#Not to convince him of anything because he’s got to do that on his own

[gutsby]

Stutter

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Your daughter says her first word.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v (interrupted & brief!). Sibling bickering. Throwing of one (1) sneaker at Uncle Tommy’s head. Mention of thigh riding. Feral!Reader. Pregnant!Reader. Dutiful-and-Viagra-Popping-Peepaw keeps you satisfied through every trimester, always 🫡 You and Old!Joel are having Irish Twins because I said so.

Note: Y’all all know it, but Jolene is a song by Dolly Parton 🤠

Word count: 2.4k

“AAH!”

This was the closest your baby had ever come to talking. It was almost half of a coherent word, though not quite.

Joel was convinced she was trying to say ‘Dada.’

You, on the other hand, couldn’t be persuaded to believe that this noise was anything more than just happy baby babble. She’d been saying much of the same for the last ten months, and not once had her sweet and toothless ramblings ever amounted to a sound that was intelligible.

This was fine by you. Your child was already growing way too fast for your liking, and with each and every day she got bigger or learned something new, you couldn’t help but see it all through a bittersweet lens. You wished that she could stay this tiny forever, but at the same time, you adored watching her blossom into her own little person.

That was partly because she got to be more like Joel everyday. In looks, mannerisms, even how she smiled.

“The two of you are gonna have matching grins soon enough,” Tommy had said to your daughter one morning, chuckling. “You’ll be growing teeth, Joel’ll be losing his.”

From where your old man was stirring formula in the kitchen, he shot Tommy a dirty look. He grumbled.

“Jackass.”

Joel scowled, and your baby clapped—whether from amusement or a desire to be fed, you couldn’t be sure.

If you’d had the energy to do it, you would’ve intervened. But as it was, you were eight months pregnant with your second child, and preventing bickering between brothers wasn’t high on your list of priorities. It was more, like, getting foot rubs from your husband and trying to help your daughter take her first steps, maybe say a word.

No one was more committed to the latter than Joel, though. Even as he fed her, he was trying to teach.

“Who’s givin’ you baba, baby? Is it Dada?” he cooed, hovering the bottle over your daughter’s upturned face.

Hankering for milk and not particularly giving a shit who was handing it over, the infant let out a frustrated cry.

“AAH!”

“Very close, sweetie. It’s ‘Dada’,” Joel corrected gently.

“Give her the Da-damn bottle, man,” Tommy groaned.

“Language,” you chided your brother-in-law. Then, pushing to sit up: “Give her the dang bottle, Joel.”

Your daughter was rewarded with her milk in less than a second. Joel let out a deflated kind of sigh but smiled at his little girl, who kicked her pudgy legs in her high chair like this was the single greatest day she’d lived to see. She drank her milk, Joel watched on, and Tommy had to stifle a snicker. His big brother shot him another glare.

“Relax, Dada.”

“Jackass.”

“Boys.”

Baby babble listening never really stopped, no matter the time of day. No matter what you were doing, whether that was cooking, cleaning, baking a tray full of cookies, taking a walk, or else fucking sideways in your bed, Joel always remained vigilant. This morning was no exception

Joel was just working you up to your climax, spooning you from behind and thrusting rhythmically while you moaned and whimpered into your pillow. You were so close. Your eyes were about to shut in the throes of ecstasy, bliss reaching you at any minute now, when a sound startled you both. It was loud and obnoxious.

A whooping cheer.

“Hell yeah, baby!!”

Of course, that was Tommy’s voice. Who else would it be? Your brother-in-law was almost always over at your place these days, mostly to hang out with your baby and bug his older brother, and you and Joel normally didn’t mind because it meant that you two could have a little alone time before your family grew to four in a few weeks

Today, it meant you wouldn’t get to orgasm.

Joel jumped out of bed and threw on his pants.

You went after him almost as fast—albeit waddling, wincing slightly at the loss of contact between your legs—and you trailed behind him to the living room, having just slipped on a robe to see Tommy and your daughter.

Presently, your child’s uncle was clapping like a maniac.

“She finally did it!” he sing-songed to you and Joel.

“Did she—shit, did she talk?! What’d she say?”

That was Joel, drawing closer faster than you could blink. He was approaching the two of them with wide eyes, expecting news that your baby had finally talked.

While he did that, Tommy pointed.

On the floor, your infant daughter was holding an empty bottle of beer. She peered curiously at Joel, then at you.

“Baby grabbed her first beer! She’s officially a Miller.” Then a shit-eating grin spread wide over Tommy’s features, and he beamed at his brother. Like this was a momentous occasion and something to celebrate.

“AAH!” your baby shrieked, unsure what else to say.

Then she clapped, bottle still grasped in her tiny hand.

Joel narrowly refrained from smacking Tommy upside the head, though you could tell that it was taking effort.

Instead, he did what he always did, and he glared. Hard.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Tomm—” he started.

“Joel. Language,” you half-sighed, half-groaned.

Tommy snickered, and you shot him a look, too.

“Don’t start,” you warned. “I’m not in the mood.”

As you and Joel turned to leave the room, you heard a soft, barely audible laugh. You cast a glance Tommy’s direction, and sure enough, that fucker was smirking.

“Sure sounded like y’all were in the mood before…”

Referring to you and Joel banging, obviously.

At that, as he walked, Joel grabbed the nearest shoe off the floor and chucked it at his little brother’s head. Tommy ducked easily, and it missed by a lot.

“Nice hands, feet!” Tommy called jokingly.

“Jackass,” Joel griped back.

“Language, please.”

You were fewer than two weeks from giving birth.

Whenever you stood, it felt like your knees were about to give out, so you regularly stayed on the sofa. Vegetating. Playing with your baby. Occasionally receiving foot massages from your doting, near panic-stricken Joel.

You suspected if the two of you were to have any more kids after this, he would always be nervous about labor.

He milled frantically about the house, checking the fridge and the cabinets and your hospital bag to make sure that you and your daughter would be well taken care of when the delivery took place—as if your water was about to break at any second, and Tommy and Maria weren’t a stone’s throw away to take care of your child.

“We’re gonna be fine, Joel. Sit down,” you pleaded.

From across the way, in the kitchen, you could see the father of your children comb a hand through his almost completely gray locks, and he exhaled a ragged breath.

If you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve thought he might’ve been the one in his third trimester, pacing around like his backside was on fire or someone just threw on some Nickelback or Creed and he couldn’t make it out to the dance floor on time to sing along.

Typical dad.

You loved him for that.

You also couldn’t stand to see your old man worry, so with a wide-arcing arm, you beckoned him to the sofa.

“Baaaby, my feet hurt,” you pouted, pain exaggerated.

Joel was by your side in no time. He sped so fast he probably almost displaced his hip making his way over, and you had to bite back a little smile. You lifted your arms as if to say, ‘Come here, please, I missed you.’

You’d be making that sweet, peri-geriatric man a daddy at least ten more times if he kept looking at you, and looking after you, like this. He crouched beside the couch, and both of his knees audibly popped in turn.

Your daughter had just started to doze off in her playard.

Thankfully.

You smiled.

It had taken you hours to get her to nap in the afternoon yesterday, and now you had the perfect little window, as well as a golden opportunity to make the most out of it. With your due date so close on the horizon and your hormones going wild at all hours of the day, you wanted Joel at random times. Inconvenient moments. You got one whiff of his Old Spice or the Icy Hot he regularly applied to his old, achy muscles, and you felt feral.

You felt that now, tugging him onto the couch.

In no time at all, thanks to your big, round belly, you had to be the one straddling him. You wasted no time climbing on, gaze raking hungrily all over Joel.

“Aw, sweetheart…” your old man murmured.

You couldn’t quite tell whether it was from appreciation, arousal, or complete exhaustion. He had popped three blue pills this week alone to keep up with your raging libido, and for that, you were indescribably grateful. You wouldn’t ask him to do anymore work this afternoon.

“I’ll—I’ll just ride your thigh,” you stammered, already lifting the hem of your nightdress as you scooted back.

Joel blinked haltingly.

“No, no, I can—” Then his voice broke off in a groan when you pressed yourself onto his leg. Squeezed your thighs tight around one muscular, cotton-clad quad and caused his cock to stir in his pants. He swallowed and looked up. “—I can get hard an’ fuck you real nice. Just gimme five.”

More like ten or twenty, depending on how well he fared without his Jackson-brand of Viagra waiting on standby.

You smiled and shook your head. Started rubbing yourself gently over his leg, knowing how quickly you were likely to climax right now. It wouldn’t take much.

You were so aroused you almost couldn’t breathe, and your baby was sleeping peacefully across the living room. Now was the perfect time to make this happen, and Joel wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You let out a sigh.

Running a soft, delicate touch down the front of Joel’s shirt, you felt a wave of desire wash over you. Whether it was aided by the fact that you were very nearly nine months pregnant by now or simply infatuated with this man, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t care. You started rolling your hips gently, and Joel’s hands moved up your sides.

He liked to feel you. He loved to see you all swollen and glowing on account of how he’d knocked you up with his baby. Joel still couldn’t believe this some days, and he knew he would do anything to keep giving you more.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, and you’ll be changing diapers for the rest of your days, old man,” you teased.

He didn’t seem to give a shit.

In fact, as you moved your lower half over his leg and started grinding lightly, it was like you could see him picturing the nursery, one crib after the next until you had enough kids to create their very own baseball team.

You were fine with that. You grinded even harder.

And, thanks to the state of your hormones and your never-ending need for the man underneath you, you knew a climax wasn’t far. You let your jaw go slack, and you rode Joel’s thigh without another thought in your mind other than finishing, and giving him a dozen babies

“I’m so close, Joel,” you whimpered. “So, oh…”

“That’s it, sweet pea. Ride daddy’s thigh.”

He coaxed and cajoled you to no end. Rubbed his broad, callused palms over your hips and helped you bounce on him lightly, ignoring the fact that you were both still fully clothed. You were close. Joel was in awe, so wholly in love that he could hardly keep drawing breath without thinking to himself how lucky he was. How perfect it was.

How badly he wanted to fill you up as soon as he—

“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeeeeeeeeene!”

Fucking shit.

Like an EF5 tornado—destructive and completely unwanted—Tommy Miller shot through the front door.

He was so lost in singing the old country tune that he didn’t even notice you and Joel at first. He just strolled in, taking his sweet time and belting as loud as he could; as he did, you scrambled off Joel’s lap. You cursed under your breath when the next noise that rang out was a wail.

A shriek.

You immediately knew it was your daughter, and could only surmise that it would turn into crying, so you stood.

On two wobbling legs with one ridiculously heavy belly, you pushed to your feet and started after your daughter.

At the same time, Joel was making moves himself—standing and barking at his brother, nostrils flared.

“Ever heard of knocking, Tommy?!”

“Shit, Joel, I’m so—”

“AAH!”

