#He's such an ugly little thing I love him so much | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 29 days ago

Text

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.

#bob floyd #robert bob floyd #top gun maverick #top gun #lewis pullman #bob x reader #bob floyd x reader #robert floyd #top gun x reader #maverick #lewis pullman x reader #imagine #one shot #oneshot #fanfic #robert floyd x reader

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madamechrissy · 19 days ago

Text

Sex, Lies, Ugly Truth

art in the banner is by @3-aem ! god they make the juiciest art, go follow <3

Pairings - Your mom's boyfriend Satoru x F! reader

Summary- here's just one thing worse than having to stay with your estranged mom for just a few days while your apartment is getting renovated - and that's the six foot four white haired man banging her out every night. And does he own a fucking shirt!? You can't stand being around them, your mom's much younger boyfriend who's closer to your age. What's worse is... you liked him first. He's arrogant, annoying and you're disgusted by him - he doesn't actually make you wet that's... nothing!? And you don't want to fuck him, not at all! No way you wanna fuck your bitch ass mom's boyfriend. right?

Warnings - oh boyyy aha, forbidden love, abusive mother (reader) mentions of past eating disorders, verbal abuse from reader's mom, sm tension and build up, sex doesn't happen till after Toru tells your mom byeee, but fingering does happen before that, oral (f and m receiving) backshots while on the phone with your mom -yeppp - damaged ass reader and Satoru, they have issues, hints of stepcest I guess but he's not rly your stepdad lol, Satoru is 32, reader is 22 so AGE GAP, reader calling him daddy as a joke - maybe. Oneshot - WC - 13.2k

This is literally so toxic aha, my mommy issues haven't gone away. read the warnings! and if you fuck with this brand of crazy, I'll see you in the comments

The first day staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

Staying at your mom's for a couple weeks was horrible to say the very least, not just because she was an insane bitch, and not just because you swore you'd never come back here. Not because the memories of being in your old room - transformed into a mural of her pictures and crowns from various pageants she’d been in, you think she changed it the same day you left.

No, not because you love having your freedom, and busted your ass to make sure you never have had to stay here, not because you hadn’t talked to her in so long you have no clue what to say to each other. And not just due to the fact that she was only allowing you here because your father called and asked her to do one favor for once - he lived way too far away.

No, there was another reason that you were miserable, and that was the moans emanating from the next room.

How many rounds could that man go?

And did she have to scream so loud!?!

You slam a pillow on your face, screaming into it while your mom is screaming out - Gojo! There, there! - and then to make it worse, you hear a filthy smack. You feel nauseated at this point, about to throw up if you had to hear one more moan, when finally he seems to finish up.

Jesus, that was a longer session than usual. Does the man do anything but fuck you’re really not certain. Huffing, you throw off the covers of the little futon she’d so graciously brought out, the woman was well off, mind you, but none of that ever helped you any. You wonder if he’s after her money or something, because he was gorgeous, but you suppose your mother was as well.

It still seemed odd, he wasn’t much older than you, but it’s not as if your mom wasn’t notorious for fucking younger guys - even some of your high school friends as soon as they turned eighteen. That was one of the reasons your dad moved out of the country, and you couldn’t blame him for it, she was by far the worst human being, but everyone didn’t know that.

In fact, it was really only you and your dad, along with a couple close friends of yours that knew how horrible she was. Keeping custody of you - for ‘appearances’ - had been hell. But everyone saw her as the ideal, doting mother - after all she spent all her time taking you to every competition there was, and made sure you looked and acted perfect for them.

As soon as you shed the ‘perfect image’ she decided to quit acting.

Shaking off reminiscent thoughts, you get up now and walk over to the door, glaring at the endless photos of her in bikinis and gowns, no one loved themselves more than your mother did, truly. You peek out and notice it’s finally gone quiet in that room, heading to the kitchen to grab a water, downing it to fight back the nausea.

That’s when he walks out, smirking at you, shirtless, nothing but boxers slung over his narrow hips - the reason this was even worse for you.

Satoru Gojo.

"Gimme, I'm dehydrated." This mother fucker snatches the watter bottle then, gulping it down, you watch his Adam's apple Bob as he does, sweat dripping across perfectly sculpted abs. You stare for a moment as your mom walks out, or should you say waddled out, glaring at you now.

"Gojo, come back to bed." She doesn't acknowledge you, and Satoru frowns a bit, the never ending tension between you two prevalent. Satoru actually never knew she had a daughter till he saw you come to the house yesterday, but she sure doesn't seem to have any affection- in fact she hasn't even introduced you properly to him, it was more - this is my daughter.

"Need a break." Gojo says, you bend down to snatch up your bottle, and he can't help but eye your ass in those shorts, looking away quickly now.

There was a big problem staying at his girlfriend’s house for the past couple nights, and that was -

Satoru wants to fuck his girlfriend's daughter.

His girlfriend is forty five, Satoru is thirty two. And it just so happens you're twenty two, so you’re honestly closer to his age just a bit, but Satoru loves older women, he loves milfs, girls his age or younger were never much interest. He probably has mommy issues, no, he definitely does, there's nothing better than having his head stroked and having a meal made for him after fucking a Milf's brains out-

Except, maybe, getting to ever touch you.

Gorgeous. You're so gorgeous, effortless and seemingly unaware.

You dress in all black, the opposite of what he expected with your mother who was literally beauty pageant winner for her state for years, her crowns are displayed everywhere. But not a single picture of you to be found, and you'd win them all too with your beauty. But you seem to shove it all away, baggy shirts and ripped jeans, you have not a speck of makeup on your face. Big buffalo plaid jackets as if to hide a body he now sees is fucking banging.

Your mom scowls over at you as she ties her robe. "Stop bothering him and go to your room."

"I just got water because hearing you all fuck for hours was making me sick. I'm not bothering him. He took my water."

"I don't care, when are you leaving again?" You blink a bit.

"I told you it's just a week while they're fixing that roof leak, and I won't bother you again. I'd have asked dad but I can't be that far from work."

"The sooner the better, and don't judge me for having a life, my sentence of you is over now." Satoru pauses, the woman he's been with for months was always sweet and perfect, until you got here.

Seeing your eyes water he clears his throat. "She wasn't bothering me, I did snatch her water up."

Your mom's face has plastered back on a fake smile, the beauty queen smile that’s so cold it makes you shiver, as she brushes up and down Satoru's bare arm, you hate how pretty he is. How much you think of him, and how her hand is all over him, it makes your stomach turn.

"You're right, sorry sweetie I'm just tired." She cooes, all fake she comes and hugs you. Satoru frowns, hoping he read that wrong, you stand still, unmoving, eyeing him over your mom's shoulder then. "I'll try to be quieter -" she leans against your ear. "So you're not so jealous of me hmm?"

You bite back tears, shoving her off. Satoru hadn't heard anything so he has no clue as she comes up to him that you're sobbing in your room. You almost forgot how much you hate that bitch. Yes, you hate your mother. Who pushed you beyond your means to compete when you were younger, damn near starving and working you to perfection, and when you turned eighteen and threw all your tiaras in the trash, lit your gowns and sashes on fire, she never fucking forgave you.

You haven't talked to her in four years, tired of living in her goddamn shadow, your father left her ten years ago and you see why. He hates her as much as you. They fought all the time over letting you have a choice of who to move with, but she ultimately won custody.

And now she takes the guy you were thinking of working up the courage to talk to.

Satoru Gojo.

You saw him every day as you studied at that coffee shop right by your college, flirting with everyone, so light and free with his bright smile and confidence, while you wallowed in the corner. But you never did say hi, you're sure he never saw you, but to come home and find him shirtless and grinning was almost too much.

Your apartment unfortunately had a horrible leak upstairs and you had to leave, this was the last place you expected but it was right across from work. Never asking her for a thing you hoped maybe you could mend some bridges, but she's as cruel, beautiful and cold as ever. As a younger girl, you craved to have any of her attention, looked up to her, but now you know it’s not worth anything.

Maybe that's the type of woman a guy like Satoru Gojo went for, not you.

What did it matter!? He’s as off limits as it gets.

You hear them moaning again and shove in your earbuds, throwing a blanket over your head and praying for the week to end.

