#before it was not Possible for me to move out and live on my own

[wrotebymii]

MAYBE ITS ME? … | Date Everything x gn!reader

Summary: After leaving your house because you can’t handle being hated in your very own home, Sam talks with you while your house becomes quiet…

Warning: minimal angst, honestly it’s a little fluffy with you and Sam. The objects are miserable now. There will be a part three and four!!

PART ONE | MASTERLIST | READ ME

Sam has been the most understanding friend what felt like your only friend she tries her hardest to bring you out of your slump and rationalize while simultaneously making fun of you as to why your relationships within your home have a burning hate for you.

She’s pointing fun yet logical, allowing you to rant about what you did and where you possibly went wrong with each. She sat across from you, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees in full concentration. You were sat back practically melting into the furniture that didn’t despise you, moving a hand around to exaggerate your speech with the other stuffing your face with food like you haven’t eaten in weeks. Lowkey, you haven’t.

“When I talked to Hoove, being nice and supportive while telling him not to work too hard—I thought I was being sweet ya’know—“ You stuff your face and swallow.

“—but apparently NOT?? He got angry with me, when I tried backtracking and apologize which crazy by the way he said he HATED ME?!” You shout, you can feel your face heat in anger at the thought before tears well up.

“Or how I tried to speak with Daisuke—“

“Who’s that one?”

“Oh my tableware, he’s like tall about yay-high with black hair a portion of it in a bun with like dishware themed robes…I heard from others in rhe kitchen that he’s into taking things seriously” You explain with a wave of the hand.

“I actually…heh I thought that we’d get along, he likes taking care of the dishes and even tries to fix them if they crack due to me but that’s not the point I too like fixing things, I want to fix things…but I guess unlike him or fake it till you make it like Tony…I just make it worse…”

“I…I just wanted to be friends or the I don’t know? Date? The whole reason of the damn glasses.” You mutter, you push the snacks away and use a napkin to clean yourself.

Dating them, any of them wasn’t the main goal. Sure it’s interesting but realizing the things around your home have their own lives in the house was so cool!

Being a hermit, a homebody it felt like a this was a way to help you as well, to get better with being social and maybe let you learn that the outside wasn’t so scary and not everything was out to get you.

But, you messed it up—perhaps you tried too hard, pushed too much, didn’t push enough, didn’t flirt when needed to, too flirty for some, or didn’t have enough specs for the correct dialogue and it came out lame. Now, you’re both miserable in the house and out of it.

Sam was trying, really was. As you spoke she’d occasionally glance around her apartment as if the ranting was making her paranoid about her house. Sighing she runs her hand down her face. She should’ve said something about the weird black stuff in that bathroom, maybe it was the fumes getting to you, but she shook her head.

“What else happened?…”

“The breaking point?”

“Yeah, what made you take off the glasses?”She asks, you groan, slumping back and wiping away a few stray tears as you remembered.

“I was going to the Breaker Box Club, ‘cause Eddie and Volt were still nice-ish from our previous conversations—I hadn’t talked to them in a bit by then cause I was trying to salvage whatever was going on between Harper the hamper and Dirk dirty clothes. I wanted to catch up and help Eddie with some of his work like last time.” You shift in your seat uncomfortably.

“When I entered it was packed, I was happy for them that their business was getting bigger but I knew it was gonna be a lot to take on so I went to find one of them to offer help…”

“…you try and help a lot…”

“I do, it’s…the only thing I can give to them—“ you stop yourself, continuing the story of the night prior.

“But, I knew I wasn’t welcomed. Everyone avoided me, whispering around like I was back in school. Again, Volt saw me. I remember waving at him as he walked over way too quickly. We talked as he pushed me along the way I came from, when I noticed I was confused and…worried I lost another person again…” You take in a deep breath.

“I did…the gossip around the club didn’t go unnoticed by the owners he wanted to get rid of me so it didn’t disturb the customers. I tried talking to him saying that I wasn’t a bad…person…” You don’t sound convinced yourself by that statement.

“He wasn’t having it, his…skin almost turned this light blue? His hand gripped my arm to drag my away from the prying eyes, it hurt…not to make him anymore mad I let him, throw me out…” Voice trailing off, Sam looks stunned, like this was the most juiciest soap opera ever.

“You got kicked out of your own break box—“

“YES, I GOT KICK OUT” you yelled but not at Sam, yelling at the absurd thought of being thrown out of your own break box.

“Crazy…” She elongates the ‘zy’ in the word, unsure how to handle the rest of this.

“Do you think there’s a way to start over with them? All of them I mean?”

The sun was setting, making the silence seem light and comforting. You’re tired, and don’t know where to tread next, so many ideas run in your mind that you—wait…

There might be a very dubious way to get your life back to normal. The thought felt terrible, too personal and guilty, but you don’t seem to have any other option. At least not right now. So, you’ll pin the idea with Keith in the back of your mind. And let it fester or wilt as you and Sam brainstorm together.

Back at the house.

The ones that cheered for your leave are quiet, basking in the dullness of the house. Sure they can talk to one another but…that’s uneventful. The house is missing apart of itself the part of you. The human part. The fragile, unpredictable, unproductive, and lonely ways of you has gone missed.

But everyone refuses to say it out loud. They’re all still bitter and angry with how you treated them—wait…why exactly are they all mad? Some can’t remember but feel justified, although, looking back they just remember you trying. No.

No. You hurt them. They think…

…

…

Okay—well they aren’t sure…not anymore.

The lights are off because there’s no need to see, the sinks and baths don’t run because there’s no one to draw it for, the wall creaks and settles sadly, coffee pot remains unused along with the beauty products, television, books, sofa, stove—all of it. All of them are…completely bored?

Maybe, making your life inconvenienced and almost down right harassed in your day to day life after you stopped interacting with them wasn’t the right way to express their anger. A day turned to four then a week then two weeks.

Dorian can feel the worry in every room about when you’ll return, he huffs. Bedroom Dorian stands still, looking up at the ceiling then down to the floor, watching Florence quickly scramble around her time book with all the new complaints and meetings for Celia.

He reluctantly…steps forward. Away from his position to stand right in front of the poor woman. He rather be doing his job, the thing he thinks so highly of. However, he too is miserable more miserable than laundry room closet Dorian because what is his purpose now that the one who he open and closes for…is gone?

But he’s convinced himself that speaking with Celia will help.

Or so he hopes.

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[jjkeverlast]

hurts so good│jjk

✧ pairing best friend!jk x fem!reader

✧ rating explicit (18+)

✧ summary having jeongguk as a best friend had it's cons. for one he complains, a lot. surprisingly he shows up at your door at two in the morning to complain about something incredibly different.