You approached your baby’s playard, where she was currently standing with her round, sweet face perched over the bars of her little bed, and you lowered your voice

“C’mere, sweet girl,” you cooed gently.

And really, you meant to pick her up. It was just that your bump was so big, and the rest of you was still so lightheaded from standing so fast, and you had to take a beat. Meanwhile, Joel was busy chewing Tommy out.

“—she could give birth at any damn minute, y’know—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again, I swear.”

You were about to chime in yourself, tiredly say it was fine, just be more careful next time, when a new, loud sound caught you off guard. This time, it wasn’t Tommy.

You cocked your head to the side, as did Joel and his brother. The noise shot off again, exactly like before.

Your less-than a year-old baby was clapping her hands together gleefully. But that wasn’t what shocked you.

What snagged the attention of all the rest of you then was the sound that accompanied it—high-pitched. Shrill.

“Jacka!” your daughter giggled, stomping her little feet.

You didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t speak.

Clearly, your baby had no such issues herself.

She gripped the top of her crib and shook the bars, staring directly at her Uncle Tommy and smiling big.

“Jackass!”

Tommy coughed. Joel choked.

For a second, you thought you might go into labor.

Your baby, entirely oblivious to everyone else’s reactions, just stood there and laughed. Uncle Jackass Tommy was here, and that meant she got to play—and maybe crack open a cold one afterward if she played her cards right.

There wasn’t a chance Joel could’ve ever predicted that that would be her first word, so he stood there, stunned.

And when his sweet, tiny, beaming bundle of joy turned a gummy grin to him, he had no choice but to smile back

When she laughed again, Joel laughed with her.

Then you joined, and Tommy followed, fast.

Alright.

‘Jackass’ works.

[arcane-ish]

I always found Vander's reaction in those scenes so interesting. Yeah, Benzo is all on board, ready to try and squash Silco like a bug.

But Vander, is just so pained to me.

From his look of surprise when he recognizes Silco

The way he keeps looking back and forth between Benzo and Silco.

There's certainly no joy in seeing Silco again. But his reaction is just so much more mixed compared to Benzo's clear rage.

Even when he tries to stop Benzo from attacking Silco. I always read this as just "he knows Benzo is putting himself in danger", but I do think with s2 info we can discuss whether there is some part of "it's ruining any chance to make peace, any chance to make his apology".

And of course any hope of that is dashed when Silco kills Benzo.

Vander keeps communicating that he doesn't expect mercy from Silco ("spare the Lanes"), but he keeps trying to reason with Silco (also when he begs Silco to keep the kids out of it when Vi starts fighting goons on the bridge). I don't think he has much hope that it will work, but he keeps trying. (and of course when he has Silco at his mercy, the rage gets overtaken by pity/pain/guilt when Silco looks at him)

So I don't think that Vander quite manages to see Silco as a monster or treat him as one probably because he knows too well how he got made.

But he's still Vander's nightmare creepying in, Vander's sins catching up with him and ruining his life.

I do think Vander prioritizes the kids, so I don't headcanon him as quite as guilt ridden that he would have thrown everything away, I think he would have tried to fight for the kids, even if half heartedly.

One "what if" I'm pondering as I take the screenshot here is, what if Powder's bomb hadn't happened. Vi on the bridge, getting choked by Silco's goons, Vander just getting free from the chair, what if Mylo and Claggor hadn't gotten killed. What would Vander have done?

Just grab Vi and the boys and run after one poignant look at Silco? And then what? Take the kids and leave town, like in Silco's story? Or return and try to take out the factory to try and protect the Lanes from Silco? Or would he not have run and instead try to take on Silco and his goons with Vi on his side because he knows he has to end this now? (of course in my mind Vander can never bring himself to kill Silco and if he won he'd just grab Silco and lock him in his basement as he tries to figure out what to do with him)

Or maybe Silco gets away as Vander managed to do a huge blow to Silco's goons ro shimmer factory and they set up a dark alleyway meeting, knife in hand. (and in the middle enforcering bearing down on them because of the death of Grayson)

Would Silco just kick himself that he took the risk of taking Vander alive? Would he do another mad dash attempt to convince Vander that they have to fight against the upcoming enforcers together, because he can never let anything go?

(and there's still Marcus running around, who knows that Silco and Deckard killed Grayson and does feel somewhat bad for it, but also scared that Silco can out his involvement. Would Silco try to scare him into pinning things on Vander instead? Would Marcus balk and Silco would be forced to kill him too? Would Vander ever break the "we don't hand over one of our own" or would he still stand for Silco in a situation like this, even if Silco has totally done the deed?)

Sorry, I'm just being dumb and rambly about my faves.

One of Vander's last actual memories of Silco is this:

but the (first!) image that surfaces when Viktor looks into his mind is this:

...I have to forgive everything I didn't initially like about Arcane season 2. I got what I have been writing fanfic of for years, really.

[geminiwritten]

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.

[mallory524]

Hi! I have this idea of reader trying to get Bob to watch a horror movie and him being kind of hesitant because maybe he's scared or horror just isn't his thing idk. But eventually reader convinces him and it ends up being cute and funny.

movie night :)

bob x reader

summary- Bob doesn't really want to watch a scary movie, but he'll do anything if it means spending the evening with you

tags- thunderbolts* spoilers, sort of established relationship, holding hands, kiss, thunder/lightning, Void mention

word count- 1176

notes- yayyy i love getting requests, plz keep sending them in you guys

Bob feels sort of silly about how much this movie is getting to him. It's not really the kind of thing he usually watches, but of course he'd watch anything that you want to watch. Yeah, he almost didn't, but he eventually agreed to this. He will take any and every opportunity to spend some time with you.

The two of you have gone out a bunch of times... or at least, Bob is pretty sure that's what happened. It's not always clear what really counts as "going out", but you've gotten plenty of meals together, seen a few different movies and plays, and Bob almost always tags along when you go to the grocery store. He loves hanging out with you, no matter what you're doing. You have a really comforting presence to him.

This afternoon in particular, it's pouring rain, and it has been all day. The tower isn't filled with that same lovely natural lighting it usually is, but it's still beautiful in a way. You lit a few candles to add to the very important vibe. Bucky is convinced you're going to forget to blow them out and burn the place down.

The group is just taking a lazy day, and everyone's hanging out in their own rooms, except for you and Bob in the living room. You were doing a jigsaw puzzle to pass the time when you suggested watching a scary movie.

Bob was sort of hesitant at first and you practically had to beg him. "Oh come on, please," you had said, trying to pout to look extra sad, but you couldn't stop giggling at how ridiculous you knew you looked in that moment.

Bob kept shaking his head and softly laughing, too. "Nuh uh. I really don't do scary movies". He was trying to make it sound less cowardly than it was, but he was definitely worried that the movie would be too much for him.

"Come on, Bob," you said in almost a singsong kind of way, "It's dark and scary and stormy out... It's the perfect time for this kind of thing."

The idea of curling up under a big blanket with you in the dark was definitely enticing, but he still wasn't sure.

"Hey, hey. I'm just messing around," you tell him, smiling and gesturing at the puzzle, "I really don't mind if this isn't your thing. We can keep doing this." You were always so nice to him. You got him to do things that were out of his comfort zone, but you never forced him to do anything if he really didn't want to. You'd always just tell him it was fine with that warm, comforting smile. You could probably convince him to do anything when you looked at him like that, even if you weren't trying to...

"You know what? Sure."

"Yay!!"

Now you're sitting on the couch together and watching some obscure horror movie he'd never ever heard of. You told him it wasn't that scary, and now Bob's wondering what you do consider scary because goodness-

Bob is so on edge, and the conditions outside aren't helping. Since you originally sat down to watch the movie, day has turned into night, and so the only light in the room is coming from the tv screen and the candles. The weather is somehow getting even worse, with huge cracks of lightning lighting up the dark sky every minute or so, and then you both jump at the ensuing thunder every. single. time.

You subtly glance over at Bob. He really is such a sweetheart. The man is bulletproof. You watched him tear Bucky's vibranium arm off and then proceed to turn into a vicious physical manifestation of darkness that engulfed New York City. Now, he's wrapped up in a blanket, grimacing at all the cheesy fake blood and gore on screen. Occasionally, he jumps and sends his popcorn flying up just a little, almost comically.

He's a cool guy and he wasn't kidding: these kinds of movies are really not his thing.

He catches you looking at him, and he turns hesitantly to meet your gaze. "What is it?"

"Nothing, it's just... I... hope you've had as good a day today as I have, hanging out with you."

Bob practically glows when he hears you say that, but he wants to play it cool. He tries to look back and forth between you and the movie, trying to show you that he cares about this thing you care about.

"Thanks. I really did have a good day. To be honest, I like ... I like doing stuff with you," he says with a shy smile.

Before you can say anything in response to his sweet words, there's another loud sound from the movie, and Bob instinctively reaches for your hand. Neither of you make any move to pull away from the small embrace.

"Hey Bob," you say, playfully smirking at him, "Are you scared?"

It's barely even a question. Of course he is.

"Well I guess it is a little much, I mean I uh- I like the story I guess, and I know it's all fake but it is freaking me out a little..." he starts to ramble, but you gently squeeze his hand and that's enough to pull him back into the moment. He trails off and you lean a little closer.

Looking right into his eyes, you quietly suggest, "Well maybe don't look at the movie anymore."

Bob notices your eyes fall down to his lips, and he knows what you're thinking. He leans just a tiny bit closer and stops so that, if he had somehow misread this, you'd have the opportunity to cut him off right then and there. Of course, he didn't and you don't.

Right as your lips are about to touch, the loud thunder startles you both and you stop short. He expects you to pull away and move on, like how the characters always seem to do in every cliche movie he's ever seen, (not unlike the one you're watching now), but of course that's silly. You just laugh quietly and lean back in to give him a proper kiss.

After that, you lean on Bob's shoulder and, in spite of the awful loud screaming and tense music blaring from the tv, you both fall asleep. You may have missed the last 20 minutes of the movie, but you got what you wanted tonight. You got to play into the fun, creepy vibe of the evening, you got Bob to spend an hour and a half with you, and you got a kiss. Bob's happy, too, because it is now abundantly clear what the nature of your relationship is.

Bucky was right; you absolutely did forget about all those candles you lit. He ends up walking around the tower and blowing them out himself. When he finds you and Bob on the couch, fast asleep in each other's arms, he just smiles to himself, turns the tv off, and goes right to bed.

[very-merry-birthday]

Sweet or Heat

Summary: When you're stuck in a motel room, trying to pass the time, one thing becomes clear. Sam prefers sweet sex, while Dean prefers it heated. It's up to them to convince you which is better.