*****

Three days of staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

“Shit, sorry…” You’ve stepped right into the bathroom while Satoru’s walking out the next morning, skin glistening with the shower he just took, steam rising out of the door behind him. He smirks down at you as you careen into him damn near, hitting his hard body and almost falling before he catches you.

“Sorry for what?” He sets you right, lazy in his assessment of your face, blue eyes impossible to read, while your eyes drift across his nearly naked body, falling to the towel that’s not hiding shit, bringing a flush to your cheeks. “What, never seen a naked man? You freak out all the time.”

“Well if you ever wore any fucking clothes,” you shove him out of your way, scowling at his smirking face. “What?”

“You’re cute. Bet you’re a whole virgin.”

“Oh fuck yourself, none of your business, fucking Mrs. Robinson.” Satoru chuckles now while your hands brush against his slippery skin a little too long, making him pause, seeing color decorate your cheeks. He falters then, looking down at you, so clearly unused to any attention, clearing your throat and dropping your hand.

“How do you know what Mrs. Robinson is, you’re a baby.” He teases, arm resting in the doorway, that towel daring to dive lower with every moment, you avert your eyes now, digging out your makeup bag from the drawer to wash your face.

“You’re not much older than me, right?”

“Ten years older. You’re still a baby.”

“I’m closer to you than she is.” He blinks a bit, you wish he’d leave, but he’s just lingering like a little fucking pest.

“I guess. You’re nothing like her.” You scoff then, he didn’t mean it as an insult but he sees it is one, your jaw setting while you dry your face with a soft towel, and fuck if you’re not prettier bare faced than anyone he’s seen with a face full of product.

He shouldn’t think like that.

“I’m definitely nothing like her.”

“You don’t call her mom, huh?” He raises a brow, while you’re slathering serum on your skin, cool and tacky as it dries, counteracting the steam and the overheating of your skin from his proximity.

“No, I don’t. It’s none of your business, you all will be back to an empty love shack in days.”

Satoru chuckles then, shaking his head as you glare up at him. “Love shack, what’s with these old ass references?”

“I enjoy old things too, just like you enjoy old women.” He snorts now, rolling his eyes.

“She’s not old to me, one day you’ll be there too.”

“Sure will and won’t be fucking dudes that look like babies.” Satoru leans forward then, that perfect, pretty face right against yours, you freeze when he tilts your chin up, breath brushing across your lips.

“I’m no baby.” His whisper is too much, you swallow nervously, stepping back while he wreaks havoc on your nervous system, heart hammering when his snowy lashes lower, hand falling. “Why do you care what she does and with who?”

“I don’t. But I am not surprised, she was a hit at the high school graduation party.” He blinks in confusion at your words, you shake your head now. “You’re new to her. I almost feel bad for you.”

“Do you now…” You shove him aside, hating how good his skin feels again, hating whatever the fuck he does to your tummy being too close, shoving those thoughts far back.

“I do, she runs through toys like you.”

“We’re dating, not just fucking, you know.” Your lips quirk up, patting his shoulder, only for him to grip your wrist with his huge hand, taking it over, pausing your steps. You turn back to glare at his grip, then up into those arrogant eyes. “You know something I don’t?”

“Let’s just say, she’s a bitch.” You shake him off again. “But you are too.”

“Me!? You’re the mopey, emo little brat glaring daggers at me, sweetheart.” His voice murmurs, his breath against your skin as he leans down, you yank your wrist out of his grip.

“Don’t call me sweetheart!” You hiss as the bedroom door opens, as you two quickly separate, but she’s eyed your proximity, smiling coldly as she assesses you, the look that’s always made you feel so small, holds less than it did before, but it’s still there, the haunting memory of it all.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” She says it so nasty to you then, you just glare once more at Satoru and nod, walking past, her hand halting you, her mouth against your ear, making you shiver in disgust. “Stop looking at him, you’ll never have someone like that.”

“I don’t want him.” You whisper back, earning her laugh now, while she fake hugs you, and you just want to fucking fall into a hole.

“Have a great day, honey!” She smiles and steps forward to Satoru, you can’t stop looking back over your shoulder at them, sighing when his eyes catch yours over her shoulder, unreadable - but you swear you see something flicker.

You can’t even think that way.

You’re stupid.

*****

Five days of staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

The man does not own a tee-shirt, you’re completely convinced - he’s always half naked, as if this is how he exists. Well, he clearly has dress shirts, he wears them when he heads off to run his business, you’re not even sure what that job entails, apparently some trust fund baby considering he’s never there. He left for the past couple of nights to go home, thank god.

When he does he brings her with him and she doesn’t come back until late, driven home in some fancy limo, but you get a reprieve.

You suppose he looks good in his Armani suits as he leaves every morning though, always getting some breakfast made from ‘mommy’- yuck. You have to watch them kissing in the kitchen as you fight waves of nausea, but the past couple days you haven’t heard that ridiculous fucking, and he barely kisses her, eyeing you intently when he does press his lips on her cheek.

“Satoru, do you have to go to work today?” She pouts as she blinks those long lashes at him, and he sighs, smiling and touching her cheek, as you vividly wish it was you, which you hate yourself for. You avoid his eyes, sipping on coffee before you head to work yourself.

“I do honey, don’t worry I’ll come stay tonight.” She pouts again, he just smiles a little stiffly, walking out as you head out the door, hands touching the knob at the same time, making you both pause. You clear your throat, pulling your hand back like it’s on fire, as he lets you out first, feeling your mom’s gaze burning a hole in the back of your head.

“Want a ride to work?” He asks quietly, heading over to the black car with a driver holding the back door.

“You don’t drive, huh?”

“Why should I when I can pay someone too.” His pretentious smirk again has you itching to smack him, but the thought of not having to catch a bus is tempting. “You know you wanna.”

“Whatever. Thanks I guess.” He bows as if he’s some gentleman and not an idiot, you slide in next to him, sighing as his thighs spread way too far, brushing against yours. “Manspread much?”

“You hate me don’t you?” You blink in confusion, looking away and biting that lower lip, the lip that fucks him up mentally to look at. Being this close to you alone is making his body react, his pulse racing, even as he keeps a neutral look, he aches to drag your lips against his.

He’s been trying to avoid you since that morning in the bathroom when you touched his chest, burning his skin like a brand. The pull is too much, to where he can hardly remember what he was thinking with your mom. She’s gorgeous, she’s his type, she’s got everything Satoru needs after spending the day at his boring ass family company, but her daughter won’t stop tempting him.

How he saw your breasts spill out of your tank top this morning, your scent that he can’t describe filling a room, it’s all horrible - and shit timing, as now your mom has been talking about getting more serious. Before he saw you, he was hopelessly enamored with her beauty, her clear confidence, but he can’t stop looking at the shy, insecure girl far too eagerly.

He’d show you how gorgeous you were if he had a chance-

The fuck is wrong with him?

You’re her daughter.

“I don’t hate you, Gojo.” You say softly, turning to look up at him now, so much pain behind your eyes it nearly takes his breath away.

“You sure act like it.”

“I know. I have to.” You clear your throat nervously, tucking strands of hair behind your ear, his fingers itching to sweep it back, breath catching when you look up at him, eyes so intense he can’t look away.

“Why do you have to hate me?” He asks quietly again, trying to remember - you’re young, you’re his girl’s daughter, while you remember, he’s your mom’s boyfriend, and you can never act on anything.

“You know the answer,” you whisper, leaning forward a bit, when he leans down, the car cruising gently through the busy streets, entrapping you both in the black tinted windows. “Don’t you?”

“Do I? Seems like you hate her, and I’m hated by default,” he brushes that hair back finally, the contact bringing heat to your cheek, he feels it against his fingers, exhaling when you don’t pull back. “Do you have a good reason to hate her?”

“I do.”

“What-” The car comes to a stop now, jostling you just a bit, as the driver apologizes for hitting the brakes too hard, throwing you right against Satoru’s hard body, you inhale that cologne, expensive and musky, almost making you salivate before he pulls back a bit. “Shit, you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” You pull back before it feels good, sliding away again and looking out the dark window. “It’s too long of a story.”