✧ warnings & tags friends to lovers - hung!jk - light sub!jk - humor - explicit content - oral (m. receiving) - unprotected sex (lol) - soft reassuring kind of sex :((( reader just wants to show guk that he can still fuck despite his big size :((((

✧ word count 4.3k

✧ author's note this fic is a re-upload! if you've seen it before, this is why:)

"Jeongguk? It’s two in the morning."

You’re shocked to see Jeongguk in nothing but a black sweats attire and a pissed off face. 

"I need to vent." He reasons. 

"At two in the fucking morning?"

Now you’re pissed. The sleepy eyes long forgotten and the eight hour of sleep you were looking forward to all day. You let out a huff, moving aside for Jeongguk to enter. He better have a good fucking reason for this shit, you internally think as he comfortably sits on your couch as if it’s his own home. Sure, he carries the best friend title but he really had a thing for being way too comfortable in that department. Which explains him snacking on your unfinished snacks after your movie night — yes, with yourself. 

"Hey! Seriously?" You snatch the bag of chips, as his mouth is full paired with his doe eyes looking at you in shock. 

"I was hungry!" It’s muffled, small crumbs of chips flying out of his mouth. Disgusting. 

"Just tell me why you’re here so I can go to bed as quickly as possible." You settle the bag of chips beside you as you sit next to him on your living room couch. Jeongguk swallows the chips, his annoyed face returning quickly — as if he forgot why he was irritated in the first place. 

"Okay, well, Victoria is out of the picture." Victoria as in the woman who’s been involved with Jeongguk the last month. They met through one of your friends and quickly they agreed to see each other. You’d heard zero complaints about their relationship, up until now. 

"I’m sorry Guk. What happened?" Now he’s being really quiet, too quiet for your liking. 

"Jeon Jeongguk." Your voice is stern and he knows he’s gonna have to speak up now or you’ll kick him out. 

"You won’t believe me." 

"Try me." His brows raise, noticing you’re quickly losing your patience with him. 

"It was because of… of the sex."

Sex. A very broad subject in your opinion, having a million reasons why sex can be bad and shakingly good. So for Jeongguk to reason sex, your mind immediately thinks that it has something to do with the fact that Victoria didn’t finish while they fucked. Which could be true? You wouldn’t know. Yes, so Jeongguk and you were best friends and overshared a tad bit much at times, although sex? Sex was never really on the table of ‘subjects to talk about’. 

"Fuck this is gonna sound so wrong." Jeongguk grunts, tilting his head back and your thoughts are left on the shelf for now. 

"It can’t be that bad." Jeongguk makes a noise, stating he’s disagreeing with your comment. You roll your eyes at his childish act. 

"Jeongguk, if it’s about you not making her finish I will kick you out."

You’re serious. If he came to your apartment to complain about not making someone cum at two in the morning, he’s gonna join the wolves and god knows whatever lurks in the streets at night. 

"It was hurting her. Y/N, I fucking hurt her." You’re puzzled, trying to figure out how exactly Jeon Jeongguk could be hurting anyone. 

"Wha–"

"With my fucking dick."

It’s silent. The air con noise grows louder in your apartment as you both stare at each other in fright.

Did he just say—

"Y-your dick?" You tilt your head, eyes wide open not having a chance at being closed. He’s nodding slowly and you wheeze — thinking this is some sick joke that he wanted to pull on you.

Classic Jeon Jeongguk. 

"Y/N, I’m serious." Your laughter continues on, you almost tearing up as it becomes uncontrollable. As your mind slowly processes the awkward silence from Jeongguk's side, you quiet your laughter and listen to what he has to say. 

"It’s because of my-my length." 

"Length? As in you're big enough to reach her cervix?" You joke playfully, hitting him on the arm as you’d guessed he’d laugh at it but instead?

"Yeah."

You’re speechless.

Your laugh being completely swallowed, taken back by the agreement to your joke. Was he serious? He couldn’t possibly, then that would mean he probably has a big di–

"You don’t believe me."

You really don’t. 

"It’s just hard to believe… that’s all." Jeongguk couldn’t possibly. It’s weird for you to even think about. 

"How can I make you believe me? Cause I am seriously struggling with women and this isn’t helping." He gives you a stern look with a glimpse of urge for help. He’s desperate. 

"Prove it to me." There’s no words to describe the expression that is currently resting on Jeongguk's face. A mix of every expression a person can carry.

“I’m not showing you my dick.” He gives you the obvious tone of ‘you can’t be serious right now’ and crosses his arms as you’re no help to his little situation.

“Then I’m not believing you.” 

“Fine!”

“Fine.” You’re both staring into the black TV screen, arms crossed as the silence returns. It’s awkward for once. You were obviously joking about Jeongguk showing you his dick — not yourself wanting to see what’s behind his black sweats. As if the thought ever occurred to you of what it looks like…

Okay, so maybe you have. Once. It wasn’t your fault when Victoria had been drunkenly babbling over how big Jeongguk was. You didn’t think of it as much, seeing she was in a drunken state. But when Jeongguk admits it, you immediately try to shut down the idea that he might be telling the truth. You didn’t want to even begin to imagine how Jeongguk is in bed. Is he needy and whiny? Or controlling and grunting? No, seriously Y/N stop. You grunt in annoyance and that catches Jeongguk's attention, watching you bite your lip. He would never admit that you, leaning your head back, your lip tucked in between your teeth is hot. Like really fucking hot. No. You’re his best friend, for seven years to be exact. He can’t possibly find that hot. 

Maybe it was because of the fact that he sought your help after Victoria threw a tantrum at him for having a big dick. It has never occurred him to be attracted to you, you had been friends for so long that sex or just anything regarding a sexual situation between you never crossed his mind. When he looks over once again, your eyes now closed, swallowing the silence that's filling the room between you as the tension grows. Maybe it’s only from Jeongguk's side, or maybe yours as well, although he can’t tell what you’re thinking. 

"Let’s just forget this okay?" You finally speak, with a regretful tone which Jeongguk catches too quickly for his liking. He should’ve never found you hot for a split second. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong of him. 

"Yeah, okay. I’ll leave." Jeongguk rubs his palms against his sweats, trying to calm himself from the ungodly thoughts of you crossing his mind slowly. 

"Or–" You start off, catching his attention as he turns to meet your eyes, you look tired. "You could– you could stay.’’ He never expected for you to invite him to stay. Sleepovers between the two of you were never involved in your seven year long friendship. Jeongguk wanted to stay, and because you proposed made him hopeful. Hopeful in a sense that maybe, just maybe you’ve thought of it too. 

"Sure, okay, I’ll stay." He’s hesitant. Are you both going to share a bed? 

"You can just sleep on the couch. I’ll get you a duvet." You smile awkwardly, leaving the living room and entering your bedroom while Jeongguk feels incredibly stupid. Of course you don’t want him, you’ve never wanted him. He wants to slap his face for letting himself be attracted to you. 

"Here." You’re already back, holding the duvet close to you, as you place it on the couch you wish him goodnight and return back to your room. 

