low and wrecked with want, he murmurs, “Hope you weren’t planning on sleeping yet…”

They could and would go all night long.

***

The next morning, you wake up tangled in their embrace again, and you're happy.

Sore, thoroughly exhausted, slightly disoriented... but happy.

Your bedroom, however, looks like it barely survived the night—mirrors broken, half the headboard gone, and a John-shaped hole in the wall. You're honestly surprised anything’s still intact, especially the bed frame, though it gives a warning creak when you shift to slide out from under the pile of limbs.

You stretch, muscles aching in that oddly satisfying way, and glance back at the bed.

John’s arm is slung over Bob’s waist, both of them blissfully asleep. Hair messy, skin littered with red marks—some from you, some from each other. You can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips.

You didn’t quite know what this made the three of you now, but there was time to figure it out.

Eventually.

For now? This felt like a damn good place to start.

Masterlist

Tags

smut mcu thunderbolts bob reynolds x reader john walker x reader

1K notes View Post

ladyoftheworm

4 weeks ago

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 😘

Tags

the pitt jack abbot x reader

1K notes View Post

ladyoftheworm

2 weeks ago

ALWAYS WITHIN REACH

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 1.3k synopsis: Jason Todd doesn’t love loudly but he shows it with his constant presence and actions. a/n: To my anon who requested this, I love you and I loved writing this, but this made me feel so single. I need a man like Jason 😭

The first time you noticed it—really noticed it—was when you were heading out to grab a coffee.

You’d only grabbed your keys and a hoodie, ready to walk the two blocks to the corner store. The weather was mild, the streets quiet, and you hadn’t planned on being gone more than fifteen minutes. As you crouched to tie your laces, yawning mid-sentence, you called out lazily, “I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Want anything?”

Jason was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, blanket twisted around his legs. He’d groaned not five minutes ago about needing a nap and you figured he’d be out cold by now.

But then you heard the couch creak. He was sitting up.

“I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “You just said—”

“I’ll drive.” He was already pushing to his feet, reaching for his keys like it wasn’t up for debate.

You stared, baffled. “Jay, I’m literally going across the street.”

He didn’t seem to hear you—or more likely, chose not to. Shirt half-buttoned, boots barely tied, he grabbed his jacket in one hand and your fingers in the other, dragging you gently toward the door. You didn’t argue, mostly because you were still sleepy and not quite ready to match his brand of stubborn.

The drive took three minutes. He didn’t say much, just rested one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your skin like he needed the contact more than the caffeine. Even when he pulled up to the drive-thru window, when you took the drink with a grateful smile and settled back in your seat, Jason didn’t let go. He shifted the wheel easily with one hand, the other still anchored to you, thumb still stroking your skin.

You didn’t think much of it at the time.

The next time it happened, it was at the grocery store.

You were pushing the cart down an aisle while Jason trailed just behind, his hand warm and steady on the small of your back. It stayed there for most of the trip—absentminded, comforting. Sometimes he’d give a gentle nudge when you paused too long comparing brands, or he’d slide his fingers up your spine for no reason at all except to feel you there.

At one point, somewhere between the produce section and the towering shelves of canned goods, Jason muttered that he needed more protein powder. His voice was low and distracted, already halfway turned toward the far end of the store. He didn’t look back, thinking you were following but instead, you nodded vaguely and veered off toward the ice cream aisle, figuring you could cover more ground that way.

You moved slowly, eyes scanning the frosty rows of half-gallons and pints. The doors of the freezer hissed quietly as you opened one, cool air spilling out as your reached for two pints, debating between cookie dough and mint chocolate chip.

You weren’t even half way through the aisle when you felt him behind you again.

His arms sliding around your waist and wrapping you up without a word. The warmth of him sank through your hoodie, his body pressing close to yours. A moment later, the weight of his head dropped gently onto your shoulder. His breath ghosted over the curve of your neck, soft and steady, the contrast to the chilled air in front of you making your skin prickle.

Leaning back into him just a little, you tilted your head, angling for a glimpse of his face, searching for something—an explanation, maybe. But all you found was the slope of his brow pressed close to your temple, his mouth relaxed, his lashes lowered like he might stay there forever if you let him.

“You okay?” you murmured.

He gave the smallest of nods, the movement brushing his cheek against yours. You stayed like that for a moment longer, Eventually, your fingers drifted toward the freezer door again, and you began to move. His arms loosened, but just enough to let you walk without pulling fully away. One of his hands slid down, fingers catching yours, while his other reached for the cart, reclaiming it without comment, guiding it forward to where you wanted to go.

And that’s when you started to see the pattern.

Jason always walked on the side closest to the street, his body subtly shifting until you were on the inside of the sidewalk, sheltered from traffic. Every single time. Even if it meant cutting mid-conversation to switch sides, or gently tugging you across with a hand to your waist or a brush of fingers against your wrist. It didn’t matter how casual the outing—he’d never let you walk street-side.

He held doors open without thinking, reaching out before you could even touch the handle. And whenever you were out together, his hand was never far. Sometimes laced through yours like second nature, your fingers intertwined as you walked in step. Other times, it rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through doorways, around corners, through crowds.