Warnings: Smut, Some degrading language

~~~

You stepped out of the bathroom, still drying your hair from the shower. The two men paused their conversation, turning to look at you instead. Sam let his eyes glance down to your tight shirt, his cheeks going red as he took you in, before turning away, bashful. Dean made no secret of his own gaze, looking over your body slowly before eventually landing on your ass, covered in a small pair of PJ shorts, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

You'd been stuck in the motel room for too long now, the brothers' small glances becoming more and more noticeable. Your own looks probably were as well, the small peaks as they changed, the V lines at Sam's waist, the back of Dean's shoulders. The tension hung in the air, thicker and thicker as you tried to pass the time.

Tonight the method of choice was alcohol, enough of it that you'd all hopefully pass out without having to acknowledge any of the tightness in the room. Dean passed you the half drunk bottle of whiskey as he finally dragged his eyes away from your body, looking up at you with a lopsided smile. You took it, sitting down on the bed beside him.

"You started drinking without me?" You smiled and swigged down a couple of gulps, letting the fiery liquid warm you from the inside, and passing it over to Sam.

Dean shrugged, turning back to Sam to continue the conversation you'd been missing, "I'm telling you, there's nothing hotter than when you're plowing a girl from behind, pulling on her hair-"

Sam coughed on the whiskey, shooting his brother daggers with his eyes, "Dude come on, let's not do this now?" He gestured back to you.

You looked between the two of them, waiting for them to explain as they seemed to have a silent conversation with their eyes. You continued to pass the bottle between you all as you spoke.

"Well Sammy here likes to have sappy sex-"

"Hey I never said that," Sam cut him off, his face going red "I just- fine- I think it's better when sex is intimate, you know? When you've been dating a girl for a while and you can just have slow, soft sex, when you just know her well enough that every touch is deliberate. Sometimes I just prefer it when it's sweet!"

Dean shook his head, "And I told him he's wrong- sex is always better when it's rough and sweaty and leaves bruises. No girl actually wants it slow, not all the time! They want to be fucked properly. Sex is just better when it's hot and heated! Right?"

They both looked at you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

You thought carefully about their words, images filling your mind. You imagined Sam, his strong arms wrapped around you as he pushed into you, his lips pressed softly against your skin. Then you imagined Dean, his hand around your throat as he roughly thrust against you.

"Both- both are pretty good." You looked back at the two men.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, "Don't be embarrassed just because you want to say you like it rough, you know I'm right."

"Shut up Dean, she doesn't have to tell us anything she doesn't want to."

"I'm not embarrassed- I'm being honest. Sometimes I prefer it when it's sweet and sometimes I prefer it heated, it just depends on the time, and the person." Your eyes darted between them.

Dean's eyes dropped to your lips and then back up to you, keeping himself composed, "That's not a real answer, you have to choose."

"Well argue your case then, let's hear more." You knew this was only an excuse for them to talk about sex, and they knew it too.

"I like to feel a woman," Sam began to speak, surprising you both, "like- really feel her. You've got to take your time to do that. I just let my fingers flow over her skin, touching every inch of her body. Dean you're only arguing because you don't know what it feels like to slowly inch your cock into a woman, let her feel you fill her up more and more, until you're completely inside her and she's practically begging for you."

You could feel a wetness growing between your legs as you listened to his words, your own face going flush as you pictured it. You watched him swallow hard before leaning back and shrugging, acting like he didn't know what he was doing to you. Dean gave it a second, watching for your reaction, a small pit of jealousy growing in his stomach as he saw your eyes wash over Sam's body.

"That's what doing it rough is all about though," Dean made sure your eyes were back on him before he continued, "there's no practically about it. I like making sure she's begging for me. When you have a girl on her knees in front of you, and she's fucking worshipping your cock, desperate to have it inside her? Damn there's no better feeling." He was talking to Sam but his eyes were firmly on you. "When she's able to loose all control, and just lets you take over, telling her exactly what to do, where to go, when to cum? Yeah I'd say that's the best kind of sex."

He refused to let the eye contact break, keeping you looking at him, the air growing thicker and thicker between the two of you. Then he let his eyes dip, only slightly, to your lips. You wet them instinctively and he broke a small smile, looking back to Sam and allowing himself to grin completely. "I think she agrees with me."

Sam rolled his eyes, "No way, tell him Y/N, you liked what I was saying."

You let the whiskey get the better of you, "I liked what you were both saying. A lot."

"But which is better?" Sam reached out to you, letting his finger lightly trace a small circle on your bare leg. It was the sort of touch that in any other situation you'd take as friendly, but right now you couldn't take any other way except lustful. He kept his eyes away, feigning innocence.

Dean watched his movements carefully, holding his breath tight in his chest. His eyes flicked between your eyes, Sam's, his hand, and back to Sam's again, none of you able to say what was clearly happening.

"I don't know Sam, I like them both. I still don't think either of you have fully convinced me."

"Well what would it take to convince you?" His hand got higher, his fingers drawing patterns across the top of your thigh, inches away from your PJ shorts, and the growing arousal between your legs.

Time felt as though it slowed, Sam looking at Dean, Dean looking at you, you looking between them both. His fingers were barely moving, but they sent fireworks flowing through you. None of you wanted to be the first to break, all of you holding onto the moment in the room.

He slowly inched his hand towards your inner thigh, tiny movements that left your breath hitched in your throat. You looked at Dean, who seemed to be watching you carefully, looking for the expression on your face, gauging his next move carefully. He cocked his eyebrow, only slightly, enough that you could barely see it. A question hung in the air between the two of you, imperceptible to anyone else. You dipped your head in a small nod.

In a single moment his hand came up to your cheek as he crashed his lips into yours, pulling your body away from Sam. You felt his lips, hot and heavy, his hand gripping at your jaw, a low hum emanating between you both. He tasted like whiskey as he easily pushed his tongue into your mouth, both your bodies entwining together, his other hand finding your waist and dragging you closer to him, wanting you to himself.

Sam moved his hand away and you let out a small whine, wanting him closer to you. You pulled your hand behind your back as you continued to kiss Dean, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him into the mix. You smiled as his hand found your thigh again, followed by the feeling of light kisses against your skin.

Dean pulled back to look at the scene, you bit your lip as Sam's lips pressed lightly against your inner thigh. He shook his head, "Hey dude, it was my turn to convince her."

Sam just rolled his eyes and looked back at your legs, small deep kisses peppered against your skin.

Dean looked back at you, holding your jaw to look at him as he spoke quietly for a moment, "This okay? How far do you want this to go?"

You smiled and kissed him lightly, "I want you to convince me, Winchester, both of you. That means you have complete control."

His expression turned dark once again and his hand found your neck, lightly wrapping around it as he dipped in to kiss you again, fierce and full of desire. Your own hand reached up to his shoulders, letting yourself feel his strong muscles as you bit back another whine. He pulled back, looking at you intensely, "On your knees."

You began to move, wanting to do as he said, but Sam grabbed your leg and looked back up at the older man, "No way you're taking her away right when it's about to get good." He lightly let his thumb rub over the crotch of your shorts and you let out a quiet gasp.

Dean watched you carefully, "You like it when both of us touch you, one not enough?"

You nodded your head.

"God you're fucking needy," he grabbed your jaw in his hands, "I should have known you were a slut."

You let out another moan as you bit your lip, looking up at him. Sam pressed his mouth down to your shorts, kissing you through the fabric, as Dean made sure you kept your gaze firmly on him. "Fine, Sam, have it your way, only because I know her mouth will feel better if you keep her moaning." He let go of you and began to stand, your attention turning back to Sam.

"Lay down, baby." He kissed your hip gently, looking up at you, and to Dean behind you, hiding the small smile that was forming at the corner of his mouth. You did as he said, pulling off your shirt at the same time. You felt both men's eyes on you for a moment as you got yourself into position, your bare breasts exposed, both of them unable to look anywhere else. You heard Dean behind you unbuckling his pants, Sam looking up at him and then back to you, "He wants your head off the back of the bed, baby, can you do that for us?" He kissed your hip again, "I promise I'll make it worth it."

You shuffled backwards slightly, letting the rest of your body sink into the sheets, your head off of the mattress, still looking down at Sam. He hooked his fingers around your shorts, slowly pulling them down your legs and throwing them to one side. He found his own position, laying between your legs, his mouth forming a small trail from your knee up to your pussy. You wanted him to touch you, but he was taking his time, savouring every moment. Then his tongue was on you, softly stroking through your soaked folds. You let out a loud moan, your head rolling back, gripping the sheets.

Dean stood behind you, his cock in his hand, stroking himself to the sight. Just seeing him, your head hung off the back of the bed, caused your chest to tighten, desperate to reach out to him. He saw your eyes on him and stepped forward, pressing his tip against your lips. He slowly pushed into your mouth, as Sam pushed two fingers into your pussy, filling you up from both ends. You moaned against Dean's length, sending vibrations through him.

He began to thrust his hips into you, his large cock filling your mouth, swallowing down his salty taste. Sam's tongue found your clit, lightly darting over it, and you lifted your hips up to him, desperate for more. Dean's thrusting got faster, the sight of you unravelling below him sending him into a desperate frenzy, pushing his cock further and further on each thrust until you felt like it was fully down your throat, choking you from the angle. His movements didn't slow as you tried to take him completely, the oxygen in your lungs starting to go, eyes going wide as you desperately tried to please him.

Sam almost spoke up, wanting to make sure you were okay, but he could tell by the wetness between your legs and the clenching of your pussy around his fingers how much you were enjoying it. He shot Dean a small wink and lowered his mouth back down, his tongue flowing through your folds, small, deliberate movements sending you to the edge.

You took in a large gasp of air as Dean pulled out for a moment to let you enjoy the feeling, your thighs wrapping around the younger man's head, legs over his shoulders. One of Sam's large hands came up to your bare breast, firmly palming it as his tongue continued to move through your wetness. He lightly pinched your nipple, causing you to let out another moan.

Dean pushed himself back into your mouth, your own tongue playing with his tip for a moment before he thrust in deeper, wanting to fill you once again. "Fuck your throat feels good- you like both of us inside you?"

You tried to nod as he began to roughly fuck your mouth. The feeling of Sam sucking lightly on your clit sent your body twitching beneath the two of them, the coil tightening in your stomach. You let out another moan against Dean's cock, and he sucked in a desperate breath, "Don't let her cum- not yet-"

Sam chuckled, sending vibrations through you as he licked along your folds, before looking up, slowly pushing another finger into you, "I wasn't planning on it, do you see how good she looks like this?"

"You should feel her mouth- god she knows what she's doing- and she fucking likes it too-"

"I can tell, you've got her so wet, she tastes incredible."