As your door closes, Jeongguk sighs loudly, falling back against the couch. He’s fucked. It’s fine, he just has to sleep his attraction towards you away. He discards his sweats attire, leaving him in his black Calvin Klein boxers, a personal favorite of his. 

When he finally settles in, covered in your duvet, he catches the smell of you enveloping the fabric. It doesn't help his mind which already has you covering most of it. He tries to shake out of it, turning and at last closing his eyes. 

After what feels like an hour of tossing and turning, Jeongguk comes to the conclusion that he can’t sleep. He wants you, more than he thought he would. He’ll probably hurt you, which is one of the few reasons holding him back from knocking on your door. Also the fact that you are very clear on the best friend scale. 

There’s a lot of risks that would be taken if he stood up and walked towards you, admitting how much he wants you, how desperate he is to let you touch him. All thoughts vanish from him when he comes to conclusion that he’s saying fuck it. He’ll just leave if you don’t feel the same way and burrow himself deep in his bed and never leave until his attraction disappears completely. 

He gets up, throwing the duvet off himself and being met with your white wooden door. His heartbeat is increasing as he urges himself to pull his arm up and form his hand to a knuckle to leave a knock. 

As he’s about to knock, the door flies open and you’re standing in front of him, in nothing but a loose transparent white tee. Your nipples are on display for his eyes and he’s gulping over seeing more of you than he expected. Wait–why are you awake? 

"Y/N?"

"I– I couldn’t sleep." You’re looking down, stealing a quick glance at his bulge which he notices. Do you, do you want him? God the buildup is absolutely killing him. But he tries to control himself, holding himself back from asking you if he can kiss you. 

He clears his throat, "Why?" You were probably thirsty or maybe the thought of him being here caused you to sleep badly. He felt bad. 

"I can’t stop thinking about it."

Your posture changes, a dominant demeanor overlapping itself on your shoulders. You’re stern, firm and just plainly honest. Could you be any hotter? 

"Thinking about what?" You’re smiling, your gaze landing on his silver chain hanging around his neck. With a swift movement you’re hooking a finger around it and pulling him to your lips. Jeongguk freezes, his lips feeling warm as they’re covered by yours. He can’t process the fact that you’re kissing him. It feels so right, your chest pressed firmly against his, as he’s able to feel your hardened nipples through the fabric. 

Before your fingers can grab onto his hair, he stops. "Are you sure?" You’ve crossed the friendship line, the kiss breaking the scale completely. 

"Yes. Let me feel you Guk." Your pleading eyes, and the firm grip your finger has on his chain leaves him dizzy. He lets you, lets you take full control of him. 

"Touch me." He catches your smile at his request before you pull him further in the bedroom and guide him to lay down. His heartbeat is going crazy fast, his mind barely being able to comprehend that you’re about to straddle his lap. 

As you position yourself on top of him, a low grunt leaves his lips as the contact between your core and his visible bulge closes. He’s already so hard and you’ve barely touched him. 

Your fingers grab his hair, tenderly running your fingers through the undercut. "I love your hair like this." You compliment as you go back to kiss him, missing the warmth of his mouth already. 

Jeongguk is careful with you, wanting to touch you everywhere, run his hand down your spine and feel the warmth of your skin under his palm but he holds himself back. His mind is back to thinking of you hurting, and feeling hurt because of his length. This is a bad idea.

"Wait." He holds your shoulders, your hands laid flatly on his chest with a worried expression. 

"What’s wrong?" You look like someone who’s scared you’ve gone too far and Jeongguk feels a tinge of guilt. 

"I don’t want to hurt you." He whispers, being careful with his choice of words. 

"What if I want it to hurt?" You trace your fingers on his chest, drawing them in small circles as his eyes move to your half hidden smirk. 

"I–"

"Just, trust me." Your head falls down on his chest, leaving kisses on his chest and letting your tongue run freely on his exposed skin as he whimpers beneath you. Your tongue feels amazing on him and he gives in, letting you control the situation. 

"Okay." Jeongguk softly says, your head moving lower towards his abdomen, peppering his skin with kisses and biting gently down to give him a small taste of what awaits him. 

He can sense that you’re being patient, savoring up the moment of having him like this. His body is a canvas for you, to mark, bite and let your mouth run freely on. He wants you to take control, to show him how well you’ll be able to please him as he later on will give you his cock to fill you up. 

"This– this feels really good." He mumbles, barely forming a full sentence, too captivated by the feeling of you above him. 

You hum against his skin, seeming more than pleased in hearing his compliment regarding your mouth. You’ve moved longer down, your legs now settled between his as your breath lands hot on his clear hard on. 

Jeongguk looks up to see you gawking at him and he grows embarrassed. 

"Y/N, stop looking."

"Sorry, you just weren’t kidding." Somehow the answer resolves in you and Jeongguk laughing like idiots and him throwing a ‘I told you so’ into the middle of your shared laugh. The laughter soon dies down and the irresistible tension returns to the dark bedroom, the only light coming from the outside lights covering the streets. It’s the only light which helps the both of you in seeing a glimpse of one another. 

"Can I?" You ask, holding one hand firmly on his hip as your thumb traces on the top of Jeongguk's Calvin Klein boxers. He gulps, nodding as he allows you to take things further. 

You take your time in taking his boxers off, Jeongguk can’t help but have his hips shake – reasons being he’s nervous yet thrilled for this to happen. Having his cock on full display for your eyes is nerve wracking, he’d never see this day coming. 

"Hey, I’ll be gentle." With that you use your thumb, smearing his leaking precum as he bucks his hips wanting more. Jeongguk is infatuated by your touch, becoming more needy for you.

"Fuck– your hand feels so soft." He throws in a compliment and surprisingly you go at a faster pace, a sudden moan escaping his lips. Fuck, how are you so good at this?

The sensational feeling from your hand has Jeongguk closing his eyes, also because he’s nervous to look at you while your hand is wrapped firmly around him. He’s too confused and captivated by you and the pleasure you’re giving him that he still really hasn’t processed what is happening right at this moment. It feels surreal. 

Your thumb traces itself on his tip once again, Jeongguk running his hand through his hair as his breathing speeds up, a familiar feeling of release washing over him.

Fuck, you haven’t even touched him for long and he’s already thinking of coming.

You, his best friend since he had his awful hair fazes that just never really complimented his features. His best friend since high school, as you both lamely made fun of the PDA couples, who never knew what the word ‘privacy’ meant.

He’s too deep in thought, until you suddenly stop.

Jeongguk hesitantly opens his eyes, using his elbows for support as he now looks at you.

"Can I taste you?"

Jeongguk almost chokes at your question. His already fucked out state isn’t even hesitant. Fuck he’d love your lips wrapped around him. Your lips look even softer than your hand. The outline of your lips visible for his eyes as the moonlight discreetly shines over them.

God, you make him so weak. 