He insisted on coming with you for errands. Always. It didn’t matter how mundane the task or how quick the trip—Jason was already pulling on his jacket before you finished asking, sometimes you didn’t even have to. And he never complained. Not once. Didn’t check his phone or sigh impatiently. He carried the bags. He waited while you debated between brands of ice cream. Even standing in line, he’d hook a finger through your belt loop and tug you back against him, chin on your shoulder, arms looped loosely around your waist as you two waited.

At gas stations, he always got out with you—even if all you were doing was grabbing gum and a drink. He filled the tank, too, waving off your protests with a quiet, “I got it.” In bookstores, he trailed behind you with a hand on your back, the other juggling the growing stack of titles you kept passing him with a sheepish smile. He never complained about those either.

In crowded spaces, his arm always found its way around your waist or over your shoulders, pulling you into his side without a word.

And when you ran into people you knew—coworkers, old classmates, friends of friends—he didn’t interrupt or try to charm them. He didn’t puff up or shrink away, instead he seemed content to speak when spoken to. Otherwise he was content to stand at your side. One hand stayed low on your back, rubbing soothing circles.

They often stared at him warily—he was hard not to notice, after all. Tall, sharp-jawed, rough-edged. And yet, despite how intimidating everyone else found him, Jason was soft with you. Protective, yes. But never overbearing. He didn’t tell you what to do or try to keep you in a box made of fear. He just wanted to stay close.

It was subtle, but constant. And the truth was…you kind of loved it.

He was protective in the kind of way that didn’t feel like a cage—it felt like shelter. Like he needed to keep you close not because he didn’t trust you or because he thought you were weak. He stayed close because he knew what the world could be like. He didn’t want to control you. He just didn’t want to lose you.

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was why, no matter where you were or what you were doing, you never had to reach far to find him. In a room full of people, he was there. Even in sleep, he found you. Always.

Because while the world knew Jason as the Red Hood—fearless, violent, deadly—you knew this version. The one who always held your hand, who never let you walk alone, whose constant presence promised you that he was always there for you.

And in the spaces between who he was and how the world saw him, you found the truth of him. A man who had lived through hell, and loved you like it was his personal vow.

Tags

dc jason todd x reader

1K notes View Post

ladyoftheworm

1 week ago

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.

Tags

smut mcu thunderbolts john walker x reader

363 notes View Post

ladyoftheworm

3 weeks ago

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)

warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)

Short Skirt Weather ; Robert 'bob' Floyd

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.

Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.

But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.

You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.

And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.

“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”

Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”

“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.

Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.

He lives for it.

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.

Where Bob is.

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.

“Wow,” he chuckles softly.

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”

He blinks fast. “No.”

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”

Your brows shoot up. “That so?”

He nods.

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”

His eyes snap open. “Huh?”

“Want to fuck me?”

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.

Well... almost everyone.

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.

Which means he’s definitely listening.

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”

Your heart stutters.

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.

Bob stills for a beat. Just one.

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”

You swear your knees nearly give.

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”

“Copy,” Jake replies.

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”

You and Jake return to formation without issue.

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”

Unfortunately, later never comes.

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.

“Wow,” he mutters.

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.”

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”

“Trev!”

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”

“What am I?” she asks.

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”

He freezes.

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.

And then you feel it.

Oh.

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”

They all look at you, confused.

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.

You frown. “What?”

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.”

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.

Everyone falls silent.

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”

There’s a pause. An awkward pause.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.

- Bob -

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”

“I know,” Bob huffs.

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.

He barely sleeps that night.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’

An hour passes. Nothing.

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.

It’s worse—because it’s you.

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.

“I—uh, Trevor?”

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”

“What?”

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?

- You -

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”

Trevor gasps—loudly.

“But he said no.”

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”

“Because he has laundry to do.”

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.

“Trevor…”

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.

But deep down, you know the truth.

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.

You give her a tight smile.

“Feeling any better?”

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely.

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.

“Vex—” he tries again.

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.

Your heart lurches.

Terrain. Too close. Too fast.

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.

You’re not going to make it.

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.

Then—freefall.

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.

But you’re too low. Far too low.

You don’t even have time to brace.

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.

White-hot pain detonates through you.

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.

And then… everything goes still.

Muted.

Quiet.

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.

Great. Another win.

Two whole days pass, and still no word.

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.

Even if it kills you.

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.

“What are you doing here?”

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”

His brow creases. “You do?”

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”

He laughs again, broken this time.

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.

“Love?” you whisper.

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”

Your heart lurches into your throat.

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.

He blinks. “What?”

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.

You nod. “Hangman.”

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.

“I know I had no right,” he mutters.

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

Tags

top gun maverick tbr bob floyd x reader

2K notes View Post

ladyoftheworm

2 weeks ago

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.