“We have a drive to talk.” He wants to talk to you, fuck he wants to do a lot more than talk, last night he’d seen you when he tried to fuck her, and he had to stop, much to her irritation.

He kept fighting the need to jerk it to the memory of your pretty tits, to picture you instead of her, to shove it all down and try to remember himself.

He’d be glad when you weren’t around, tempting him.

“It’s too much to even begin, but… let’s just say living in her shadow, and with her expectations were brutal.” Satoru tilts his head, big hands on his own thighs, sitting still so as not to further touch you, or do more. “I gave up pageants when I turned eighteen and she disowned me.’

“You did them?” He asks softly, you sigh and turn to look back at him.

“Yeah, since I was three. I… don’t wanna get into it all.” He sighs, was it just that your mother was so upset you gave up on her dream? It felt like more. “I don’t hate you though. Okay? Aside from constantly making her scream out like some goat-” he bursts into laughter then, making your eyes narrow. “And never wearing a shirt.”

“You really hate that.” He muses, you want to tell him more about her, but he’s not your therapist, not your friend, and as much as you despise your mother, it’s just not your place to spill it all. So you leave it at that, sighing and pulling out your phone, checking the time.

“Besides all of that you’re okay I guess.”

He smirks just a bit. “I’ll take it.”

“I will never call you step dad.”

“Oh god, fuck I hope you won’t.” You both laugh it off a bit, the tension, the unspoken words in the air, as you slip into a soft silence, the two of you busying yourselves now, both trying to ignore it. Whispering in your minds - it’ll be over soon.

*****

One week of staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

The amount of stress your mother puts you through is unreal, when Satoru is there at least she puts on enough of a show not to do too much in front of him, as to appear perfect. You went out with a few friends for the night - a much needed getaway, and free drinks - sounds like the perfect remedy for dealing with her bitchiness.

You wish you just had some extra money for a hotel, but you just paid all your bills and pay day is a couple days away. As soon as that came in you were going to just grab a hotel for the last couple of days - they are stupid expensive with the holiday right now, but anything was worth leaving her as quickly as you can.

Stumbling in, your mother eyes your clothes with disdain. “You look like a slut.”

You snort in laughter at that, opening the fridge and grabbing another drink out, the seltzers you bought to knock out at night when you had to hear her and Satoru fucking. You crack it open and sit on a chair, crossing your legs that are well revealed in the dress that does barely cover anything. You look hot as fuck though, you already know it.

“Says the woman who had like an entire frat run a train on her in her forties?” You raise a brow, and your mom smacks you right in the face, you smile nastily at her. “Ya mad your ass can’t wear this shit anymore?”

“You’re a stupid little bitch, everything I did for you - and you turn out like this?”

“What, work for a living? A degree? How’d I turn out so bad.” You swipe your cheek then, and her gaze drifts across you with cold eyes - the same color as yours, but they just have no fucking soul to them.

“The biggest disappointment. You could have had a modeling career, but now you’ve let yourself go.”

“Let myself go?”

“Remember how you looked senior year?” You shrink back at her nasty words, biting at your lower lip then, you try to act tough but it’s difficult at times to not let old insecurities hit.

“I was starving because of you.”

“Exaggeration, my god. I did that so you could look your best.”

“My best, huh? I think I look hot, so you can suck a dick. Where is Satoru, by the way? Can he shove one in your mouth?” You smile as your mom gasps, and that’s when the door opens, and you hear Satoru’s footsteps on the floor, still rubbing your stinging cheek as your mother instantly puts on her front.

“You’re a little bitch.” Your mom whispers, yanking your drink out of your hand then, slamming it on the table. “What a waste of your looks, down the drain.”

Usually your mom would stop when Satoru got here - perhaps your saving grace was that. But as he walks into the kitchen, his snowy lashes blink in confusion at seeing her. You catch his eye over her shoulder, smiling then. “Why don’t you fuck her so she’ll be in a good mood again?”

Your mom gasps as you take your drink back, standing and getting away from her overwhelming presence, taking a breath and acting ‘normal’ while Satoru’s gaze drifts across your outfit slowly. You feel every inch of your skin caressed by blue eyes, like he’s touching you.

You can’t think that way, even if she’s a bitch.

“What’s wrong?” He asks then, setting down his jacket, your mother finally seems to notice he’s there, putting on a pretty pout and batting her lashes.

“Just her being mean to me, Satoru.” She walks up to his arms, and you laugh then, so loud you’re crying, swiping tears as you truly feel you’re losing it, seeing her run her long red nails across Satoru’s chest as he looks at you.

There’s too much in the look.

“Maybe if you get dick in your mouth you’ll shut up.” Your words earn your mom’s mouth wide open, while you stretch, knowing half your breasts are fucking out, your thighs fully revealed in the short, tight skirt, hoping to piss your bitch mom off more.

It’s petty but.

It works.

You bend over to snatch two more drinks up, and Satoru has trouble tearing his vision from the sight, picturing bending you over and cursing himself for it. Your mom is whining to him, bitching about you, but your evil little smirk towards him and her turns him on more.

“I’ll be gone tomorrow night, then you won’t have to see me again mommy dearest.”

“I know you didn’t just call me that.” Her affronted tone just makes you giggle, drunk honestly, even more, walking back to your old room - her pageant trophy room - and sighing then, leaning against the door.

You can act as if you’re not hurt by her words all you want, but they hit and they hit deep, hearing the quiet murmurs of her and the man you’re fast desiring far, far too much. You slide down to the floor - you’ve talked endlessly about how your mom never loved you to your therapist - but it still feels like shit, not that you think she could love anyone but herself.

After downing your seltzers, you’re thoroughly drunk - something you haven’t been since freshman year of college, when you go out into the quiet kitchen, in search of a bottle of water. You tense when you see a shirtless Satoru, his strong back illuminated by the soft light over the stove as ice clinks into a glass. He turns his head, catching sight of you before you can dip back to the room.

“Hey.” He usually has something snarky to say, but that’s all he manages, turning toward you and leaning on the counter, you try to avoid your gaze on his body, on the light trail of hair under his flat belly button - but you’re too drunk to avoid it.

“You get her off enough? Maybe she’ll be okay tomorrow.” You murmur, and his jaw tenses then, while you walk up, stumbling just a bit when you get to the fridge, one of his hands dart out to your arm, wrapping around it gently. You pause, eyes darting up to his.

“You all right?” You scowl, yanking your arm out of his hold.

“What do you care for?” Your whisper is angry, he sees so much anger, and though he doesn’t exactly know what was said, hurt was written all over your face.

“Can I not care?” He asks softly. You scoff, looking away.

“No, you can’t.” He sighs now, sipping his drink as you bend down, grabbing another drink instead.

“You shouldn’t have more, you’re torn the fuck up.”

“Oh, thanks dad.”

Satoru scowls now. “Don’t call me that.”

“No?” You’re annihilated, he’s absolutely right, removing the barrier you have put up for him, fingers drifting up his chest, bare and hot to the touch. He tenses, as your fingers drift down over his abdomen, and you step closer. “Should I call you daddy?”

Satoru scowls, thin brows deep over his blue eyes, and his cock is throbbing under his sweats, he wills it to go down, feeling like a horrible fucking man. He couldn’t get hard for her tonight, not when every time he was touching her he pictured her daughter instead, pictured how tight and slick he bets your cunt is, pictures your perfect tits in his fucking hands.

“You’re drunk and stupid, sweetheart.” He grips your wrist, as you quietly giggle, and you look far too hot, drunk mess and all. “You’re too drunk to know what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gojo. I just hold back when I’m sober.” He exhales, and your eyes dart down, raising a brow when you see a far too impressive bulge. “Need to go fuck mommy some more?”

“You’re a brat.” He whispers, pressing you against the cold steel of the fridge now, a thigh pressing between yours, and your heart races. His proximity has you dripping wet in moments, the strong thigh between yours, his breath ghosting over your lips as he bends down. “Touch me again like that and see what happens.”

“Gonna spank me, step dad?” He pins your wrists right over your head, muscled thigh pressing up against your overheated cunt then. Your eyes roll back, you’re too gone to act like you don’t want him, arching your hips up and earning his soft little moan, as he rests his head down on yours.