Truth be told, Jeongguk doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this willing, this open to just anything.

But if it includes you? He’s all for it. 

"Y-yeah."

Fuck, he just stuttered.

You probably think he’s being hesitant and–

You gently lick his tip, swirling it around to allow the taste of him to linger itself in your mouth, your hand starts to move again and Jeongguk's mouth falls apart, his eyes watching you.

If only you could see how pretty you were as you open wider, inviting more of him. Your mouth feels so warm, so welcoming. He wonders if it’s possible to get addicted to a certain body part, because he’ll for sure mention your mouth if asked. 

"God, your mouth." He wants to caress your cheeks softly, as his thumb can feel how well he’s filling your mouth up. Maybe it’s too much… too sentimental. Seeing you’re literally stuffing your face with his cock, your hand stroking what you aren’t able to take. 

Although, he forms a sort of courage and asks you gently, "Can I touch you?" You let go of his cock with a pop, brows furrowed as if you’re uncertain of where exactly he wants to touch you. 

"Please?"

"Okay." Jeongguk leans closer to you, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb grazes the top of it. You lean in his touch before you go back down, taking him in your mouth once again. He won’t survive this. No. He won’t survive you. 

He’s almost about to break when his palm feels the bump caused by his cock in your mouth as you bop your head faster, all while Jeongguk whines freely — not knowing he’s making you extremely wet by moaning so carelessly. 

It’s not until you use your hand, focusing solely on sucking his tip that he’s almost about to finish. You retrieve before he’s able to, a string of saliva connecting you to his tip as you smile so innocently. Yeah, he’s definitely not surviving you. 

“What are you doing to me?” It isn’t a question, rather a statement towards everything he feels for you in this instant moment. 

You guide yourself back up, lips molding against his. He can taste himself on your tongue and it drives him crazy. He’s almost willing himself to take control — he’s never done or wanted that before, but there’s just something about you which drives him in a completely different direction. 

Should he touch you? Touch you in ways he’s always found appealing but never for him? He’s willing, for you he is. Slowly but surely, he tenderly peppers your neck with kisses, slipping his tongue to run along. He’s startled when you moan so effortlessly. He wants to hear more of you and those heavenly sounds you’re so willing to offer him. 

You begin to move, grinding your clothed core over his bare cock and a rush is sent through him. It’s almost as if he’s gotten you needy now, so needy you couldn’t contain yourself from grinding on top of him — still fully clothed. It feels new, although Jeongguk loves it, cause fuck he can feel how wet you are. Did you get this wet by only touching him? 

"You’re already so wet." A grunt leaves his lips when you only hum in response, continuing your grinding, almost as if you’re losing yourself completely at the touch of him. 

"Fuck, fill me up. I can’t wait anymore." You push him down, hurrying yourself to take your shirt off. Since when did you go from being patient to impatient so fast? He can’t help but feel extremely proud of himself, patting himself mentally on the back. 

But then he’s in tact of what’s happening, you’re about to sit yourself down on his cock and he’s afraid — even though you made it clear you want it to hurt — he just… cares too much about you and the thought of you being in pain because of him doesn’t sit well with him.  

"Hey, are you sure? I really don’t want to hurt you." You’re just about to position yourself, freezing in your movement. You’ve probably caught on how afraid he is. 

"Guk, I want this. It’s okay." You peck his lips softly, his hold on you loosening to inform you that he trusts you. 

His tip is barely inside of you and a whimper lets itself out of him. Scratch that about your mouth being his favorite body part of yours, your pussy definitely steps on the podium for number one. 

You continue, Jeongguk catching the sight of his cock disappearing within you and his breathing starts to quicken. He probably won’t last long, not when you wrap yourself so nicely around him the further you go down. 

"Shit—" You let out, fully sunk down on him. There’s a tinge of discomfort covering your face but Jeongguk forces himself not to worry, you want this, you want him. It’s soon replaced by a smile, as you start bucking your hips, letting yourself settle on him. 

He really takes the time to notice how beautiful your breasts are, looking so delicate. God, he wants to touch them, touch every inch of you. 

He’s reminding himself of the sounds you let out as he placed his lips on your neck, would you react the same way if he latched his lips on your exposed breasts as well? There’s really only one way to find out. Yet he wants to be good for you, letting you use him to make yourself finish. 

You surprise him once again, guiding his hands towards your breasts — as if you knew he was having a tantrum with himself over if he should touch them or not — he was right, they’re incredibly soft. Your nipples perked and good enough to suck but then again, he holds himself back. 

"You feel so good." Your words are mostly slurred, too focused on the pleasure — your eyes closed as you run your fingers through Jeongguk's hair — his hair that you like. 

He makes you feel good, you keep reminding him when you mutter it once more as your hips buck at a faster pace. Shit, you really know how to ride him well. 

It’s as if something clicks for Jeongguk when you go down to bite his earlobe followed by an angelic whimper. He loses all control of himself. "Fuck–" He’s taking control, flipping you around so you’re beneath him, hair sprawled on your pillow and eyes about to pop out of their socket. 

"What are you–" Jeongguk latches his mouth on your hardened nipples, nibbling his tongue softly on them and it was so worth it. They feel so soft against his tongue. Although not as soft as your pussy wrapping itself perfectly around him.

Jeongguk feels dizzy, drowning in the feeling of how he’s swallowed by your warmth. Fuck he’d keep himself buried in you forever if he could. 

He starts thrusting, profanities break out from you when the pace quickens. He’s reckless at this point, showing you how much you affect him. 

As the time passes, skin grows hotter, small beads of sweat covering Jeongguk's forehead. You’re both close. He can sense it as you convulse around him which almost leaves him breathless. 

"Fuck— it hurts, it hurts so good." With that your body loses its composure beneath him as you come undone. 

It’s something about you making him good about himself, not only him as a person but him in whole. You’ve always been so accepting of whatever bullshit he’s brought upon you. He feels safe around you, your arms wrapped around his form as you run your fingers through his hair. You feel like home. You are his home. 

With a low muttered fuck, Jeongguk feels his cock twitch as his hips stutter for one last thrust, filling you up with everything he has. 

His hair covers most of his sight, both of you panting in sync as you try to calm yourselves. When his cock begins to soften, he takes it as a sign to let himself plop down next to you. 

"I’ve– I’ve never…" Jeongguk doesn’t know where to begin. He can’t recognize the person he was right before. 

"Taken control?" You steal his unspoken words and he turns to see you smiling softly. The moonlight has turned to a chrome yellow, indicating that a sunrise was indeed nearing. Your features have become more prominent for Jeongguk's eyes and your beauty captivates him by an invisible hook. 

"Yeah, taken control." 

"You should do it more often." It’s an encouragement and it seems to work because the idea of being in control doesn’t faze Jeongguk. He loved it. 