"Fuck look at her-" he pushed his cock in further, filling your throat, "-I don't think I can last much longer if she's gonna keep taking it so well."

Sam leant back down, licking through your folds, gaining speed as he moved past your clit, "You want to cum baby?"

You nodded, moaning against Dean's cock, loud enough they could both hear.

"Want to cum with a cock inside you?" Dean stepped back, giving you a chance to suck in a deep breath before nodding again, unable to form any words.

"Who do you want baby?" Sam pulled his head back, his fingers still slowly pushing into you, "Who convinced you?"

You took a moment, looking between the two men, desperate for both of them to keep touching you, wanting them both inside you.

"Sam." "Dean."

[click the name for a personalized ending]

[fight-for-what-you-love]

♪You're The Reason - Victorious Cast, Victoria Justice

Now. I'm not saying Cody wouldn't learn to defend himself on his own... but... I'm also saying that couples that spend a good amount of time together tend to learn from each other. Have you ever heard of the Michelangelo Phenomenon? That's what's going on here.

Anyway, for ONCE it's not all about Noah and Cody! Alejandro and Courtney really connected last episode! They understand each other and help each other out in different ways, what with their similar drives for success and mutual understanding to get there. Not everyone understands them, though. Shame it was a double elimination.

Notes on the episode under the cut!

* Courtney and Alejandro spend the trip to China talking and getting along in first class over their wedding cake (though Courtney’s the only one eating).

* Noah and Cody are asleep in a stupid, uncomfortable looking position. Heather and Tyler comment on the absurdity of the position before Sierra gets up and walks away in silent rage.

* Cut to Sierra in the confessional. She’s racking her brain trying to figure out how this (noco) happened, and where she went wrong. She doesn’t know what to do. Someone needs to tell her how this happened.

* Noah snags the bike, but only because Cody reached Ace the Donkey first, that jerk. He doesn’t argue though, just pets Ace and tells him to be nice to Cody.

* Sierra gets the pogo stick, Alejandro gets the skateboard and Courtney gets the tricycle like canon.

* Tyler insists he can run the wall on foot. Indeed he does, and he makes it to the gong exhausted.

* Heather gets a pair of roller skates instead of the traditional sandals. She’s not great with them, so she grabs the back of Alejandro’s shirt the whole race (after Alejandro convinces Courtney that sticking with Heather can give them an extra vote).

* Heather, Alejandro and Courtney keep pace with each other most of the race. Heather notices how well Alejandro and Courtney get along and she’s filled with an anger she can’t quite explain.

* Sierra and Noah reach each other in the race, and Sierra takes the opportunity to ask him how he did it. How exactly did he get Cody’s affection so easily when she couldn’t? Noah responds sarcastically: “By being a normal human being, maybe. What a concept, right?” This prompts Sierra to hop in front of him and jam her pogo stick into the front wheel of his bike. Noah almost flies off the bike as Sierra insists on telling her what he did to "win Cody over". Noah, scowling, simply says he was his friend first. “Have you ever considered that maybe he just wanted a friend?” This leaves Sierra thinking, giving Noah the chance to bike away.

* Courtney gets got by a land mine halfway through and gets blown past the wall. Alejandro moves to help her but can’t catch her before she falls.

* Noah passes out before making it to the gong and is disqualified from the second half of the challenge.

* (The prize for winning the second half of the challenge, other than immunity, is being able to take someone with you to first class. This will continue to be the case for every challenge moving forward.)

* Eating challenge time! Their first meal is the donkey meat. Cody refuses to eat what he assumes is Ace, and gets disqualified and sent to the loser bench for it. He sits next to Noah, who pats his back sympathetically. Four remain.

* Their second meal is the live meal worms. Heather does not finish her bowl before everyone else, and gets disqualified. She notices Courtney with her mouth full on her way to sit down. Three remain.

* Third meal is the starfish on a skewer. Heather notices Courtney and Alejandro dive under the table one after the other and interrupts the meal to call them out. Alejandro tries denying anything but Courtney’s mouth is too full to defend herself. Alejandro is disqualified for cheating.

* Tyler and Sierra are the last ones standing. They get the inedible slosh as their final plate and they’re both very not into eating this. Tyler plugs his nose, closes his eyes and starts shoveling the food in his mouth. He manages to swallow a few spoonfuls. Sierra is about to take her first bite when she notices Tyler hesitate. He has a spoon and a mouth full of food but he’s not moving to swallow anymore. Sierra sees this and puts down her spoon.

* Sierra starts teasing Tyler, telling him things like “It’s so warm and gooey, it looks like someone already ate this and threw it back up, the solid chunks really compliment the thickness of the broth” etc. Noah and Cody pipe up and try to convince Tyler to tune her out and finish the bowl. There’s silence for a few seconds. The spoon rattles in Tyler’s hand. He’s shaking and sweating. He turns and pukes. Sierra wins the challenge.

* Chris counts six votes: three for Alejandro and three for Noah. A tie. But... there’s seven people, how are there only six votes? Turns out Tyler got food poisoning and made a total mess of his vote. Noah and Alejandro try to argue, but Chris cuts his losses and hands them both a parachute.

* Before they jump, Sierra tries consoling Cody, telling him how it's just soooo sad that Noah got eliminated again, but at least he'll be comfortable in first class tonight!! Cody turns to look at her. "Who says I’m sleeping in first class?" Sierra hesitates, not expecting him to talk back to her. "I... did...? I’m bringing you with me...??" Cody responds: "I’m not going to first class with you."

* Sierra insists. "But… I won the challenge. I get to pick someone to come with me, and I’m picking you!" Cody stands his ground. "I’m not going with you." Sierra starts losing her patience. "Cody, don’t be difficult-" She grabs him by the shoulder, but Cody shoves her away harshly. He stands and takes a step back to create distance. "I said NO! I’ve had enough of you treating me like I’m anything but a person, so NO. I’m not going with you! Leave me ALONE!!"

* Sierra is left startled by his outburst. She relents. “Fine. I’ll take Heather instead.” Heather’s shocked, but she’s not about to turn down first class.

* Cody turns to say goodbye to Noah, but Noah hugs him before he can say a word. "That was amazing!! I’m so proud of you!!" Noah keeps going, saying he’s made it so far already, and he knows Cody can make it to the end. Cody can’t help but smile. Before he can say more, Alejandro grabs Noah and throws him out of the plane before jumping out himself.

* For goofs and gaffs, I like imagining the post credits bit of this episode being Alejandro and Noah plummeting to the ground after jumping out of the plane. Alejandro pulls the string of his parachute, only for soup bowls and chopsticks to fly out. Noah grabs onto Alejandro and pulls his own string (which opens an actual parachute), saving them both. Alejandro comments, disgust apparent in his face and tone, how being with Cody made him soft. Noah just tells him to shut up before he changes his mind and drops him.

[hellfiremunsonn]

Not So Into It. Eddie Munson x Reader.

Not So Into It.

I DO NOT ALLOW MY WRITING TO BE REPUBLISHED ANYWHERE OTHER THAN MY OWN BLOG WITHOUT MY CONSENT

Summary: Sometimes you try to push through when you shouldn't and Eddie notices right away.

18 + IF YOU ARE NOT 18 OR OLDER DO NOT READ OR INTERACT WITH MY WRITING. IT IS NOT INTENDED FOR MINORS. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MEDIA YOU CONSUME.

Warnings: Fem reader though no real fem descriptions used, pet names obv. Not entirely explicit. Reader tries to endure the rest of sex though she's not really feeling it anymore. Eddie is super sweet and makes sure she knows its fine whenever she wants to stop. (IF THERES ANYTHING I MISSED LET ME KNOW)

AN: Slightly self indulgent (as most of my fics are) I've realized recently that I've pushed through having sex with partners despite no longer being in the mood, because it's 'easier' that asking them to stop, and making them upset. (rather the fear of making them upset) so I was day dreaming about how Eddie would react and then started writing this. Also I did not make a header for this and it feels naked and I hate it so I'll probably add one later maybe or not idk I have ADHD.

Word count: 764

You've been at it for maybe about fifteen minutes now. The roll of eddies hips as he thrusts into you lazily, occasionally picking up speed before slowing back down. Kissing you all over, and murmuring words of filthy praise.

And it's wonderful it is; And the foreplay before hand was even better, but now you've sort of just, lost interest in it. But Eddie is fucking into you so nicely, and he's so worked up that you don't want to stop him.

Especially because he spent so much time working you up on his fingers and with his mouth, so only for you to 'spoil' it by stopping so soon felt mean. So instead you wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face into the crook of it, trying to encourage him to go faster, to chase that release you know he wants, and you want to give it to him. 

It doesn't take Eddie long to notice that you're no longer into it when you sort of go quiet. You're not clinging to him like you usually do, and when you do make any noise, it's not full of pleasure and want, it's more involuntary. He pulls back enough to catch a glimpse of your face, watching how you close your eyes almost immediately, biting at your lip as if you're pretending it feels good. 

"Babe?" Eddie murmurs out, a little breathless and hoarse, slowing his hips until you open your eyes. 

"Yeah baby? Why'd you stop?" you say cheerfully, cringing at the sound of your own voice because you know it doesn't sound very convincing. 

"Are you okay?" He asks instead of answering your question, his eyes searching your face for something.

"Yeah" you reply quickly, because you are technically okay, you just don't really want to be having sex anymore. 

"You're not really into it right now though are you?" It's more of a statement than a question, because he knows you.

You hesitate for a moment, debating lying, but how could you when you have the most wonderful boyfriend in the world looking down at you like that. "Well... N-no not really, but it's okay you can finish, I don't want to like blue ball-"

"Blue ball me?" He scolds, rolling his eyes before pulling out of you slowly, pulling his boxers back up over his hips and moving to sit next to you. 

You cover your face with your hands. Face heating up in embarrassment and guilt. "I'm sorry" you mumble, feeling an annoying wave of emotions creep up on you. 

"Sorry? baby you've got nothing to be sorry about" Eddies confused, and his heart hurts seeing you upset, especially over something like this. "It's okay that you wanted to stop, it's always okay when you want to stop" He says firmly, pausing so you understand the sincerity of his words."I just wish you had said something sooner" he murmurs softly, reaching up to gently tug your hands away from your face, sighing when he sees your wet eyes and the tears that roll down your temples. "C'mere" he says while tugging at your hands once more, pulling you over to him until your head rests against his chest, warm where your cheek is pressed. 

"I just didn't want you to be upset" You mumble. You know it's stupid, because Eddie has never once been upset when stopping before and you've never felt like you had to perform for him, but you just couldn't help the lingering guilt of past experiences creep up on you. "You d-did all that work for me, it's not fair that you have to stop"

"Baby I'm going to stop you right there... no pun intended" He giggles. "I don't care if I do all the work and then some, I like pleasing you just to please you, it barely has anything to do with me, and if I was really that desperate, I could literally just go jerk off" he says this so easily, because truthfully it is, and deep down you know that, because consent and love are two beautiful things especially when combined. 

"Now why don't we get you dressed back up on some comfy clothes, and we can cuddle for as long as you want. Sound good?" He trails his fingers across your hairline, down from your temple to your jaw and back up until you give him the smallest nod. He kisses you on the forehead and helps you get dressed before pulling you back against his chest where he holds you until you feel just a little bit more normal again. 

[midnightloversmusic]

HELLOOO first request kinda nervous✌️😋

Can I hav3 poly! Wolfstar where you wanna get a tattoo Mostly fluff some dirty jokes....?