“Shut the fuck up, you’re… just shut up.” He whispers, a desperate, needy little voice now. “If you weren’t… If I wasn’t…”

“What, big man? Can’t finish a sentence?” You roll your hips again, he feels you soaking him, he can’t stand how badly he wants to slip his cock inside you then, lift your right on that fridge. “Don’t wanna make mommy mad, do we?”

“I can’t stand you.” His lips are a centimeter from yours then, and your breath catches. “Need me, don’t you? Cunt is soaking wet.”

“It’s n-not.” He smirks, letting your wrists go, you shove at his chest, when he pulls back just a bit, gripping your chin.

“It’s not?” You shake your head and he pulls back his leg, looking down at it. Your entire body heats up as you see it, the wet spot darkening his light sweats. “What’s this then, hmm sweets?”

“N-nothing.” You look down in horror, when he swipes it with his thumb, leaning forward again, silvery white locks falling over his forehead then.

“Nothing?” You nod, and he swipes that thumb over your lips, moaning as they’re coated in a gloss, while your cunt throbs around nothing, aching for his touch.

“Mmm, fuck, why do you have to look like that?” He whispers, lips leaning close again, his hands on your hips, your nails slip up his side, contemplating leaving marks for your bitch ass mom to see - hating yourself for it.

“Go back to bed, mommy will miss you. Go fuck her.” He glares even deeper, just looking far too attractive when his lips brush against yours barely, before there’s a noise and he immediately backs away, as do you, heart pounding. What the fuck were you even doing!? “I’m drunk.”

“Yeah, you are.” He whispers, fists clenching as he huffs, turning and pulling his cock up into the waistband of his sweats, annoyed as shit by your laughter. “You’re such a brat.”

“Am I, or are you just wanting to fuck a mom and a daughter? Didn’t you get off enough al-”

“I can’t fuck her, okay?” You blink a bit at his declaration, you scoff, rolling your eyes. You won’t believe him. “That’s your fucking fault. I’ll be glad when you go.”

“Good, so the fuck will I.” You shove at him now, and he hates the hurt on your face. “Don’t want you, creepy old stepdad.”

“Old!?” You smile, mean and nasty, only making him want to fuck that expression right off your face. “I’m not your fucking stepdad.”

“Sure you’re not.” You pat his bare shoulder, walking past him now, barely able to breathe when you walk back into your room, leaving him cursing, eyes shutting tightly when he leans against the fridge, heart racing.

Satoru Gojo has never hated someone until you, for fucking his brain up and whatever morals he does have. He’s by far not a cheater and never has been, but all he can picture when your mom sucks him is you instead, shutting his eyes and pulling on hair that looks just like yours. He hates whatever the fuck you’ve done to him, and how bad he feels for telling you he wants you gone.

He does want you gone so things go back to normal, he can be the milf fucker he’s always been, he can live his life and fuck away all his problems with the career he’s been shoved into. But laying next to her that night he’s staring at the ceiling, wondering what you taste like.

******

One day left staying under the same roof as Satoru Gojo

You and Satoru have avoided each other completely, you work and come home, packing up the few things you have left so you can stay with a friend who’s offered you to come with her for the next few days. It was tiny and cramped there, but anything was better than staying here, and not just because your mom is an evil bitch who loves to trash you every moment.

It was him, the reason you wanted to leave so fucking bad.

“Should you eat that, honey?” Your mom says, so fake sweet as you nibble on a candy bar, you didn’t eat shit at work so you instantly busted out a snickers.

“Should you fuck men half your age, mommy?” Your mother glares, and Satoru overhears, though he stays in the hall.

“He’s not - also your ass is just looking really big in those shorts, you know.”

“That’s good, I like it.”

“Your hair looks oily.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Your mom scoffs again, snatching the bar and throwing it out, and you glare up at her. “I just care about you. No makeup, you dress like shit, and you’re munching on a candy bar? How much further do you want to let yourself go?”

“I work for a fucking living, I don’t make money off fucking men and having them take care of me. So back the fuck off. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Thank god, Satoru can’t stand you.” You blink a bit then, wishing that didn’t hurt as much as it did. You could handle her trashing you in every other way, but the man that you can’t rip your fucking mind from actually hating you stung.

“Huh?”

“He can’t stand you, and you’re not going to come between what I want. I see you, looking at him.” She tilts your chin up then. “You think you’d ever get a man like him? That’s funny. Maybe before, when you were still competing. Now?” She laughs, and you feel tears running unwillingly from your eyes. “Not a chance, so stop dreaming about him.”

“You don’t know shit.” You smack her hand off you. “I’ll leave now.”

“Go right ahead-”

“Hey, what’s for dinner?” Satoru walks out then, and your mom pauses. “Who’s cooking?”

“She’s leaving.” Satoru checks his Rolex on his wrist then, frowning.

“It’s nine already, buses aren’t running. Why not wait till the morning?”

“Because she-” your mom puts back on her airs now, smiling so saccharine and fake. “No, you’re right, Satoru. She should stay and eat some dinner.”

You scoff, since the bitch just threw your only food for the day in the trash - but you do get paid in the morning, and it would be more convenient to just stay. “I’m not eating with you. But I’ll leave in the morning. Good night mommy dearest.”

“I swear to-”

She’s cut off with you shutting yourself in again, laying on the bed and shutting your eyes, wishing her words didn’t cut so deep like knives, stomach growling. Even later when you smell food you don’t come out, until a soft knock is on your door, and you finally drag yourself out of your bed you’re just rotting away and crying in.

“What do you want?” You say softly, looking up at the tall man - who really should wear a fucking shirt - in the doorway.

“You should eat something.” He murmurs softly, you sigh, shaking your head.

“I’m not hungry.” Your tummy inconveniently growls, and he frowns now rather than an amused smirk you’d expect.

“You should eat.” He repeats, shocking you when he grips your hand in his, bringing you out to find he’s set a plate aside for you.

“I don’t need you to feed me.” You nibble while standing, cutting up a piece of chicken however, chewing thoughtfully as he watches you, far too intensely. “What, are you gonna just watch me?”

His heart aches for you then, having overheard her. It all fits with the conversation he had with you in the back of the car, the pressure she had you under all made sense. He’d only seen glimpses of it, her cruelty toward you, but they’re glaringly apparent. When she’d tried to fuck him earlier, and brought you up, he couldn’t do anything with her, thanking god she went to sleep early.

He needed to see you.

You were so clearly not okay from her.

“Stop acting like you care.” You murmur then, nibbling another bite, not even sitting at the seat before you turn away.

“Finish eating.” His commanding tone is far too fucking sexy, in fact all of him is - and you could almost forget about last night, in your drunken haze, but the problem is you remeber it vividly, tasting your arousal on your lips.

“You don’t tell me what to do. I have a dad.” He laughs without humor then, shaking his head and leaning low, pressing one hand on the wall, lifting your chin with the other.

“Stop acting like I’m even close to old enough to be your dad.” You bite your lower lip that trembles, you inhale that hundred dollar a spray cologne that’s haunted your fucking senses all week.

“You fuck my mom, so.” Your little glare hits him so good, your mean little words that just make him more obsessed with you, picturing you constantly. He’d jerked off in his office just remembering your heat against his thigh today - simultaneously feeling horrible and the inevitable pull of you, intoxicating like the liquor he’d drunk to just lay next to her last night.

He can’t get hard around her - not when you’re in the next room.

“Does that make you mad, that I fuck her?” He asks then, your scowl deepens, teeth clenched as you shove at his chest.

“Why would it?”

“Seems like it bothers you,” his fingers brush your hair back, goosebumps rise on your skin, tummy clenching with the hot desire. “Seems like you’d want me inside you instead.”

“Ah, you wish, conceited ass of a man. I don’t want you.” You’re lying through your teeth, and it’s like he knows, the blue eyes seeing right through your fucking bullshit. “You don’t want me either, so stop fucking with me.”

“I don’t?” He’s close, too close, you shove him away then, shaking your head, her words ringing in your fucking ears.