It’s been around an hour after Jeongguk surprisingly fucked you. You’re both situated in your kitchen. The sunrise covering most of the apartment with it’s golden rays that strike inside the windows from the living room.  

"What are you thinking?" Jeongguk caught onto your frown, indicating you’re thinking about something. 

"I’m thinking that… I liked this, what just happened, I really liked it. It felt–"

"Right?" He answers for you and you nod. 

"I don't want this to be the last time."

"It won’t be." Carefully, Jeongguk cups your face, his nose brushing against yours. He really wants to kiss you again. 

"Kiss me." You seem impatient, and Jeongguk gladly does as you request. 

Maybe, maybe this was always supposed to happen between you. 

[nostalgiaforplacesweneverknew]

Can we get some smutty headcanons for Joaquin 👀

No.1 being (I think we all agree) that he's a munch. 😤✊

OH MY GOD, YES. Absolutely, Joaquín is a certified munch™ and no one can convince me otherwise!! Also, I know it’s still early but I’m gonna end this week’s Headcanon Sunday here. I’m so tired and need to take a nap <3

Joaquín Torres x fem!Reader | 0.8k | Headcanon, fluff, smut (18+/MDNI).

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ▹ Selfish in bed? Joaquín Torres? He would never.

Joaquín loves making you feel sexy, can’t go five minutes without telling you how beautiful he thinks you are. As he’s taking off your clothes, he’s mumbling against your lips, “God, how are you real? You’re damn perfect.” 

His hands are relentless, going from gently skimming his fingertips over your collarbone, the swell of your breasts to gripping firm at your waist, squeezing your ass, kneading your tits. 

You are whining because he spends a good amount of time just worshipping your naked body, fingers gliding reverently over your curves, leaving no square inch of skin unkissed. 

Any insecurity you’ve ever had about your body literally cannot survive around Joaquín. He’s quashing them within seconds, groaning with half-frustration and half-animal lust with each garment he takes off you. 

And then when it comes to foreplay? To giving oral? I’ve mentioned it here but I think Joaquín has a bit of an oral fixation. Anything that gets his mouth involved, he puts his best effort forward.

If it were possible, Joaquín would actually choose to live between your legs if you’d let him. 

He’s not quiet about it either. Lots of messy slurping, lots of moaning right into your hole while he’s tongue fucking you, lots of mumbled “you taste so damn good”s against your pussy. 

The man is not shy about it, he wants you so damn bad. He pushes his face so deep between your folds, smearing your arousal all over his cheeks, spit dribbling down his chin and he does not care. He likes getting you all messy, loves it even more when he’s practically suffocating on your scent, your taste. 

And in true Joaquín fashion, he can’t resist getting in a little teasing here and there, saying things like, “Tell me where and how, baby. Wanna ruin you right.” 

Even though he fully knows you can’t talk. You’re too busy gasping and writhing and begging. You don’t even need to give him instructions because he moves his tongue between your slit even faster, thrusts it deeper into your quivering hole, sucks on your clit a little harder, to make you scream louder so he can hear you better over the way your thighs are clamped around his head and over his ears. 

Even after you’ve cum, he keeps mouthing at your sensitive clit, making yummy noises like you’re the sweetest candy he’s ever had. 

Joaquín uses his mouth on you so well, it’s like you can’t seem to catch your breath no matter how much you gasp for it. The coil in your belly only twists tighter when you hear him undoing his belt, pulling down his zipper, the rustling of fabric as he no doubt pulls his cock out. 

But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t lift his mouth from you, keeps eating your pussy until you’re shaking and sobbing his name. He strokes his hard-on lazily, like his own pleasure is a distant afterthought. You manage to find your voice and tell him you need him inside you, but he just reaches up and pinches your nipple hard enough to make you yelp. 

“C’mon, baby… be good and lemme eat, alright?” 

Only after you’ve cum once more does he finally give you his fingers, filling your neglected hole with something a little more than just his wickedly talented tongue. He makes you cum one more time like that, his fingers scissoring your walls open, curling against the front wall of your cunt, before he’s finally releasing your clit with a wet little pop. 

You slump back against the sheets, looking totally fucked out even though he hasn’t actually fucked you yet. 

Then he surprises you by gently cleaning you up and tucking himself back into his boxers. He pulls out some soft PJs that you keep in his dresser for nights you sleep over, and he’s dressing you so carefully and sweetly, pressing kisses to your sweaty forehead. 

“You okay, honey?” He grins down at you, so cheeky like he hasn’t just tongue fucked your brains out. “Ready to go to sleep?” 

And you’re like, “What? No” because he’s still hard as fuck. There’s a wet spot on the front of his boxers where his pre-cum has soaked through it. You reach out to cup his bulge, wanting to make him feel good too, “Better gimme that D right now, Torres.” 

“Baby, you’re exhausted,” he tries to say, but you’re rubbing on him so good he can’t help but throw his head back and groan. 

“Yeah, and I need you to fuck me to sleep.” 

“God, you’re gonna kill me.” 

Now, before he blew your mind with just his mouth, you always thought sex with Joaquín would be playful. He’s always so goofy and charming and funny, you just knew the sex would be fun. Obviously, you didn’t know it would be fun in a completely different way. 

Like… we’ve all seen the man’s arms. 

“S’alright baby, let me do everything,” he says as he tosses you around into all sorts of positions, doing all the work because you’re limp and pliant and spent, although you still beg him for more. Joaquín doesn’t rush, even though he’s been painfully hard for the better part of the night without a single orgasm. 

“All you need to do is stay pretty and take everything I give you.” 

𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐕𝐈𝐕 ༊*·˚

[angel-writes-skz-here]

The Parent Trap: Aussie Edition

Bang Chan x F! Reader Synopsis: Seeing your ex husband in the wild causes a lot of emotions and life changing events; especially when your daughter gets invovled. Warnings: Angst, fluff. A/N: @jessadams I am so very sorry this took so long, I hope you enjoy it though! Forgive any mistakes, i did proof read but I might have missed something. Thank you for sending in the request and for your patience! Comment to be added to my taglist! Xoxo💋

It wasn’t on purpose; to be honest, you and Bang Chan had a system that kept you as far apart as possible. The guys would handle pick up and drop off, this way you never had to really see each other or talk. Both of you could live your lives pretty easily without the other.

So, when Jennie brought up the idea of going to the carnival you were thrilled. Until you seen him there, standing at the concession stand grabbing food. Jennie practically runs off to her father, leaving you standing there, motionless, frozen in time, internally freaking out amidst the crowd.

Chan looks down seeing his daughter, head darting up, instantly finding yours. Your eyes meet, oh how those brown eyes drew you in every single time. He looks back down to his daughter and you can’t move; Chan can see the fear in your eyes; on your face. He offers you a smile before a woman comes up to him and kisses his cheek.

Your legs have a mind of their own as they carry you over to him to grab your daughter.

“Jennie, we need to go.”