Hiii thanks for the request!!! Just a warning I have never gotten a tattoo so idk how accurate this is, sorry if anythings off! enjoyyyyy

Edit: omg I’m so blind I just re-read the request and realized you wanted poly wolfstar and I wrote for poly marauders my bad I’m so sorry😭😭

Cw: talk of needles/getting a tattoo. Reader referred to as “girl”, reader talks about having previous tattoos

Poly!marauders x fem!reader 640 Words

———

James’s hand was squeezing yours. You think It was more for his comfort than your own.

His arm was outstretched behind him to reach you, and he was facing a wall while squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

Saying he was squeamish with needles would be an extreme understatement.

Remus stands next to him, rubbing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You’re doing great, James.”

He just whimpers in return.

Your heart twists a little at the thought of James being here to comfort you, even though the thought of needles or getting tattoos pains him, or as he once told you, makes him nauseous.

He was appalled at your previous suggestion that he stayed home.

“I’m not staying home while they stab my girl hundreds of times with a needle! I’m grown, I can handle it. I want to be there for you.”

His tangent had convinced you then, but you feel horrible now.

Though, the feeling might be slightly related to the needles pricking your skin.

You hear Sirius snicker quietly from his spot kneeling beside you.

He whispers into your ear,

“Remus has to tell James he's doing great like he’s getting the bloody tattoo, eh?”

One look at Sirius’s face, scrunched up in an odd way that you know indicates he's holding back a boisterous laugh, makes you have to work hard to hold back your own.

“Don’t make fun of him! He’s obviously suffering.”

Sirius has to cover his mouth to stifle the giggles that come over him.

Remus glares at him.

You were fine. Honestly. You have gotten tattoos before, it wasn't that big of a deal. Obviously it wasn’t a pleasant experience, but it wasn’t a horrible one either. The end products have (so far) all been worth it.

Sirius is no stranger to tattoos; most of his body was covered in intricate patterns and designs, some of which he had even done himself.

Out of all of your boyfriends, Sirius was the most helpful when it came to this.

Remus has a few tattoos, but he got them done a while ago. And although he’d never admit it, he used numbing cream.

He wasn’t completely useless though. When the artist left the room he made a particular comment about kissing it better after the tattoo healed. Which resulted in you flushing and stumbling over your words when the Artist came back in to ask you questions about what you wanted done.

You definitely didn't get points for subtlety because the artist noted the blush on your face and the slight smirk on Remus’ and continued to throw curious glances between you and your boyfriends for the rest of the session.

James, bless his oh too big heart, is still squeezing your hand as the artist finishes up.

When he says he's done and hands you a mirror to check it out, James lets out a relieved sigh

“Oh thank god,” He lets out in a quick breath,

“Anymore of that and I would have been heaving on the floor, lovie.”

The artist makes a judgmental expression, and Sirius rolls his eyes but gets up to give James a slap on the back and congratulate him for not throwing up.

Remus makes his way over to you, handing off James to be Sirius’s problem.

You are looking in the mirror with awe. Your tattoo came out perfect, just what you wanted.

Remus grabs your waste and positions you so he can get a look.

“Wow Dove, looks amazing.”

You hear a wolf whistle come from over his shoulder,

“Smokin’ hot, love” Sirius says

James, still not wanting to look, goes

“I’m sure it looks amazing, honey. I'm happy that you’re happy with it.”

You giggle and thank them, slightly bashful from their compliments.

After a few weeks, Remus acts on his previous promise with James and Sirius hot on his tail.

[antianakin]

This is a nice way of looking at it, and you're probably not ENTIRELY wrong in the sense that I think I tend to read the theme you're picking up as less "no one knows everything" and more as "there's always two faces to a revolution and the rebellion is no different, but one of them gets to be public and live in the sun as heroes, while the other (by necessity) has to be hidden and live in the shadows, but both are necessary to the success of the entire cause." My problem is not the ACKNOWLEDGMENT of Luthen's contributions, but the way the narrative in this season, especially at the end, feels like it IS devaluing people like Bail or even Saw in place of characters like Mon and Luthen as vital and established founders of the rebellion.

I've made multiple reblogs now pointing out the places where I feel like this is done, but I'll try to run through it quickly again here.

Mon's escape from the Senate is given to Luthen's team because Bail's people that he vouches for happen to be compromised and only Luthen could possibly know that so he sends in his own operative and then Bail's people manage to somehow step in again to insist that they deliver Mon to Yavin in order to make it more of a big deal and so Luthen and Cassian have to step back and pretend they didn't do anything to help (which makes Bail and his team out to be a bunch of blowhards who are in this for the glory but who are ultimately incompetent/less competent than Luthen and his team who are actually prepared to do whatever's necessary to ensure success).

The way Cassian presents Luthen's information as valid specifically because "he died for it" and it's his pure FAITH in Luthen (as well as Kleya's faith) that allows Vel to convince Mothma into vouching for the information and convincing Bail to act on it. Luthen is turned into this larger than life figure who should be trusted simply because IT'S LUTHEN rather than because they have proof in hand that the information is real.

And lastly, Tony Gilroy apparently said this in an interview a little while back: "in our story Mon and Luthen really are the founders." Not that Mon and Luthen are "part of the GROUP of founders" or "some of the initial founders" or anything like that. But "really the founders." Period. It is Mon and Luthen's efforts that count and no one else's in this story. And it's hard not to view some of the other scenes like Mon's escape and Cassian's defense through that lens.

Some of the issue is also that this is one of those places where they didn't set this up enough for it to feel truly believable. Cassian argues that nothing on Yavin would be there if it were for Luthen, but we've never once seen Luthen do ANYTHING about Yavin, he's never mentioned it or been there prior to this, there's never been anything to indicate that Luthen built up Yavin as a rebel base of any kind. And honestly, most of the people who are there now seem to be from BAIL'S rebel groups as opposed to being connected to Luthen. There's a pretty strong implication that people who were once connected to Luthen are on Yavin now because they LEFT Luthen to join this group when they couldn't stand working for Luthen anymore. So while Cassian does seem to imply that the base there is only there because of Luthen, we have zero details on that and it's never been established prior to him saying it, so we just have to accept it at face value without really understanding where it's even coming from. If we'd SEEN Luthen working on setting up Yavin as a rebel base and a conflict between Luthen and Bail's rebels about who got to use it or something, it would feel more earned, but we don't, so it just feels confusing and like they're intentionally taking something that's historically always been associated with Bail Organa's rebellion and just saying "well actually secretly it was always Luthen's, we just never told you." And I can't take that seriously or respect it all that much.

Luthen is clearly a major player, and there's no disputing that, and I'm not saying that it makes no sense for Cassian to be trying to give him his flowers, especially after he's dead when it's most likely that Cassian is feeling more forgiving about the man.

I don't know, it just kinda is feeling like characters like Bail and Saw are having many of their contributions that have long been established be sort-of... brushed aside a little more recently in favor of characters like Luthen or Mon Mothma, and while I'm happy to have new characters come in who are equally as important to the narrative and show that it's never just one person, I refuse to dismiss the earlier characters' importance just because some newer, shinier ones got introduced.

It seems a little hilarious to me that they have Cassian making the argument that the only reason any of them are here, the only reason the REBELLION exists at all, is because of Luthen... and he's saying it to BAIL FUCKING ORGANA.

I'm sorry, but while I am happy to accept that Luthen did do a LOT of things to keep the rebellion alive and likely recruited quite a few of the people on Yavin to this cause himself and trained them up, there are just as many if not more who are there explicitly because of BAIL ORGANA.

Bail Organa who began fighting the Empire the moment he showed up at the Jedi Temple the night of Order 66 and turned around to save any Jedi he could and then became a GETAWAY DRIVER as Yoda went to assassinate the Emperor and then proceeded to agree to take in Anakin Skywalker's child in order to hide her from the Empire.

Bail Organa who has literally been shown helping recruit the entire Ghost Crew and likely brought on the entire Phoenix Squadon and theoretically the entire Gold Squadron. Bail Organa who was the one who helped Riyo Chuchi try to fight for clone rights. Bail Organa who saw Ahsoka Tano on Naboo for Padme's funeral and immediately turns around to offer her a chance to join the rebellion which she does eventually choose to take. Bail Organa who eventually does allow his own DAUGHTER to join the rebellion and run missions when she's old enough.

You cannot convince me that somehow Luthen Rael is MORE responsible for the creation of the rebellion and its existence and people's involvement in it than Bail Organa. You can't.

[wrestlingwreck]

LivDom's Problems

This is probably more of a vent post than anything else, but I said I would make a post about this at some point, so here it is. If you're a LivDom fan you're gonna wanna scroll past this.

Right off the bat I'm going to disclose that I am a RheaDom and L4B truther, but this post isn't about them. I'm going to do my best to view LivDom in a vacuum, without comparing them to other ships, except where it would be unavoidably relevant.

I also want to say that I have no issue with Liv or Dom as characters. I actually love both of them as SEPARATE ENTITIES. My problems begin and end with them as a couple. Also, this is in no way meant to hate on LivDom fans. I'm not going to tag this as LivDom because anyone scrolling through that tag probably doesn't want to see posts against them. This is purely an opinion.

Also, I know it's all kayfabe, but I'm treating it like it's real, because it's more fun that way.

With that said, I'm going to start with my most biased point, as it's based mainly on personal preference.

1. PDA

The amount of PDA shown by this couple is something I find to be uncomfortable, but more than that, it feels too showy, like they're overcompensating for the cameras. They're constantly hanging off each other, rubbing noses, making suggestive comments, and using pet names. It's Like they have to PROVE that they're a real, happy couple.

Additionally, Liv's insistence on calling Dom 'Daddy' is just... gross. I'm not against Mommy/Daddy kinks- some could even say I understand the appeal- but it crosses the line when someone calls their partner that in public in what is clearly supposed to be a sexual manner. I don't want to be forced to hear a woman call a man Daddy, and I don't know many people that do.

Also- and this is again more down to preference- you will never show me this man and convince me that he is 'Daddy.'

2. How They Started

Dominik and Liv literally got together because Dominik CHEATED ON RHEA WITH LIV IN FRONT OF HER AFTER SABOTAGING HER TITLE MATCH. Regardless of your feelings on RheaDom, that is deeply wrong. It also establishes a pattern of behavior.

We always knew that Dominik is a slimy little weasel- it's one of the funniest things about him. He betrayed his family for the Judgment Day, then betrayed Rhea for Liv. It isn't out of the question that he will eventually betray Liv for someone else.

Namely, another champion.

I'm not saying that this would ever actually happen, but it goes to further my point. When Tiffany essentially hit on Dom when talking about cashing in her briefcase, he didn't look uncomfortable or annoyed.

He looked... intrigued.

Until, that is, Liv looked back at him and he realized that his girlfriend might be upset.

It wasn't exactly the reaction of someone who is unquestionably loyal to Liv, is all I'm saying

3. His Reasoning