He’d never want you

Out of your league

You’re nothing

Maybe they did still get you, words you’d long since stopped giving her the ability to speak. Years of striving for her affection, of wanting to be perfect and win so that you could get just a bit of her praise. The moment you broke free was the best time you can remember, throwing those tiaras away - but you fear you’re just barely a step away from falling back into the sadness that she caused.

Worse is this tall, beautiful fucking man acting interested.

“You would never want me,” his mouth drops open at that. “So stop fucking acting like it.”

“You think I don’t!?” You scoff, walking away now, heading to the bathroom to perhaps put some water on your face, but this fucker follows you in, shutting the door, coming up behind you now, and you see his reflection in the soft lighting around the mirror, see the way he’s looking at you.

“Get out. Stupid. I’m not your milf okay?” You gasp then, as he tilts your chin so that you catch his brilliant blue eyes, the bathroom is too small suddenly, when his chest presses against your back.

"Look at me," Satoru whispers, you shake your head, tears falling. "I said look at me." He tilts your chin to look to the side as he leans over you.

"What?" You whisper through your teeth, trying to be quiet in the dark room, as Satoru’s hand slips down your bare arm, the other arm wrapping your waist, dragging you against his hard body. You whine out softly at it, being pressed against him, before you can stop yourself. When he leans lower, cool breath against your lips.

"You're beautiful, okay? So fucking beautiful..." You shake your head at that, earning his sigh, gripping your chin so tightly you feel his strength, only making the sweet ache worse. "You are. All I can think of is fucking my girlfriend’s daughter on every surface, you know what that fucking does to me?" His hushed, desperate voice makes your tummy clench with desire.

You have tried to fight it, but the resolve weakens every second you stare into his cerulean gaze, words you don’t want to accept. "Satoru... I… mnh!"

“Shh, sweetheart,” he groans now, shaking his head, kissing up your neck as his hand splays your stomach, drifting to your heat, breaths faster and heavier, mixing with yours. "Is it just me? Being fucking horrible?"

You shake your head, crying out softly when he finds your hot cunt over your shorts, soaking the thin fabric of them immediately. He moans so sexy against your ear, as the longing keeps swirling around the two of you. "You're not horrible, I am..."

"No, she's a fucking bitch. I didn't know she... was that mean. I like psychos, but that?” Your eyes shut, ass brushing against his thighs, feeling his hardness press against the small of your back.

“She’s just how she’s always been. Mnh… you shouldn’t.”

“I know I shouldn’t, okay? Fuck, you just take it. Let her treat you that way, why don’t you stand up to her, hmm?” His fingertip finds your clit, pressing up as your head falls back, and his cock twitches, aching to come inside you when you soak his fingers through your shorts, gasping and writhing against him.

"I'll be gone tomorrow. It's f-fine... Satoru, what are you… mnh!” You cry out, he brings a hand to your mouth while you watch your reflection in the mirror, he's taking over every sense you have.

“God you're soaked, so fucking hot, so tight.” He leans down, slipping a thick digit in your tight little entrance, making you scream out weakly against his hand. His blue eyes dilate, in the dark, quiet hushed sighs against his hand mixing with the sound of embarrassing wetness echo across the walls. “Lemme make you feel good, hmm?”

You just nod weakly, so tired of pretending like you don’t want him, entranced by the image in the mirror of him overtaking you, fingers angling up as your juices pour down his hand, you whine out, trembling as he keeps hitting just that spot, the one that makes your eyes roll back. Your ass arches back for more, knowing she’s in the next room and could hear or see fucks you up too much.

Your mommy issues clearly are still prevalent.

After hearing all her loud high pitched moans from this man, knowing all of his attention is on you is addictive, his lips brushing the shell of your ear while his fingers curl in your slick walls, gripping him and quivering. “Can you keep quiet so I can see your pretty face when you cum?”

You nod weakly, his words are destroying you, and any resolve you currently have, any part of your brain that knows this is wrong is gone, you want to cum for him, as he is bending low to angle his fingers deeper. You gasp and bite your lip as he does, as the squelches of your hungry cunt echo in the small space.

His breaths come heavy as he feels your walls, as you feel every line of his long - fuck they’re so long - fingers curling against your spot over and over, thumb pressing your twitchy little clit. “Satoru!”

“Shh, sweetheart,” he’s lost in you, cock leaking precum as he studies your face in the dark reflection, feeling you grip him so fucking good, picturing stretching your perfect little cunt out. “Like this?”

You nod, swallowing as you cling to his bare arms, feeling his muscles bunch as he moves his fingers, you are blinded when he rolls his thumb just right, as his other hand grips a breast under your tank top, brushing against your nipple. It’s all too much, you bite back the moans that threaten to rip from your throat, instead whining out softly, gasping and hiccuping as pleasure waves through you.

You’re soaking his fingers, dripping down them when he leans low, capturing your lips, drinking in your little cries as his fingertips brush your spongy spot, over and over, while you shatter in his hold. Your saliva drips across your tongues as his fingers slow, thumb pressing up your twitchy clit again, while you’re lost in his embrace, his taste sweet on your tongue.

You should feel bad you’re dripping down Satoru Gojo’s fingers, had they been inside her earlier? Would he touch her with them? You wish it all didn’t just make you wetter, more sensitive for him, when he eases them out, sucking them into his mouth now, moaning when your flavor hits his tongue, the filthy thoughts just echo louder as your pussy pulses from the aftershocks.

“Fuck you’re so sweet,” he moans then, turning you and lifting you until you’re spread on the counter, your thighs shake as he presses against you, hard and thick, kissing you with your juices dripping across his plump lips. “God I wanna bury my face between your thighs.”

“Satoru, this is insane.” You whisper, as he’s hungrily kissing down your neck, moaning a little too loud. “Shh!”

“Fuck, maybe she should hear,” his eyes are batshit insane then, brilliant blue almost glowing, long fingers spreading your thighs apart. “All I can think of is you.”

“Shut up,” you’re shaking your head, hands slipping through his silky locks as he kisses down your chest. “Fuck me.”

Satoru blinks at that, when you’re reaching down to touch him, he exhales, hands trembling as they hold you, kissing your lips again and losing himself, cock brushing your soaked cunt. He hears the door click across the hall then, pausing and cursing. “Shit…”

“Shit!?” He covers your mouth, glaring with his snowy lashes lowered over his blue eyes.

“Shut up.” He’s kissing you again, hot and desperate as your mom is calling out his name, you can’t stop the soft whine from your lips. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Shut me up.” His hand lifts a thigh, groaning quietly as he hears his fucking name again, cock leaking so much precum, throbbing so much it hurts.

“Satoru honey, where are you?” He sighs now, and you shake your head.

“Go, I’ll stay for a few.” You whisper softly, he is aching to stay, but the situation at present is horrible, and he doesn’t want you getting hurt because he can’t keep his hands off his girlfriend’s daughter.

“Don’t leave tomorrow until we talk.” He says then, against your ear.

“Maybe.”

“Ugh.” You smile a bit at his scowl. “I’ll be right out, just in the bathroom!”

“Okay honey, I miss you.” You feel sick, watching him walk out, you let out a held breath, thighs shaking, trying to wrap your mind around the fact that he made you feel better than anyone ever has, that you've never cum like that.

Worse, how he had kissed you?

This was some sick, cruel fucking joke, falling for your bitch ass mother's boyfriend. You can't trust him. You know you need to slip out in the morning, to try to forget him and how good it felt to be in his arms.

******

The last morning staying with your mom

You want to wait for Satoru like he asked, but laying there and counting down the moments until you know the buses run, you couldn’t stay.

You can’t do this, even to her, have some sort of affair?

You can’t be the other woman - especially to your own mother, even if she’s fucking awful, the guilt is eating at you. It would be different if it was some petty revenge to her for all these years, if it was just sexual attraction, but you absolutely know it’s way more with Satoru, kissing didn’t feel like that, nothing felt that good, being consumed by Satoru and losing yourself in him.

You’re trying to slip out that next morning, when Satoru Gojo grips you by your wrist, out of nowhere, you look back and his azure gaze is furious. “I asked you to wait for me.” His tone is so hurt, you can hardly stand it.

“Gojo, we have to forget it.” Your broken words ruin him, he’s breathless as he looks at you, two bags slung over your shoulders. “I shouldn’t have.”