“Good to see you, y/n,” Chan smiles awkwardly. You offer a tight-lipped smile and your eyes float over to the woman.

“Who’s this,”

“Ji-yun,” your daughter sneers. She’s arrogant, high maintenance and someone you can just tell is smooth and cunning.

“Nice to meet you.” You smile before turning to your daughter, “Jennie, let’s go,” you say as you start to drag her off, only to bump into Han and Changbin.

“Y/n!” Han yells as he embraces you tightly. You smile and hug him back.

“Hannie, Binnie!” Jennie yells as she hugs them.

“Hey, guys.”

“We didn’t know you’d be here!” Changin pipes up.

“Yeah, well Jennie begged to go to the fair so,” you shrug as you brush some hair out of her face.

“Can we go play some games?” She asks Changbin. He looks to you and you nod.

“Yeah, sure, I need to sit down for a minute anyway.” You smile politely, feeling two pairs of eyes burning holes into your back.

“I’ll join you,” Han smiles and walks with you to a bench out of sight from ‘Cruella’ and Chan.

“So, how are you? Ya know, seeing him here and all,” Han asks plainly.

“It’s a shock, I had no idea he’d be here, and with a woman but that’s good. He moved on from our divorce and it’s a good thing.

“She’s a bitch ya know,” Han says before licking his ice cream cone.

“What?” you snicker.

“She’s desperate for his money, his fame, wants to ride on his coat tails basically.” He explains. You nod in understanding, unsure of what to say.

-

“Binnie, you gotta help me! I need mom to get on that ferris wheel with dad!” she says.

“Jennie,” Changbin says as he pays the host of the bottle game. He’s given three balls and expertly knocks down all the stacked bottles.

“Changbin,” she whines. This captures his attention once he selects a pink bunny for the child to have.

“I’m serious. You know she talks to me like I’m stupid, and acts like I’m some kind of pest. They can’t get married.” She complains. Changbin has heard the stories, during the multiple drop offs to her mother’s house.

“Ok, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but how are we supposed to do this.”

“Come on, let’s find Han and mom,” she says and grabs his hand, pulling the muscle man through the crowd.

-

Jennie and Changbin come into view, both looking excited.

“Mom, I want to ride the Ferris wheel.”

“There’s no way I’m getting up there, Jennie, I hate heights.”

“Just stand with me in line. Please, mom!” She begs and clasps her hands together. You sigh.

“All right, but you need an adult to ride with you.”

“Han will go with me,” she smiles. The chipmunk cheeked boy looks at her, cheeks stuffed and eyes wide.

“What,” he says with a mouth full. You giggle as he looks between the three of you.

“Come on, Han it won’t be that bad.” Jennie says before she’s pulling the two of you up and out of your seats.

Changbin jogs off to find Chan.

Step one is complete.

-

You, Han and Jennie are waiting in line when Jennie acts as if she has to use the bathroom.

“Come on I seen a bathroom back here,”

“No, hold my spot, I’ll be right back.”

“You can’t go alone,” you start and Jennie grabs Han’s hand and pulls him away, almost causing him to fall. You look at the large contraption, realizing you’re next in line.

“Jennie I swear I’m not riding this stupid thing,” you mumble to yourself.

The sound of the wheel turning hits your ears, your stomach turning with it.

The last car comes around and the man motions you forward.

“Oh, no I’m not,”

“Keep the line moving!” Someone shouts behind you, causing you to whine internally. You take a shaky step forward and step into the cart, only to see Chan coming in behind you, his fiancé folding her arms with a sour look on her face.

Chan sits beside you, a small smile on his face as the bar is latched and the machine beings to move.

You grip onto his thigh, nails digging in as you close your eyes, feeling the wheel move you around.

“You’re safe,” he whispers taking your hand. You take a few shaky breaths.

“Y/n, open your eyes, it’s ok.” He says as the wheel stops. You slowly do, but your eyes quickly go wide.

“What the fuck, no no no no no no,” you say as your heart starts to beat erratically.

“Hey, woah calm down. I’m here with you.” He says kindly.

“Chan, you’re not helping.”

“Take a few deep breaths. You’re going to be ok.”

“Chan please just stop talking.” You say trying to sound nice. You hear him chuckle.

“What the hell is funny about this.”

“You don’t remember our first date, do you?” he says, more laughter following. The memories flood your mind all too vividly.

“Why the hell are you even here?”

“Binnie said Jennie wanted to ride the Ferris wheel, and I knew you didn’t like heights. Just like our first date, where we got stuck at the top of the ferris wheel… like we are now,” he motions and you open your eyes again, heart still beating erratically.

“I remember, I hated it then too.” You look over at Chan who’s looking at you, something soft and unreadable in his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumble, face turning pink.

“Like what?” he asks, body leaning slightly toward you.

“Like,” you sigh, “Like there’s something here,”

“What do you mean?”

“Chan, we haven’t seen each other in a long time,”

“Yeah, I know,” he frowns.

“What’s that look for?”

“Huh, what look?” he tries to play it off.

“That look you just gave me.”

“I didn’t give you any kind of look.” He brushes off, obvious overcompensation in his voice.

“Whatever, why the heck aren’t we moving.” Chan pulls out his phone, rocking the cart slightly, causing you to cling to him, faces inches from each other. Your eyes meet in a moment fueled with tension.

He opens his phone, both of you reading the text.

“Ride’s stuck, they’ll get you down as soon as they can.” Your head falls against Chan’s shoulder.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you groan.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says quietly in your ear; a protective yet hesitant arm coming around you.

“Your fiancé would be pissed,” you sign in his ear, a small giggle leaving your mouth.

“I’m not doing anything inappropriate.” He whispers as you pick up your head, your eyes meeting.

You flit your eyes down to his lips, taking your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment. You notice his flit yours, and as if the world was cheering you on, you lean into one another, lips connecting in a soft kiss. The world disappears, the height, the carnival, all of it is gone, in this moment it’s just you and Bang Chan.

Your lips separate, a weighty feeling hanging over you.

“Come to my place for dinner on Saturday, Jennie can stay the night, I, I’ll make us dinner.” He whispers, voice desperate for you.

“Chan,” you mumble, unsure of your next words.

“Please,” he begs, “This whole not seeing each other thing is stupid, you’re the mother of my child, the love of,” he stops himself as the words tumble out too fast. Your breath hitches in your throat.

You open your mouth to speak, only for the ride to creak and begin moving. The two of you stare at each other the whole way down; taking a few seconds too long to get out of the cart.

“Channie!” Ji-yun’s voice calls out; breaking the two of you out of your trance. Before anything else can happen, Chan is being pulled from the cart, looking after you apologetically.

Once he disappears you see your daughter, a guilty looking Han and a Changbin standing there awkwardly.

“Jennie Bahng,” you begin as you walk toward her. She smiles nervously as the other boys say a quick goodbye and become scarce.