To start, I'm just going to quote Dominik verbatim as to why he chose Liv over her.

"Now, I got a girl that calls me Daddy. She gives me tendies whenever I want, she lets me play video games whenever I want, she lets me be me. And, she did something you could never do- finally helping me beat my deadbeat dad."

Does this sound like someone who chose Liv because he just loves her so, so much? Or does this sound like a spoiled child talking about why he wants his babysitter to be his real mom?

He only talks about what Liv does/did for him. He doesn't say that she's kind/smart/courageous. He focuses on her physical appeal and how she indulges him.

He also claims that he was embarrassed to call Rhea 'Mami,' but the first time he does it is of his own volition, and Rhea seemed visibly surprised when it happened.

4. Finally, Communication

Dominik isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer- this is nothing new- and he's not particularly skilled at reading the room. He doesn't pick up on tone or subtext. He doesn't read between the lines. He takes words at face value and doesn't question them. He requires clear communication, especially if someone is upset with him.

Liv is not someone adept at clear communication. She's passive-agressive and doesn't always say what she thinks. It's played for laughs, but it's still true.

After Rhea wins the title back from Liv, Dominik asks if Liv is mad at him for trying to hug Rhea (which he explained away as him trying to steal the title, even though he would know damn well that's not how it works), and Liv says that she isn't mad in a tone that makes it very, very clear that she is, indeed, mad.

Dominik, however, doesn't question this. He takes her words at face value, despite Finn, JD, and even Carlito being able to tell that Liv is at least a little upset with him. Eventually, we're led to believe that Liv just got over it, but the core issue of communication was not solved.

In Conclusion

Without taking other relationships like RheaDom and L4B into consideration, I propose the claim that Liv and Dominik are, in my opinion, the WORST kind of straight couple. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[heretohavenone]

Okay. I've been pondering Jack Slash for a bit. Slimy basted he is, and Number Man, the weirdo HE is. I've come to a couple conclusions after reading through Worm and most of Ward (working on it you'll all be getting my dog gruel opinions on it after) and some of Jack's Backstory via Wildbow posts. First I'll talk about Jack, since he needs more piecing together, for me at least.

Jack Slash is essentially a grifter/shitty salesman when he's speaking 99% of the time. Hes trying, almost without even putting up an act to get you to believe there is some philosophical point he's reaching towards, or some reason why what he's doing means Anything greater than just plain old being a dick. He'll put on different hats to tell you Why he's killing, but in the end, the only thing he wants is to make the world worse and to cause conflict. And that's it. 100%, honestly it. He'd probably kick a puppy if he thought that'd actually help make more people do Worse things, and get him into more conflict. For almost his entire interlude he doesn't really think of himself in terms of what he gets in goals, he simply observes others and thinks of how to best pressure them to continue making things worse while under his control. I think its pretty evident from how much he throws himself into chaotic situations and tries to make things so complicated he can't keep up that Control isnt really what hes most into.

Let's now put this into the context of his past, and more importanty, what Shards want. His past is pretty interesting: locked in a bunker by abusive parents, and told the world had gone to war. They told him a story about how bad everything had gotten, kept him in there for a Long Long time, and he triggered when he left the bunker and he realized it was a lie. Specifically, the thing that broke him wasn't the fact that his parents lied to him. It was that the world was Sane, and Safe, and Not at war. Something he'd grown used to, and absorbed into himself while in that bunker. Essentially, he torn apart by the fact everything was Okay when he was convinced utterly that it had all gone to shit, and people were in senseless conflict like he thought. His worldview got flipped, everything felt wrong, and he triggered. He only thinks the world makes sense In conflict, he had the ability to really process a healthy, constructive world severely damaged to him when he was young.

Jack's desire for conflict make a little more sense with that, but his shard Loving his ass makes a hundred times more sense. He's literally trying to cause humanity to act divided, just like the Shards want, and to create conflict testing. No wonder it likes him so much, that's about as ideal a host as any shard could net, ever. Its like a weapon tester finding a group of suicidal combat junkies. Like. Exceptionally lucky. So Jack is rewarded for his instincts by things Working for him, and gets in a loop of conflicts that are their own reward by making the world as horrible as he thought it was, and making him Comfortable. It's his natural environment. Anything actual push to be constructive and grow attached probably feels alien to him, or just gets contextualized as a tool to create conflict, because he no longer really would know how to do anything but be a grifting jackass hurting people. Even his games are shows of this, every rule meant to be broken and unfair, because you're supposed to stop thinking about them as Rules and more like tools to fuck eachother over. The game Is cheating the game. The point isnt anything he says, it's trying to Kill him.

This is what makes his relationship to Number Man maybe the top five ????? Things when I first read it. He liked the person who's entire sociopathic, utilitarian goals were: Helping The World and Making Order. Seemed contradictory, but Jack did like him as a person, not necessarily his philosophy. Still. They're people who think back on each other fondly, despite what they've become. While Jack doesn't know Where Number Man went, he's not being hunted or hurt or even being pitied for not following conflict like Jack.

They seem to be like Wildbow's fucked up little views on systems and those who take them down rather than working on them, which I disagree with, but they're still fascinating. As much as Number Man is a monster like Jack, who would do everything Jack does if given reason to by finding it the best way to improve people's lives, Number Man is mature by trying to be constructive with his views on what is and is not important, while Jack is purely deconstructive of everything. Their similarity though is how they both seek out their version of thing purely for their own satisfaction, and that's the reason they both seem to admire eachother. Theyre both entirely selfish people.

They're also, hilariously, both killed by people who are both out-doing them in their field. The only Parahuman who hurt Jack Slash was Gray Boy, someone who didn't care about anything but his own selfish ideas of fun who found Jack 'boring', and a disappointment, and that Might have actually thrown Jack off enough it let Gray Boy hit him with a time loop. Number Man got factored in as an uncared for number in Contessa's plan to defeat Teacher. I'm very curious if this one of Worm's few narrative punishments for both's wrong deeds, or just coincidence. Whichever, it's pretty interesting to look at these two freaks' dichotomy in terms of the story, and what Caulron does vs what those who fight against systems in the story do.

But, I like Jack Slash tbh. Cartoonishly evil as he is, he wasn't really didnt do anything else than what he sent himself out to do, and he CLEARLY enjoyed himself while doing it. And Number Man took some time to grow on me, but I also enjoy how he's kind of the opposite in how he shows himself to be very simply then pulls some marble slingshot bullshit to lobotomize someone a mile away.... OKAY I'm still a lil shocked by that.

[moonbuzzer]

Happy birthday to me! ✨

Wanted to dabble into short fan fiction stories so here is a short story about König missing your birthday… at least it seemed like it?

Also added a little sketch with it!

SFW / Königxreader

You and König haven't been together long, yet the late-night conversations and other shared moments have made it feel as though you've known each other for years.

König was caring, shy, and a little socially awkward but you didn't mind at all. In fact, you found it cute most of the time.

Birthdays had become a topic of conversation between you and König. He confessed that he no longer celebrated his own; work had turned his special day into just another day at the office so to speak. You, however, shared that birthdays held great significance for you, not just your own, but also your mother's and, most importantly, his.

You had told him how your mom used to decorate the house while you were asleep. Waking you up the day of and unwrapping presents while still in your pyjamas. And even though you knew about the decorations you where always happy to see them once you stepped downstairs.

So when König found out he had to work the week of your birthday he was devastated, mumbling “sorry’s” and soft German apologies.

You reassured him that you understood, because this year your birthday was in the middle of the week and you’d have to go to work too. He however didn’t seem convinced. That night, locked in your arms, he fell asleep with a sadness hanging onto his heart. You couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty yourself, wondering if you should have told him just how much your birthday meant to you.

The goodbye before he left for that week was long, filled with kisses, cuddles and other loving acts of affection. He made a point to coddle you a desperate attempt to rid himself of the guilt.

The morning of your birthday was quiet, apart from the loud alarm clock waking you.

“Happy birthday”

You mumbled to yourself, while checking your phone, no message from König. Weird, but you understood he was at work, a real, hard and demanding job so he didn’t have time for silly little texts.

Stepping out in your apartment you wondered if you should decorate yourself, it wasn’t like you haven’t done it before but thinking about decorating when König felt so bad about missing your birthday, big puppy eyes almost tearing up, you couldn’t help but feel less festive today. You decided not to, wasn’t like you had time to do it anyways.

Your workday was just as it always was, mundane. You brought a cake to the office, received obligatory congratulations from coworkers, and, of course, your manager handed you the standard office gift: a gift card to a mediocre chain restaurant, barely enough for a meal. But none of that mattered. All you cared about was König and the fact that he hadn't texted you all day. Did he forget? Or was he truly that busy? You stared at your phone, watching your texts become increasingly desperate.

06:12 - Good morning! How did you sleep?

7:02 - Heading out to the office, miss you already!

At 12:34 you send a picture of the birthday cake you planned on handing out at the office. You hoped he would get the hint.

12:01 - Just got my gift from the manager, cheap gift card like always lol

You didn’t get anything in return, nothing, nada, zilch! You couldn’t help but slowly get annoyed. The only comfort was the fact he hadn’t read the text messages yet, so maybe he was really busy but still you wondered. You hadn’t crossed his mind once this day?

While you weren’t totally wrong with your assumption, about not having time to check his phone that is, because König couldn’t stop thinking about you, especially today. His heart hurt, stomach knotted and continuously mulling over the fact he wouldn’t be there for your birthday.

The mission König was assigned to had been a bust slow, uneventful, and very unproductive. KorTac's involvement amounted to little more than waiting around, hindered by an inability to reach an agreement. Despite the lack of action, König was ordered to remain on duty, stationed outside the barracks to monitor personnel entering and exiting. He was permitted to leave only when someone arrived to relieve him.

When that moment finally came, he nearly sprinted to his room. He had to send you something anything. But just as he turned the corner, the voices of two soldiers caught his attention.

“Did you hear? They might send some of us home if we have to wait around for any longer”

- “about time! They should just send all of us home while they’re at it”

“For now they are thinking about a hand full of soldiers”

König could hardly believe his luck it felt like a gift sent down from heaven. If he played his cards right, he could not only leave the barracks but also return home to you. Determined, he raced to his room, snatched his phone, and, typing somewhat clumsily, made his way toward his superior's office.

A buzz came from your phone, a message, from König!

12:56 - Happy Birthday liebling, sorry for bad response work is busy!

Your heart skipped a beat and butterflies appeared in your stomach, you loved when he gave you German pet names.