“No, why not?” He caresses your cheek, bending over you then, his sweet breath bringing back the memories that kept you up all night, of kissing him back, of his fingers now on your wrist that were inside you.

“You’re hers.” You hear her then, panicking and shoving at Satoru, but he doesn’t move an inch.

“Get the fuck away from him!” Your mom’s words make Satoru chuckle, and the sight of it confuses the fuck out of you, as he looks back at her, raising a brow.

“I’m pinning her to the door and you’re yelling at her right now?” She sputters, your heart fucking races, the heat creeping up your cheeks, burning as she stomps over to you both, furious so clearly.

When you were younger it would have scared you, but Satoru is here, and in the short week, you oddly trust him, feel the comfort, something to be said about it that you haven’t admitted to yourself yet.

“It’s her trying to take what’s mine, jealous of me always.” She grips your hand, your bag falls to the floor as she scowls down at you. “Never show your face here again, leave my life the fuck alone, stupid little bitch.”

“I didn’t-” She raises her hand as if to smack you when Satoru grabs her wrist, she looks at him in shock.

“You won’t raise a hand to her again, she might not stand up for herself when you do, but I will.” He drops her wrist now, raising a thin brow and bending down, picking up your bag for you.

“Satoru baby, you don’t understand all she’s put me through,” she’s trying to be sweet again, crocodile tears dripping down her cheeks, long lashes blinking, her lip is even trembling. She’s always been great at that. “I don’t want to hurt her, but she is horrible to me.”

“I’ve heard and seen far, far too much this week. You are an evil bitch to her, and you won’t get to be anymore.” He shoves her off him dismissively as she tries to cling to him now, then she scowls at both of you.

“What, because she’s younger!? Is that who you are? Some sick game to fuck us both?”

“No, she’s actually just better than you. In every single way, and you hate it, don’t you? That’s just pathetic.” You look down, unbelieving he’s standing up for you like this, your mom lets out an affronted scoff while Satoru picks up his phone.

“You don’t want her, you can’t.” She’s losing her composure, her act, it’s all falling apart as she starts to panic.

What could be worse than you ever outshining her? You’re supposed to live in her perfect shadow.

“Why are you so jealous of your own kid? You got some crazy issues, you know that? Not even hot crazy, either, just a batshit narcissist.” He clicks his tongue, sighing and smiling down at you, with lidded eyes. “Wanna stay at my penthouse until your apartment is ready, sweetheart?”

“What!?” Your mom is blowing a whole fucking gasket - you should feel bad for stealing her man, but you really can’t find it in you.

“Yes, if you really don’t mind?” Satoru grins, those bright white teeth, and picks up his dark shades off the side table, your mom is tugging on his dress shirt, and he brushes her off, looking over his sunglasses at her.

“Satoru I’m sorry, I just… I was acting out too much. It’s her, the problem! Look how happy we were before?”

“I’m sure there are plenty of young men for you out there, maybe younger than me so they are too dumb to see how fucked up you are.” She’s glaring as he takes your hand in his, and you can’t stop the happy little giggle from your mouth as you both leave, and you hear things getting thrown at the door.

“Satoru, that was insane!?” You whisper, he brushes your hair back then, sighing.

“I wanted it to go a little smoother, that whole exchange. But no, of course you were bratty and didn’t wait.” He tilts your chin up and you kiss him, smiling against his sweet, plush lips.

“You’re not step-dad anymore, maybe the appeal is lost-”

“I’m gonna beat your ass.” He’s scowling as you giggle through your tears, when his car pulls up, he hands your bags off to the driver, climbing in and holding out his hand, tugging you in the back. “You do need a good ass beating.”

“I think I had enough mental beatings,” you grumble a bit, he frowns at that as the car revs up, and he tugs you against his chest. “You noticed?”

“Yeah, hard not to. Last night was when I saw how fucking much she hates you, the way she talks it’s just not how a normal person does. I’m sorry you…”

“I’m good. I promise.” You look up at him then, kissing him softly, while your hand slips down his chest, hearing his hitch of breath.

“You can eat whatever you want at my place, okay? Also your ass is very nice.” You blink back tears, mixing with your tremulous smile from his sweetness, and you’re flustered- you’re literally a wreck.

“You heard it all?” He nods, swallowing, his brows together.

“It’s why I came to you. I’m so disgusted that I even…”

“How could you know? She’s beautiful, she knows how to play people.”

“You’re more beautiful than she could be,” he murmurs, kissing you again, messy and hungry in the back of the huge black luxury car, having you straddle him, your mom’s ex boyfriend, feeling his phone vibrating against your thigh now. “I swear if it’s her I’ll have you cum right on the speaker.”

“Gojo!” He’s sighing, his big hands drifting over your waist, when your phone starts going off too, but you’re too lost in his kisses, in his scent, in how good he fucking feels.

“Feel so good on me, fuck I wanna bury my cock inside you,” he is desperate and needy then, feeling your heat against his cock, when you drop to your knees, making his lips part. “Sweetheart…”

“Want your cock in my mouth,” he’s whining out at that, helping you unbutton and unzip his slacks, until his cock springs free, making you gasp.

You knew it would be big, but you didn’t know it’d be that big, a solid nine inches and thick, veins running and wrapping under his shaft from the base to his blushing pink tip. You moan softly at it, soaking wet under your panties from the sight, that clean yet musky scent. Satoru brushes your hair back softly with long fingers, eyeing you down there, making you feel so sexy with just a gaze.

“Want me to suck you down my throat?” He nods quickly, and you do just that, after spitting on his cock and slathering your saliva as the phone keeps vibrating, but his hands are enwrapped in your hair while you look at him under those lashes.

“Fuck, look at you, can you take it all?” He’s taunting, a mix of devotion and talking shit, so intoxicating you can’t take it, tummy full of so much pressure you whine out at the sensations, gliding his tip inside your mouth now, hot and hungry while you taste him. You swirl your tongue on his tip, fingers brushing across the soft white hair right over his cock.

His eyes never leave yours as you move, as he fucks up into your throat, hissing at just how fucking good your mouth feels, how pretty your eyes are as you look up at him. You’re whining out, vibrating around him, while his hands tug your hair into a ponytail, fucking into your mouth harder, harder, you’re slobbering down his cock so messy and filthy how you take him.

“So beautiful, fucking look at you,” you whine at the praise, from his soft lips, which he’s biting and releasing, making the sexiest moans from the back of his throat that drive you to get wetter and wetter. You reach down, touching yourself under your skirt when he yanks your wrist. “No.”

“No!?” You glare, and Satoru smirks, shaking his head.

“I’ll bet the one touching you, licking you- ah!” You’re sucking him again, even as he grips your little wrist tightly, sucking one of your little fingers, so lewd and sexy you can’t stand it, grinding on nothing for friction, as the car comes to a stop, Satoru huffs, yanking you up. “Open.”

You do just that, and freaky ass ‘stepdad’ Satoru Gojo spits in your mouth, you gasp, swallowing it and feeling the need grow so much it’s painful, kissing desperately, hand still stroking his length up and down. “In me, please.”

“Shit, yeah,” he adjusts himself, leaving the belt unbuckled as the two of you ride up the elevator to his stupidly fancy and clean penthouse, once the door is shut he presses you against it, hands slipping up your sides, gripping you everywhere. “Wanna taste you again, fuck…”

“Taste me then, mnh!” He’s on his knees right before you, the way he looks up at you is so intense it takes your breath away, as he shoves your skirt up, lapping a hot stripe up your slick panties, already soaked. “Oh my god, more, more!”

“Demanding little thing,” he teases, stroking fingers up your soppy panties, groaning as he then pulls them down, letting them fall down to your ankles, still clad in those ridiculous combat boots. They’re so hot he just keeps them on, throwing a thigh right over his shoulder, breath ghosting on your bare cunt. “Fuck, look at you, you’re so pretty.”

“Y-you don’t have to say- ah!” Your hands entangle in his silky, silvery white locks, soft as your fingers grip and pull until it hurts, but he wants more.

“Fuck my face, that’s it, taste s’good, mmm,” his whispers against you vibrate against your clit, and you’re screaming out, head falling back against Satoru’s door, as his mouth devours your cunt, so hungry and desperate for you.