Tags

top gun maverick lewis pullman bob floyd x reader

5K notes View Post

ladyoftheworm

2 weeks ago

Writing Worksheets: Magic & Rituals

St John's Eve Bonfire on Skagen's Beach (detail)
Peder Severin Kroyer
1906

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

Tags

writing help

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ladyoftheworm

2 weeks ago

DIY ~ rop!elrond x reader

so I have no excuse here

I promised myself that when Breathe got to 400 notes I would post another elrond fic I have hidden away (there's thousands of words of the stuff) and that happened yesterday! so have this!

modern au

word count: 806 words (a baby)

warnings: elrond is doing diy. need I say more

(not my image but I can't remember who's it is)

“Do you want a cup of tea, love?”

“Isn’t it a bit-” you cut yourself off as you look up from your book, seeing your fiancé Elrond leaning against the doorframe, “… hot.” He smiles softly at you which does nothing to help the butterflies stirring in your stomach, and sways a little where he stands with one arm holding onto the top beam of the frame. At some point he’d taken his flannel shirt off, obviously too warm in the current heatwave, so he’s just in the white vest he’d put on underneath. You try not to stare too much at his arms that are very much on show (the way he’s holding onto the doorframe does everything to make his muscles look more defined), and try to remember what his question was.

“Maybe,” he says, pushing off the doorframe to stand just inside the living room and shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. You’re grateful that he’s moved, but it’s almost as though you’ve gone from the frying pan and into the fire. The way he’s slightly slouched with his curls out of place (they’d previously been hidden by the low height of the door) has your breath hitching in your throat. “I can get you something else if you like, my love?”

“Uh…” you swallow thickly, pretending your throat is dry from the heat of the weather and not from the way your fiancé is looking at you. “Water would be good?”

“Yeah?” He’s noticed that you’re not quite your normal self and steps towards you, pulling a hand out of his pocket to drag it through his mess of curls. You know that he is fully aware of what that action does to you, and you catch his stupid grin as he stops at your feet and sinks down to one knee. You’re reminded of the last time you were in this position: you sat on your favourite bench in the park, secluded while he proposes. This time he’s got a different look in his eyes though, and when he takes your hand to press a kiss to the back of it he doesn’t break your gaze. “Anything else?” Christ, his voice has gone low.

“Just- just the water.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, turning your hand in his so he can kiss the inside of your wrist.

“How’s the table?” Elrond lifts his head but doesn’t let go of your hand, and you almost wish you’d just asked him to get the water because you’re growing warmer by the second.

“It’s getting there, it just got a bit hot working out in the sun so I thought I’d take a break. I’m nearly done now though.” You can tell he’s warm from the sweat on his forehead, the sheen covering his arms, and the little bit of chest exposed by the low neckline of the vest, and it makes the butterflies stir even more.

“Are you sure it’s gonna be stable?” You’re teasing him, trying to get a reaction. You know that his DIY skills are actually really good; it’s why you get him to do so many (and definitely not so you can linger near him and stare).

“Well, we can always test it,” he says, trailing his fingers a little further up your wrist. Being engaged has clearly altered Elrond’s confidence levels, because his tone tells you that he’s insinuating something other than just putting heavy books on it.

“Test?” You properly close your book now, manoeuvring the one free hand you have to put your bookmark in and placing it to the side so that you can lean forward. “Test it how?” You reach up to tuck a stray curl back, letting your fingers linger in his hair.

“Well I imagine if it can hold your sewing machine and all your craft supplies it should be alright.” It’s not the answer you were expecting, but you can’t think properly now that he’s sat forward close enough that you can start counting the freckles on his cheeks. His free hand comes to your knee, resting on the fabric of your thin skirt and slowly moving his hand higher. “We wouldn’t want the legs to give out, would we?”

Your breath hitches and you know he hears it from the way his hand on your leg tightens slightly, and you inch your head forward a little. “Elrond, I-”

“I should grab your water,” he says suddenly, pulling back and standing. You stare up at him in incredulity as he heads to the kitchen, and scoff.

“You’re an arsehole, Elrond,” you call after him, throwing yourself back against the pillows. You hear him laugh and mutter something and lay there for a moment more before following him, wrapping your arms around him until he gives in and plants a kiss on your mouth.

Tags

lotr elrond x reader

37 notes View Post

ladyoftheworm

3 weeks ago

ask me and i'm there | masterlist

— summary: There's a shelf in Jack Abbot's head with all of the things he stores to deal with later. It's concerning how many of those things have to do with you.

— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but assumption is reader is late 20s and up while jack is mid-40s, not as pertinent to the plot but its there), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, grief, medical inaccuracies, eventual smut, mild sexual content, jack abbot and city girl being the best at doing everything but admitting feelings <3

*amount of chapters and titles are subject to change depending on my mood ;)

part one: bias

part two: where you are

part three: the lonely fight

part four: new faces in the dark

part five: holding on

part six: silver springs

part seven: into the feeling

extra:

Knicks in the playoffs (drabble)

a/n: the amount of love and support that this has gotten has been so mind-blowing. i read all of it and want you all to know that you have fueled my love for this story. thank you all for reading :)

this story is named after a fleetwood mac lyric, because he is so fleetwood mac coded to me.

Tags

series the pitt jack abbot x reader

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