-

That Saturday Chris is in the kitchen making dinner when the door bell rings. He wipes his hand with the cloth and quickly makes his way to the door.

“Hey, you made it!” he smiles as Jennie hugs his waist. You smile, walking in past him.

“Smells delicious, what are you making.”

“You’re favorite,” he smiles sheepishly.

“You didn’t have to,” you begin and his hand comes up to stop you.

“I know, I wanted to.” You smile, the simple gesture warming your heart. Jennie runs off to her room, leaving you and Chan in the kitchen. You sit up on the counter, watching him cook, something about the scene taking you back to the year before your child was born. When life was simple, and all you needed was each other. Before the fame took over his life, before your business was off the ground and running. Before life became busy and a husband and a kid became too much to manage at once along with the jobs and busy schedules.

“So, how’s the wedding gown business treating you?”

“It’s wonderful, my designs are seen on bride’s worldwide if you can believe that.” You smirk proudly.

“Of course I can. I always knew you’d make it.” He smiles as he walks over to you, both arms on either side of the counter as he looks up at you.

“You always had a way with fashion and colors. The way you could see things put together before they were, it was beautiful.” He smiles fondly. You give him a tight-lipped smile.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, his eyes soft and breathtaking all at once. Chan hangs his head before pushing himself off the counter.

The three of you eat dinner, talking about your week and making small talk.

It’s not long after dinner that Chan sends Jennie to her room for bed.

“You um, you want a drink?” he asks as he points to the wine cellar downstairs.

“I should get going, really. It’s a bit of a drive.” You try to make the excuse.

“It’s late, you should just stay,” he says quietly pulling you into him, the living room feeling small despite its larger size.

“Chan,” you whisper with a small smile playing on your lips.

“It’s late, dangerous on the roads. You can go home in the morning.” He convinces you. With a sigh you follow him down to the cellar, and you smile fondly once again at the memories.

“You remember when we got this? I flew you out to Paris to see our show, and you had to have a bottle of wine to commemorate it.”

“You wanted it just as bad as I did,” you muse.

“Touche,” he smiles with a slight chuckle. The two of you stand in comfortable silence, the moment between you resting.

“I’ve missed you,” he mumbles. You inhale a stuttered breath as he sets the bottle down.

“This whole thing,” he says as he approaches you, the soft lighting making the scenery feel more romantic and intimate.

“It’s,” you interrupt him.

“What we agreed on after I left. Chan we divorced because life was too much. Trying to take care of each other, our daughter and our jobs, our livelihood, it was all just too taxing. Neither of us had made it, we didn’t have the time.” You say as you feel tears well up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he cups your cheek, watching a tear escape your eyes.

“Y/n, I’m so sorry.” He says again and comes closer, both hands now on your face as he leans down, connecting your lips. Your hands flex, part of you knowing it’s wrong, it could never work, but part of you desire’s to give in, to let him have you. To let him make it up to you, but you know in your heart you can’t.

“Chan,” you say against his lips as he attempts to deepen the kiss.

“I should go.” You whisper.

“No, please, stay. I didn’t fight for you then, I let you walk away, I’m not doing that again.”

“Chan,” you say, a painful smile on your lips as your heart aches, the pain visible in your eyes.

“Y/n please,” he rasps. You take his left hand, pulling it up to his face, tapping the gold band.

“I need to go,” you whisper again. He looks at you like he’s lost, like he’s defeated.

“I’ll pick Jennie up in the morning.” You step aside and make your way to the steps.

“Wait, just take my room and drive home tomorrow. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, being in the same house with you,” you pause for a moment, “’s too tempting,” you say before making your way up the steps. And into your car.

-

You’re dropping Jennie off a few weekends later when Chan stops you.

“Ya know, I’m taking Jennie camping next weekend, you should come. You used to love our camping trips.”

“Oh um, I don’t know about that.”

“Mom, please,” Jennie begs.

“It’ll be just like old times,” she says and you look at Chan who’s got the same pleading eyes, but not as dramatic.

“I- yeah ok. I’ll go,” you smile as your daughter hugs your waist. She grins up at you like she’s won the lottery. You on the other hand, are a nervous wreck.

-

The ride to the camp out is silent, both you and Chan on edge, especially after Jennie insisted she get her own tent, and insisted she was old enough to sleep alone. Chan offered to let you stay in his tent, siding with his daughter saying independence was a good thing for her.

Arriving at the sight the three of you get out and hike to your camp sight right by the river.

“It’s so beautiful out here,” you say as you stare out at the water and Chan comes up behind you.

“Yeah, the view is great,” he says never taking his eyes off you. You glance at him, then down to his hand and you notice he isn’t wearing his band. You look at him inquisitively.

“When I said I wasn’t letting you walk away without a fight again, I meant it.” He whispers before turning back and walking over to your daughter.

-

That night the fire is going, the frogs are croaking and the three of you are cozied up roasting marshmallows. The silence is easy, calm, familiar. Years of your different camping trips come to mind as the night progresses, the way Jennie grew up through out each year, and how Chan decided to bring you back to the place you all were really last happy.

“I’m going to bed,” your daughter yawns.

“Goodnight,” she says and kisses both of your cheeks before turning in.

“Goodnight,” you both call back to her. You watch as she disappears into her tent.

“Another marshmallow?” he asks.

“Why here?” your voice is desperate, emotional, eyes staring at the flames.

“What?” Chan asks as he puts the marshmallow down.

“Why did you bring us here? I mean, Chan we could have gone anywhere. But here,” you sigh and rub your temple.

“We were always happiest here.” He says quietly, his own eyes staring into the firepit.

“Even if we weren’t at home, here things were ok. We just had to be together. No pressure from life or jobs. Just us.” He says as he reaches for your hand. You let him hold it, the tension between you palpable.

“What do you want from me? Another chance? How’s that gonna work with our schedules, Chan?” Your voice is irritated, not at him, but at life. It tore you apart the first time and it’s as if he doesn’t remember how painful it was; and worse you hate how bad you want it too.

“We can figure it out, you’re established now, so am I, we have more leeway with our schedules, we can make it work I know we can, we just have to try.” He assures you.

“Chan we can’t. We tried.”

“Things were different then. Just,” he sighs, “Tell me you don’t feel anything for me. Tell me not to kiss you and I won’t.” he swears. You open your mouth but no words come out.

“I’m going to bed.” You whisper before getting up and slowly walking to your shared tent.

You stop just short of the tent and look back at him.

“I never said no,” you unzip the tent. The realization hitting Bang Chan of what you said and he quickly puts out the fire, running after you into the tent.

He practically tackles you, causing you to giggle as he cups your face, looking between your eyes.