His impossibly long tongue makes you furious that your bitch ass mother ever got him in this way, toxic and petty, it just makes you fuck his face more, hips rolling while that tongue plunges into you. He’s licking and stroking between your folds, right up in your hole, straight nose bumping your clit. Your thighs shake, his fingers pressing into them, your gummy walls are convulsing around his tongue.

The sound of him sucking up all your wetness - well he’s trying to, but you’re so fucking wet it’s pouring, his cock is leaking precum - already sensitive from that stupidly talented mouth, and now this? He can hardly remember your mom’s name any more, in fact he can’t remember anything right now, but how he should have been doing this, just drinking your sweetness up down his throat.

Devouring your pretty pussy, pulling your plump, puffy lips apart to slide that tongue in and out of your quivery little cunt as you scream out hoarsely. “Oh my god, don’t stop, don’t stop, please!”

You’re sobbing out his name, panting as he licks and nibbles your twitchy little clit with sharp teeth, making you gasp out at the shock of the pain and pleasure, your nipples pressing against your top, tummy clenching as you feel your orgasm so close. He’s slipped two fingers up inside your hole, looking up at you as his tongue flicks your sensitive clit again.

“You’re so messy, aren’t you baby?” He taunts softly, all you can do is weakly nod, while his fingers now know your spot way too fucking well, pressing up against your g spot while he stretches you hot. “So sweet now, is this what you needed?”

“Shh, jerk.” He chuckles against your cunt, before sucking your little clit into his hot mouth and fucking moaning, making you feel like you’re going to collapse. It’s so good, so fucking good, and you’re so close. “I-I’m gonna, Satoru, oh god-!”

He doesn’t let you go over the edge though, pulling away with a pop of pink lips,covered in your arousal like a gloss. You yelp, looking down at him with a desperate expression, your cheeks flushed, chest heaving. He can’t stop thinking how fucking pretty you are like this, desperate for him, whining and wiggling.

“Why’d you stop!?” He stands now, slipping up your sweater, groaning when he realizes you have no bra on, seeing those tits he’s jerked it to bounce gently.

“Want you to cum around my cock, like a good girl. Can you?” He’s way too fucking hot, it’s actually unfair. You nod weakly, he sighs, cupping your breasts and watching your eyes roll back, his thumbs brush your nipples, already hard and aching for more.

Satoru unlaces your boots, leaving your knee socks and skirt on, you just look too sexy in them, unbuckling himself hastily as you tug his shirt off him. “Please, hurry, fuck…”

“Demanding, thought you hated me not wearing a shirt?” You glare at him, just making him chuckle, before he’s down to nothing, fully naked and gorgeous, as the light streams in through the blinds of those floor to ceiling windows, casting shadows across his perfect form.

“Fuck…” You’re kissing across his chest, when he shocks you, lifting you up like it’s nothing, pressing you right on that door again, the cool wood against your burning hot skin, tip drooling and leaking against your cunt. “Mnh! Please!”

“Need my cock so bad inside you?” You just nod weakly, done pretending or teasing, you’re still throbbing from the way he edged you, and when his leaky tip bumps your clit it almost pushes you over the edge. You’re clinging to his neck, kissing him as you roll your hips, soaking wet and begging with your body.

“In me, g-god, just - ah!” Satoru shoves his cock so deep in one stroke you’re left breathless, blinking rapidly at the ridiculous stretch, so full you can’t think, you’ve never been stuffed like this. Your eyes lock, his are so bright they’re insane, his lips and chin coated in your arousal, holding you by your ass right under your skirt as your legs tremble around narrow hips.

“Fucking feel you, my god,” he’s whispering in wonder for a moment, blinking snowy lashes to try to orient himself, to not cum just from one stroke like some dumb teenager from pussy.

But your pussy!?

“Prettier, tighter,” he’s whispering, and the words itch that toxic, fucked part of your brain, the mix of craving Satoru and the petty part of you that hates her. He can tell too, smirking. “Wetter than her. Feel better, fuck than anyone.”

“Shut up, so full of - ah!” He’s fucking you now, you got that moment to adjust, bruising your lower back when he fucks you against that door with no mercy, thick cock bullying your quivering little walls with filthy smacks of skin and your squishing cunt. “Oh my g-god!”

“I’m telling the t-truth you… bratty little fucking… god she’s so tight, mnh…” Satoru’s lost then, hips bucking up and rolling just so, and he watches your pretty face hungrily. “Cum f’me, all over me, make a mess.”

“Ah!” You’re gushing, just making the sounds in the enormous penthouse you’ve barely noticed louder, mixed with his moans as he fills you up so good, when he pushes deep and rolls those hips, watching you intensely as you cum, his eyes so brilliant blue and fucking starved for you. “Ohmygod fuckfuckfuck!”

“That’s it, fucking you dumb, huh,” he’s groaning, feeling your slick coat him, your mouth in a slutty O when he looks back up, feeling your aftershocks pulse around his cock. “God, baby, you came so hard f’me, bet you never have.”

“B-bet you never… felt pussy this good,” your bratty little whisper makes him smirk, slamming into you and pulling you off the door, you’re clinging to him in shock without the support, but he’s lifting you up and down his thick, lengthy cock like you’re a little fuck toy. “Ngh!”

“You mean better than your mom’s?” You scowl, gripping him tighter with your thighs as he just walks around with your fucking cunt around him, smirking as he lifts and drags you back on his cock again. You’re clinging to his back, nails pressing in and leaving marks.

“Psycho, mmm!”

“Says you, need to know if your pussy is tighter? I already told you, but no, gotta know every part that’s better? You’re so fucked up baby.” You glare, biting the shit out of his lip and earning his moan, as you draw just a little bit of blood, a bright red droplet that makes him grin.

“Maybe I am fucked up.” Your answer makes him chuckle, picking you up again, fucking you suspended in the air as you cling to him, whining. “Feel s’good, so thick mmm!”

“Am I the biggest you’ve had? The best?” He’s whispering, husky and needy now, you could bluff and taunt him, but you just nod eagerly, and he exhales, pulling out with a wet squelch, making you whine. “Hang on to me.”

You do just that, heart racing while Satoru carries you now, and your dark spots fade for a moment, long enough to get glimpses of his gorgeous, expensive ass fucking penthouse, making your mom’s place look like shit when you thought hers was fancy. Everything is spotless, surprising you only briefly when he makes it to his bedroom, tossing you right down on it.

You bounce gently on a black silky comforter, taking several breaths, looking around then glaring. “She fuck you on here?”

He grins at you, nodding and unzipping your skirt, groaning as he sees your hips for the first time. “Fuck you’re sexy,” he caresses you softly for a moment, fingertips drifting down the jut of your waist, the curve of those hips, before grabbing them, looking at your cunt. “All beat up already, huh?”

“Shut it, back in.” He grins, fingering your knee socks and sighing.

“They’re too hot, they stay on.” His open admiration of you makes you feel so fucking good, the way his eyes worship you, leaning low and kissing you again. “So fucking sexy, y’know that?”

“Mnh, s-so are you. But you know already, conceited- ah!” Satoru’s cut you off with a bite to your lower lip, sexy glare on his face now.

“Couldn’t even walk around her house without getting wet for me, could you?” Your glare just turns him on more, while he bends down, sucking your nipple into his hot mouth as you cry out, his teeth sinking in.

“Ah!” He moans, going right to the other. “Y-you wish.”

“Bet you played with your cunt, maybe right next to your mom’s room huh?” You bite his shoulder so hard it makes him moan at the pain. “Shit.”

“Shut it. You wish I did, bet you jerked it thinking of me? Your girl’s daughter, freaky ass-” He’s bit you again on your other nipple, the pain shooting up and making your sore cunt wetter.

“I did,” you blink, so disoriented, eyes now looking up to his in shock. “Yeah, I did, thinking of that slutty dress you wore that night.”

“Shit… really?” He sighs, and before you can say anything else, Satoru turns you around now, bending your ass up in the air, moaning at the sight, the dimples in your back, the way your ass looks, he moans and slaps each cheek, as you whine out, head falling back.