12:57 - No problem! 💕 can’t wait to see you!

König grinned reading the message you send back, seeing him would be way sooner then you expected.

He had to pull some strings, but he did it he managed to snag the rest of the day off. König was very private about his personal life, so when he told his supervisor he’d heard they might be sending some contractors or soldiers home, and urged them to let him go early for “personal reasons,” they didn’t question him. They didn’t even know you existed, so they assumed something was wrong with a relative.

König had to move fast the drive back was four hours with no stops, and your workday ended in a little less than four, plus the hour-long commute you still had to make. He grabbed his things, hastily shoving them into his bag. Phone in hand, he walked to his car and fired off a quick text: he said he’d be very busy for the rest of the day and wouldn’t have time to reply. As soon as he hit send, he jammed the keys into the ignition and sped off.

You believed him when he send that text, because of course you did. During the day you finished your work thinking about what you’d do when you got home later today as your mind started to wander thinking about König and how you missed him, his cuddles, his sweet words and most importantly his huge… smile.

König sped through traffic, making the drive in just under four hours. He was exhausted, but very excited picturing the look on your face when you suddenly found him standing in your apartment gift in ha- a gift, he was so busy getting to you he forgot his gift! Since he wouldn’t be home for your birthday, it was still waiting in his apartment. Fuck, idiot! It doesn’t matter, he told himself, lying. Then he remembered what you’d told him once, about your mother decorating the house. It wasn’t perfect but it was better then standing there empty-handed. Even though you’d find his presence more then enough. He stopped at a nearby store, picking up as many decorations as he could. Then, slowly, the gears started turning, a cake, yes. Flowers also yes but he had to be quick, there wasn’t that much time left.

Finally the clock struck five and you where freed from the shackles called work, you grabbed you stuff and texted König you where heading home. Even though he wasn’t at your place you always texted him when you would head out, to reassure him. A habit you hadn’t mind picking up.

König’s phone went off, a text by you. Normally he loved getting your messages, but now anxiety crept in. Standing in the flower shop he told the florist he wanted a big bouquet, wild flowers you’d mentioned loving so that’s what you would get. With the bouquet in one hand and a bag full of party decorations in the other, he jumped into the car and sped off toward your apartment.

He arrived, your car was nowhere to be seen so he was on time. Thank god. He had 30 minutes to get everything perfect. Military training please don’t fail me now.

You arrived home a little later than usual, thanks to heavy traffic. Tired from your workday, you didn’t notice König’s car parked in the lot. Bag hung over one shoulder and your phone in one hand, you texted König to let him know you’ve arrived safely back home. He seemed to open it as soon as it arrived, the grey check marks turning blue instantly. But… no response? You stuffed your phone in your back pocket. He’d probably reply later. In one swift motion, you grabbed your keys, unlocked the door and stepped inside. As you walked in you sloppely kicked off your shoes and dropped your bag on the floor. But then you looked past the hallway. Garlands? Balloons?

A shuffle came from the living room, someone standing up from the couch. König had been waiting in silence, secretly a little nervous about how’d you react. You stepped further into the apartment and that’s where you spotted him… The big Austrian man, standing sheepishly in the middle of the living room, the big bouquet looking so small in his massive hand. He was still in his military uniform. He hadn’t wanted to risk changing his clothes and missing you, ruining the surprise. The poor people at the store and flowers shop must’ve been terrified seeing him waltz in, fully geared, sniper hood and all, like something out of a war zone.

“Alles Gute zum Geburtstag… Schatz” König said sweetly, eyes squinting as a smile appeared beneath his sniper hood. You stood there in silence. The longer you didn’t speak the faster König’s heart started to race. Then out of nowhere the silence broken with a loud sniffle. Your eyes started to fill with tears, lower lip sticking out into a pout. König his eyes widened in alarm, he put down the bouquet on the couch and rushed to your side. “What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?” Doubt filled Königs voice as his eyes started to resemble those of puss in boots. You shook your head quickly as tears rolled down your cheeks, through the hiccups you managed to speak: “This is so sweet. You… you didn’t have to do all this!” You looked around the decorated apartment, then back at him. Without warning, you threw yourself into his arms, sniffling into the fabric of his uniform. “Thank you.” König froze for a second, caught off guard by your reaction. He hadn’t expected you to be this thankful. Then he wrapped his arms around you, strong, warm, protective. “Anything for you, liebling.”

NSFW part 2 where the gift of König keeps on giving?

[zombocomme]

Canonically, Copia had a gun, Jimmy has like a ?semi-auto?, I wonder what perpetua has strappt..got me thinking...

PAPA/ministry firearms HC incomming!!!

Nihil-

that Hippy in him is like war is lame and guns are too, but personally i think he probably owns an heriloom black powder musket. Not just cuz it's old, (you ashol) but because there is nimble skill involved with using those things, and think it's almost soothing. Like tea ceremonies but for that particularly respected musket that did something super heroic and very satanic, idk, took down a biblically accurate angel BBG trying enact 'gods wrath' on the Satanists in the ministry... but the real star, because always somn' extra in that dude's number of children and guns.

Mf carries a holy relic desert eagle in his little gold silk purse. so he can blow away the next dumbass though the door, the fridge, and the neighbor's fridge that tries to come for him.

Seestorr!!!:

that woman, straight up, has a fucking GHLOCK tucked on her personality at all times. It has a custom Grucifix Grip and all the bullets are unholy-blessed. She never misses. Tho she prefers the 'personal' experience of knives most. She will cuuuuut yewww!

But bless it, we all know damn well she finna dual weird in this bitch, and wouldn't it be funny that the colt she keeps is seven inches long.

"Is that a colt in your pocket sist or are you just happy to *BLAM*!" NO PHUCKS given... man's ass has a literally bullet in it... ya know.. "to rip him a new asshole" as Sistor put it.

*MORE under the cut :3*

Primo

: idk maybe he doesn't like guns,he'd rather duel by sword... or with Pokémon cards, he learned about those and got obsessed. Regularly duels. He runs the Poison Type Gym, but if the player wants to throw hands or, satanas forbid, come after the man or his own, I guarantee it's gonna be a Inglorious Bastards situation, mf had *something* pointed under the table the whole time. Has no qualms about calmly blowing off kneecaps. In fact, if a little blood spatter hits him, he smiles.

Secondo:

you know I feel like he'd enjoy a nice pump action shotgun, the chuk-chuk sends intruders running before he has to do anything, but man's takes care of his ranch property. I do think he'd fit in the 'gentlemanlu sport' of hunting game with a beautiful, simple yet elegant, long rifle. Wears big hats and brings one of his Ghouls to retrieve water fowl. One and done, doesn't like to shoot more than once if he can help it. He's not eager to drop bullets on things. Stingy about ammo. Helluva shot tho...

And his home smoked elk sausage is BANGER!

Terzo:

I'm inclined to say he doesn't like them. But I feel like he probably goes to a range to blow off steam, has an interest in trying many different types and styles, like an artistic respect for the mechanics and quality of the weaponry. Hes like that with most weapens, guilty pleasure, watches forged in fire show for this reason. Likes to comentate. But the humble opinion is,

Either he has a 22 with a dangle cutesy on the end of it or

The man has a custom unholy mary (zombie queen) grip, and like kisses it before he fires to take someone's life, dramatically with angry tears and all that. 9mm.

Copia

Cardinal to Papa Copia: ministry standard issue Ghlock.

9mm. Goes to the range with frequency. Makes fairly accurate shots, but is also clutzy af. Some of the bullseye hits were because like, the gun went off and the bullet ricochet. He's convinced one day he can like unholy compact learn to bend bullets, like that one movie. To be cool...

But as

FRATER,

with his brothers ressurected, they go paintballing every second Tuesday. Terzo wanted Lazer tag. Secondo wanted to do airsoft. Primo was like paintball is a good inbetween... Copia arrived with his consol and controller because he thought they were going to play COD.

PERPETUA

-undecidedly I think he's still trying things out with everyone. But more often than not, he just wants to do the Halo 3, Co-Op campaign with Copia. Copia's being an ass about it tho and is playing fortnight in this room instead...

JIM DEFROQUE

-Oh he is all about the quality of 'military issue' and bicc boy rifles. Either he storms in with a fucking AR to take out chiropterans, or he's doing some sniper shit. Hes pretty practiced and versetile because well, its kind expected in the south... he's decent in several.

Man's has his license for his hunting seasons and regularly hunts the Javelina Hogs in Texas. Jimmy knows how to cook, so while he is kinda typical American Loves Guns trope, and open carries a well loved classic Smith and Wesson Revolver model, usually he's shooting at a range or doing some hunting in the woods out back. He likes the quiet time of that. The watching the waiting. The stillness and hum of nature, very stress releiving.

He does SCREATCH "wwWWOOOO!!" All loud and hollaring like the deep down country boy he is when he nabs a 12 point buck!

Can't decide if I need him to shoot all over my back, or take me out back and shoot me.

[t1red-twilight]

through the ages

part 6

content/warnings: gn!reader, angst, r lies to spencer quite a bit, abusive boyfriend (not spencer)

wc: 2.6

masterlist series masterlist s. r. masterlist

prev. part

you walked the distance from your car up to spencer’s house. if you were being honest with yourself, you were quite worried on how it was going to go. the past few months were stressful; you moved in with ian, just to quickly realize that that was not the best idea. quickly your life was becoming consumed with him.

your nights flooded with complaints about dinner and how messy the apartment was, and how you were never home when he needed you. any weekends that you had off of work it was expected that you curate all your time for him. 

you were fine with that. alas, ian let you pick where you got food and folded the laundry some times. it was fine, great even. you just would have to get used to the idea of someone constantly invading your space and always needing your time. this was just how relationships worked, right? you were an adult.

it was a while since you had last seen spencer, seen any of your friends. with ian needing so much all the time, it was hard to do anything with other people. your job was demanding, you knew that. it was only fair that he got dibs on you first. and, like he always said, ‘they see you at work. i never see you.’

you reached spencer’s door and rapped your knuckles against it. almost instantaneously, spencer opened it. a large, toothless smile graced his features. the warm, dim light of his apartment backlit his lithe form. not a single overhead light on.

spencer’s apartment felt so homey, so cozy. you wished that you could stay there all the time; maybe you could watch all the seasons of doctor who with him, while he explained all the lore to you. maybe you could coax him into trying a few new foods, because you knew that he liked eating the same 6 things, two of which were coffee and tea. 

you would just have to settle for waiting months in between hangouts, when ian would hang out with his friends and not make you come with. this time, you had convinced ian that he should be perfectly fine on his own. (he did not not take it well, and rolled his eyes whilst protesting loudly. you were sure that you’d be hearing more from him later.)

“hi,” spencer said. “come in, please. i have a few movies picked out that maybe we could watch. i have some hot chocolate on the stove, if you want some.” spencer grabbed your wrist gently and ushered you inside. you wondered if he had a candle or two going with the soft musk that wafted into your senses.

you looked around, taking in his apartment. he always had books covering every surface, and would never move them. ‘a method to his madness,’ he called it once. ‘i know where every book is, so i don’t see the point in moving them.’ 

spencer grabbed your bags and placed them on his kitchen counter, while you took off your shoes and set them in the doorway. “i haven’t seen you outside of work in so long,” he started. “i was beginning to think, that maybe you didn’t want me around.” with the tone his voice was taking it seemed like he was joking, but a lilt of honesty resided underneath his words. 

you waved in apology. “sorry!” you fidgeted with your fingers. “ever since i moved in with ian, i’ve just been,” you paused, wondering how to phrase it properly. “ian has just been,” another pause. “i’m just getting used to living with someone, that’s all. its a little difficult to time manage around a whole other person.” you smiled as big as you could. 

spencer tilted his head in what seemed to be confusion. “you moved in together? why didn’t you tell me?”

the look on his face sent a punch into your gut. you hadn’t told him, had you? “oh, yeah. i moved in with him. don’t worry though, i didn’t need help transferring my stuff or anything.” you tried to keep your tone as casual as possible. truth is, ian did not want you taking much of your ‘stuff’ to his apartment. that made sense though, he already had furniture and decor. why would he need you to change what he already had?

the look on spencer’s face did not dissipate completely. “okay,” he responded, sounding unsure of himself. “well, i got out your mug and cleaned it twice just to be careful. do you want any hot chocolate?” 

your shoulders relaxed and you nodded. that sounded great. tonight you just wanted to relax and unwind with your best friend. spencer was what you really needed right now. he was always so grounding in a way that was so very comforting.

“do you have any snacks, spence? i’m a little hungry.” you followed him into the kitchen, watching him pour the hot chocolate into your mug. 

“yeah, of course. you can eat anything you find, what’s mine is yours.” he handed the mug off to you. the warmth of the ceramic heated your cold fingers, you had been so cold lately. the spring rainstorms were really getting to you this year. 

you opened his fridge and found something small that you could eat. there were extras of the item, so you wouldn’t feel guilty about eating the last of something. when you turned back around, you saw that spencer had fled the kitchen in lieu of the living room couch. 

you followed suit and sat down next to him, your feet planted on the ground as you sat. spencer murmured your name, and you turned to him. “you can relax,” he said. “you’re sitting so straight, that cannot be comfortable.” you couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not. but, you rolled your shoulders back and slouched into his couch.

spencer’s couch was so comfortable, but maybe that was just his effect on the room. any room would suffice if he was in it. from the corner of your eye you could see that spencer too had sunk into his couch, but part of him still seemed a little on alert.

he kept glancing over at you from the corner of his eye. he cleared his throat, “I was thinking that maybe we could watch…” spencer’s voice trailed off as you zoned out. your vision blurred as you became very aware of your surroundings. did you still look too stiff? had ian texted you yet? there was a possibility that he would need you to come back to his apartment and help him with something. 

spencer repeated your name, and you shook your head to free you of your thoughts. “yeah! that sounds great.” (what you had just agreed to, you had no idea.)

he proceeded to start something on his tv, and it looked to be something in the science fiction genre. you had expected doctor who, or maybe star trek, but this looked to be something completely different. “-the terminology they use within this is actually surprisingly accurate! some of the things that they cover weren’t actually discovered until after it was released, so it is very interesting and exciting that it has stayed so accurate over time.”

spencer had a habit of talking over shows and movies, especially when it was a piece of media that he liked. the last time you had come over (you couldn’t quite place the date), you picked the movie so this time it was his turn. you always looked forward to hearing him over-explain concepts and plot points. his face always lit up, and he got lost in himself. the lack of peering eyes and hypothetical jeering remarks provided for the best version of spencer. completely unfiltered, unadulterated.

“wait, i’ll be quiet for a second. this is my favorite scene.” the light from the television screen bored into your eyes, and you blinked in an attempt to relax them your eyes began to water just a tiny bit, so you rubbed at them with the palms of your hands. “are you alright?” spencer asked.

“yeah, i’m fine. i think i’ve just been up for a long time.” you smiled, and waved him off. you reached forward to take another sip of your hot chocolate and sat back against the couch. 

spencer was silent for a moment before he asked another question. “how long have you been up for?”

you scrunched your face together, sifting through your brain as you tried to remember. for the life of you, you couldn’t recall what time you had gotten up this morning. ian had needed something, was it breakfast? and he had woken you up earlier than you had wanted. “i don’t know the exact time. ian asked me to make him eggs or something this morning. he wouldn’t let me go back to sleep.”

if you had been looking at him, you would have seen spencer pinch his brow, and open and shut his mouth a few times before speaking. “he wouldn’t-he wouldn’t let you go back to sleep?”

your eyes widened and you turned to face him. “it's not like that, he just-” you swallowed quickly. “he just needed me to run some errands with him, that's all. he doesn't like grocery shopping.” 

spencer looked at you quizzically. “okay,” he said curtly. his brow was still pinched, and he began to fiddle with the tv remote in his hands. his posture had straightened just the smallest bit. you chuckled awkwardly, and tried asking him about the scene that was playing. “does he do that a lot? not let you sleep, i mean.”

your mouth went dry. why was he acting like this, like something was wrong? “sometimes?”

“what do you mean, ‘sometimes?’” it was then that you noticed he had lowered the volume of the television.

“it’s nothing to worry about,” you smiled at the tail of your statement. “his friends are important to him, so we go out with them some nights a week. he doesn’t like to leave early.” you waved it off. friends were a very important thing, and it was very crucial that ian’s friends liked you. even if they weren’t the most cordial people and called you terms you didn’t want to repeat. ian made room for your things at his place when you moved in, it was only fair you give him as many nights as he needed. 

“are you okay?” spencer’s voice was hushed, his tone almost hoarse. the look that swam in his eyes made you worry. 

you nodded as soon as he finished his question. “i’m great! i’m just still getting used to ian’s schedule, and i’m sure he’s getting used to mine.” you smiled again, but dropped quickly when spencer’s jaw clenched.

spencer’s head turned away from you and he stared at the wall, looking to be in thought. you mirrored him. “you know that you can tell me anything, right? i’m always going to be here for you.”

you paused, of course you knew that. spencer was your best friend and had been, practically since you met him. spencer’s hand plopped on the couch cushion in between you, palm facing upward. slowly and carefully, you placed your hand into his. 

his hands were soft, and if you found the right spot you could feel his writing calluses. he squeezed your hand once, and then another time. 

you sat in your thoughts for a long few moments. it had been longer than you wanted since you had last seen spencer. far too long. when would ian be demanding too much of you? you had not been immune to penny noting that you never go to the bars with the team anymore, or derek noting how much of your schedule involved your boyfriend. wasn’t this just how relationships went, though? but, how many nights had you spent thinking about him?

this silence between the both of you felt uneasy, not something you were used to. you were used to needing to fill the silence. but this, this was nonexpectant. you did not have anything to say, so you didn’t say anything.

“actually,” you broke the silence. you gulped, trying to swallow your doubts. “there’s this one thing that has bothered me.” you looked down at the floor, attempting to memorize the shade of spencer’s carpet.

he looked over at you, brow pinched. from the corner of your eye you could see him crane his neck to try and look at your face. “what?” he mumbled. you tapped your fingers against your knees, contemplating whether or not you wanted to say what you were thinking.

you glanced over at him, and took in the worry on his face. you quickly looked back down. you released your hand from his to rub at your eyes, but he gently grasped it and pulled it back down. this time, you were able muster the courage to look at him. his eyes were flicking all over your form, from your upright spine to your shaking hands.

you knew the answer to what you were going to ask him. “ian, he-“ spencer leaned in. “he wouldn’t let me celebrate my mom’s birthday.”

his brow knit even further together, if that was possible. “what? he wouldn’t let you see your mom?” he blinked furiously. “why not?”

“spencer,” you started. you clenched your fist open and closed once or twice. “spencer, my mom’s dead.” the silence from before filled the space between you, but this time it was deafening. spencer’s lips parted as he looked at you in shock. he squeezed you hand a little tighter but did not let go.

he looked down and frowned, then looked back up at you. “oh.” his voice softened. he licked his lips. “i’m sorry,” his words were short, but they were sweet nonetheless. you could tell he was being genuine, and that felt rather novice.

“ian’s friends are really important to him, and- and he wouldn’t let me stay home and make cookies or something. he said that i had to go because-“ a sob cut you off. your shoulders shook and your free hand moved to you face to wipe your tears. spencer scooted closer to you.

he let go of your hand in favor of wrapping his arms around you. you mirrored his actions, and tucked your face into his neck. there it was; his familiar calming scent. it was his laundry detergent, if you recalled correctly. you had asked once and he told you he had to get a special kind as to not irritate his skin.

spencer set his cheek on top of your head and pulled you tight to him. part of you was shocked that he was okay going this close to you, given his aversion to germs. “but spencer, germs.”

“i can manage when it’s you,” he began. “i don’t mind when it’s you. plus i know that you’re clean.” you laughed a little at that. you tightened you arms around his waist. “that’s not okay of him, no matter what you say. and i’m sorry about your mom.”

you pulled away and shook your head. “it’s fine, really. he’s not usually like that. i don’t think he realized how much i wanted to stay home.” spencer cocked his head to the side. “he’s not close with his family so his friends make up his family.” you smiled to try and lighten the heavy mood.

spencer didn’t speak for a minute. you reached up and swiped at his jawline with your thumb. “hey, don’t worry about it. if something was really wrong i’d tell you.”

his big brown eyes returned to you, and you couldn’t tell if he believed you or not.

next part

[bisexualseraphim]

Actually despise how I can’t ask for pro-vegan resources or articles without being bombarded by animal gore videos and proceed to be insulted for not wanting to see them… when I’m already vegetarian and pro-animal rights.

“If you don’t watch the videos you’re hiding from the truth!” You know it’s entirely possible to inform someone of something without forcing them to witness traumatising content right. I’ve managed to stop eating meat and reduce my animal product usage for 7 years all without sitting through Dominion or a single animal gore video.

I really don’t think I’m crazy for wanting some resources I can send people without forcing them to watch extremely upsetting content and it’s such a weird Mind Police mindset to think otherwise. Would you send someone rape and torture and murder videos to inform them about war or fascism? Who am I kidding, some of you probably would. This strange martyr mindset of “they’re suffering so I have to make myself suffer by deliberately triggering myself” has got to stop.

Newsflash! The vast majority of people are not going to watch extremely distressing content you send them and if you try to force them to you’re probably not going to convince them of anything other than that you’re a nasty vile cunt. I don’t care how much of an annoying know-it-all brat someone is when they’re against something or uninformed about it, you don’t do that to them. Where is the humanity

[dysaniadisorder]

i hate how normalized military is in the us im gonna rip my hair out