“God, look at this ass, fuck…”

“Prettier from the back than mommy is?” He scowls as you look back and giggle, smacking the fuck out of your ass now. “Ah!”

“You’re so damaged,” he smacks your cunt, you’re just drooling now, eyes rolling back, so ready to be filled by him. “Already told you, prettier pussy, yummier, tighter - gotta hear how much better your ass is too?”

“Mmm! Was teasing,” you whisper, when he slips his cock back inside you, this time so deep he bottoms out in one stroke, you scream out at it, hair now in his hold as he fucks into you. “Gojo!”

“You’re so damaged baby girl, god it’s hotter than it should be,” he’s losing it inside you then, your wet, slick little cunt gripping him even tighter, balls smacking your clit with every brutal stroke, as his other hand grips your ass, marking it over and over. “Feel so much better.”

“Yeah, daddy? Ah!” Satoru’s smacked the fuck out of you again, it stings so good as he slams his cock deep, tip drooling along your cervix. “Oh my god!”

“Stop running that mouth,” he leans over, gripping your throat with one hand, long fingers wrapping it entirely, bent over you with a arm braced on the other side, as his cock is stretching you, feeling so fucking perfect even as it hurts, how big his cock is. “You’re so fucking slutty, huh?”

You nod weakly, as he starts squeezing your throat now, making it all fuzzy and heady, you’re gasping for a breath as he presses on your pulse point, cock pounding you from the back, you’re gasping for breaths as filthy smacks fill his huge room. “Oh, Gojo!”

“Satoru, call me Satoru…” he’s whispering desperately, needing it from you, and you feel his cock thickening inside your slutty, drooling hole.

“Satoru, ah!” You’re lost as he chokes you while fucking so deep, rolling his hips, making you shatter for him, walls quivering around his cock, trying to milk him for everything he has. “Satoru!”

“Wanna fill your pretty little cunt with all my cum,” he whispers, squeezing harder as he hits just that spot, and you feel the pressure in your tummy explode, screaming out as the orgasm hits. “Oh god baby, yes, cum again f’me hmm?”

You can’t not do just what he asks, blinded as he saps your oxygen with his fingers tightening over your throat, you’re fuzzy and dizzy as you scream, the sound hoarse and weak. He’s moaning and kissing you, drool spilling out the corner of your mouth, releasing your throat a bit and just gripping under your chin now. You’re shaking, cunt so wet it’s dripping onto the dark blankets.

“S-Satoru…” you whisper again, making him whine when your head falls back, he’s biting across your neck, groaning. “Feel s’good in me…”

“You feel s’good wrapped around me, f-fuck…” the phone goes off again, in the pants discarded on the floor, and he smirks as he bends down, grabbing it.

“What are you…” Satoru presses that green answer circle, before sliding back in your cunt, psycho grin and dilated blue eyes vivid as you hear her voice. You look at him, covering your mouth as you hear her voice, but he leans down, whispering in your ear.

“Make noise.” You shake your head - you can’t be that fucked up!?

Can you?

“Satoru please, just come back. I’m sorry.” She’s sobbing, her sweet little meal ticket is gone after all, he’s slamming his cock deep in you as you scream into your palm, making him laugh a bit.

“Sorry, I’m not… coming… back that is, hah-” he’s hitting those backshots harder, the filthy sound of your cunt echoing, your eyes roll back, drool spilling on your palm now as you hear her voice in the background.

“She’s manipulating you!? She wants what I have. Satoru- what’s that!?” He chuckles, bottoming out and stuffing you so full your hand falls and you scream out.

“That’s your daughter, god she’s so much tighter than you.” You gasp and glare back at him, only making him hit it harder, until there’s no denying the filthy sounds.

“Oh you are… you both… you’re a whore I swear-”

“Ah!” Satoru’s rubbing your clit, murmuring in your ear.

“Cum f’me again, hmm?”

“You’re insane!?” He grins, and you shake your head, but soon you’re shattering again, earning his moan.

“So, I need to go, gotta get your daughter pregnant.” You gasp again, mid orgasm, as your mother sputters and he hangs up on her, chuckling.

“Y-you… she’s… Satoru!”

“She won’t call again now I bet,” he’s leaning low until you’re in prone position, turning your face and kissing your soft lips. “I wanna fill you all up, baby, hmm?”

“Do you, daddy?” He glares, but his cock pulses, and you giggle, breathless, earning him shoving hard, pulling at your hair. “You like that.”

“Shut it,” he’s moaning as you tighten around him, aftershocks pulsing, as he pictures doing just that, knocking you up. “Beg for it, slutty little brat.”

“Please, daddy,” he whimpers at that, and you bite your lip. “You’re damaged too, huh?”

“Not as damaged as you,” he’s huffing, kissing you as you laugh. “You can laugh? Need to fix that.”

“Gonna teach me a lesson daddy- ah!” Satoru Gojo is so deep you feel him fucking everywhere, making you tremble, as he’s throbbing inside you. “You like it!”

“Shh. Yes.” Your breathy giggle is cut off when he chokes you again, so intimate like this, teeth sinking in your neck now. “Beg for it.”

“Daddy please fill me up - mnh!” You’re both lost then, Satoru won’t admit it but hearing you call him that makes him sensitive, whimpering as he busts deep inside your perfect little hole, your gummy walls grip his cock and pulse around it, while his white sticky load coats them. “Oh my g-god!”

“Fuck, feel her… milking my cock huh?” You just nod weakly, when he cups you under your chin, kissing you messy and desperate, you’re cumming from the warmth, from all that cum pouring down his cock, mixed with your gossamer strings of arousal swirling down his cock, his balls, to the bed.

“Mnh, Satoru…” He’s kissing you deeper, teeth sinking into your lips as you both come down, easing his strokes and softening just a bit, still so thick inside you, making you feel so full.

“You’re so fucked up, baby.” You gasp, glaring now as he eases out. “It’s okay, all your issues? Hot as fuck.”

“You’ve got your own issues then, hmm?” He smirks, pressing kisses along your shoulder blades now.

“Too many to count. Not the only one with shitty parents, sweetheart.” Satoru turns you over now, and you brush a hand across his cheek, sighing.

“Then tell me them all, daddy.” He scowls again, and you can’t stop the grin on your face, Satoru lets you get away with it a bit, because it’s just so pretty to see on your face.

“Can’t tell if you have mommy or daddy issues or both?”

“Mommy issues. You can give me daddy issues though.” His glare is so cute you can’t stop the soft smile on your lips, as you lean up, body reeling from him.

“Should beat you, I swear. I’ll grab water.” You nod, and he leaves for a moment, you lean up, his cum leaking out of you, you search for any part that feels just a little guilty for fucking and stealing your mom’s man.

But it’s not there.

You see a picture of them on the side table then, sitting up and frowning a bit as he comes back, boxers slipped on, a blunt and lighter along with water. “Wanna smoke, sweetheart?”

“You’re corrupting me, step dad.”

“I swear to god stop.” You grin again, as he sits next to you, frowning as you study the photo. “Throw it out.”

“No…” you take his lighter and light the flame, burning the image of your mother and letting it die out in the ashtray, before handing the lighter back to him. “I burned all my sashes and dresses too.”

“Part of me wants to see you in a pageant dress, but the other part knows how much you hated it.” He says softly, watching the picture burn and lighting up a blunt now. “I’d fuck you in a sash and tiara though, nothing else.”

“Would you now?” You tease, he nods, inhaling the smoke, and handing the blunt to you, his perfect body covered in dripping sweat from you. “I may have one I didn’t get rid of.”

“Shit, don’t make it hard again.” You’re straddling him, inhaling the blunt and blowing the smoke into his mouth, he’s gripping your waist, already hard under his boxers, as you two fall into each other, each finding the other’s issues unreasonably hot, both damaged as fuck and honestly morally grey - but you really don’t mind fucking your mom’s ex boyfriend all night until you’re dripping his cum.

Your mom never does call you again - what a shame :’)

Sooo the pageant mom idea was fromm @huntyhuntycunty , also took inspo from them having met before from @yenayaps ! alsoo ty @blkkizzat for making me motivated to finally finish this hehe I love you girls <3

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