“This is ok?” he asks once more, forehead resting on yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper and his lips crash into yours. Soft moans escaping the both of you.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he says against your lips. Your hands tangle in his hair, the moment charged with absolute zeal and lust. The kiss turns heated, needy, desperate as tongues clash together, teeth knock into each other gently, and lips become kiss swollen. He starts to leave a trail of kisses on your jaw down to your neck, his hand going between your thighs automatically.

“Wait,” you say as your head starts to spin. Chan backs off immediately, worry etched into his face.

“What’d I do?” he asks quickly.

“Nothing, I just, I just wanna be close to you right now,” you say as you pull him down beside you. He smiles as his shoulders relax, letting the tension go.

“So about Ji-yun,” you begin as you lay beside one another.

“Who? Ji who? Never heard of her.” He smiles.

“You really broke up with her?”

Chan nods, “After seeing you, y/n, she wasn’t it. You were. You are. You’re what I want. You’re who I want to do life with. I know it’s not always going to be easy, but, I just can’t let you go.”

You smile at his words before kissing his lips again deeply.

“Then don’t.” you say as you pull away and snuggle up into him.

-

The three of you return home after the camping trip, the air of your changed relationship hard to miss. Especially with your daughter. She notices the stolen glances, the way your hands find each other on the console of the car. The way when Chan needs to shift gears your hands don’t separate. How the air in the car is no longer tense, but new; happy.

Jennie can’t help but smile, and text her uncle Han and Changbin that the plan is working.

-

Six months later, you and Chan are out for a date night. You’d been staying the night at his place almost as much as you did at your own, if not more. The three of you were really starting to look like a family put back together, and tonight Chan knew it was time.

You’re sitting at the restaurant, both of you dressed to the nines, and as you finish your meal, Chan takes your hand gazing into your eyes lovingly.

“What’s going on?” you smile. Chan takes a deep breath and moves to the floor, positioning himself on one knee.

“Y/n, it’s always been you. From the day we met I knew I would marry you, I knew I’d never love anyone else the way I love you and I haven’t. I love you more than words can say, will you marry me?” he asks gently and the sting behind your eyes signals tears.

“Oh, Channie,” you smile, “Yes!” you smile and he slips the ring on your finger. Standing up you hug him tight before both of you find yourselves kissing each other amidst the applause of the restaurant.

-

“Mom, look what I drew!” Jennie says bouncing into the living room one evening.

“Oh Jennie, it’s gorgeous! Chan! Come here!” you call out from the couch. He runs in, sweaty from his workout.

“What’s wrong!” You chuckle at his frantic voice.

“Nothing, look at this, your daughter designed her own dress.” You smile as you show him.

“Wow,” he takes the sketch in his hands, “Jennie this is amazing. Simply beautiful!”

“Do you really like it?” she asks.

“I love it, in fact I’ll show it to my team first thing Monday.” You smile and your daughter beams at you.

That Monday you show your team and they get right to work, creating the one-of-a-kind dress, specifically in your size.

“It’s beautiful,” you smile as you look at the finished product two weeks later.

“She’s going to be so surprised.” You squeal.

Later that evening you have Chan drop your daughter off at the shop.

“What’s going on?”

“I want you to be the first to see the dress I’ve picked.”

“You already picked it?” Your daughter asks sounding a little disappointed.

“I have, and trust me, you helped.” You wink at her as you are swiftly taken behind a curtain. You change into the dress before walking out and your daughter’s mouth falls open.

“That’s my- that’s my design,” she says shocked.

“It is,” you giggle as she runs to you and inspects the dress.”

“Is it what you envisioned?”

“It’s perfect, everything I wanted,” she smiles and you chuckle at her excitement.

“Think your father will like it?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll slap him because his eyes must be crossed.” She says confidently. You let out a real laugh as you smile down at her, pride for your daughter’s creation strong in your heart.

-

The day of the wedding finally comes, you change into the dress your daughter designed, complete with a veil and walk out onto the beach, your closest friends and family in attendance. Han wipes a few tears away as he watches you walk down the aisle, Felix gives you a thumbs up and Changbin smiles happily at you. I.N and Seungmin have content looks on their faces, ones of approval and acceptance, and Hyunjin blows you a sweet kiss mouthing to you that you look beautiful.

You smile as you walk up next to Chan dressed in his suit.

“We are gathered here today to witness the union, or should I say reunifying, of y/n l/n and Christopher Bahng in holy matrimony.”

“Do you, y/n take Christopher Bahng to be your lawful wedded husband?”

“I do,” you smile as you place the ring on his finger.

“Do you, Christopher Bahng take y/n l/n to be your lawful wedded wife?”

“I do,” he answers and puts the ring on your finger.

“Then by the power invested in me, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.” The priest announces and Chan dramatically dips you in front of everyone, planting a sweet devoted kiss on your lips.

Tags:@breakmeoff @thelovelybireader @crystal005 @velvetmoonlght

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[christofairy1003]

How he’d use his hands on you// Christopher skillful hands Chan Bang

ㅤꨄ︎ explicit content. Minors dni please thank you.

ㅤꨄ︎ English isn’t my first language so I apologize for any mistakes <3

ㅤꨄ︎ warning: basically fingering and all about that

- First off, he’ll make sure you’re very damn well prepared. Cause cause cause, come on… it’s Chris. So you can be desperate all you want, he won’t dare to touch you properly before you’re soaking.

- and when he does? It’s so over for you. In the best way possible. There’s no way back from his first touches. So delicate, so soft, so teasing. Will already have you squirming and begging for more even before he did anything really.

- knows you have a thing for his veiny, shrexy hands (cmon, who doesn’t?!) and he’s gonna torture you with that fact.

- will DEFINITELY use, “you’re so wet for me and I haven’t even touched you yet…” with a smirk on his face. Yes. That. Would make you wanna beg him for more cause he absolutely knows how to play with your little horny mind.

- first, his fingers will gently graze over your (useless) soaked panties, he loves to hear your sweet moans and ‘please’ when you buck your hips forward, trying to get some more friction. But he’s evil enough to stop once you do that. You can’t take that control from him.

- speaking of, he LOVES and LIVES to control you. Not in a toxic, manipulative way, but rather in a way to study every little expression and take notes on what you love more and enjoy better (and not only in bed); and he’d love to control you, your mind, your moans, your orgasms. He loves that you’re his, even if he claims he’s not the possessive type (his Venus is in Scorpio for fuck’s sake).

- anyways, he presses the pads of his fingers just slightly over your clothed clit, circling it painfully slowly, fishing some more of your pretty moans that he loves listening to so much (would probably even record them once— with consent, ofc. And keep the files in his very private folders so he can listen to them when he’s away on tour <3)

- would tug at your panties just to tease (that’s all he lives for anyway), and when you finally beg him enough, like he wants to have you and satisfied with that part, he either pushes the fabric aside or discards it ever so so so slowly from you, all while leaving soft, gentle kisses on your lower belly and the way down to your thighs.

- you don’t even have to bother spreading yourself open for him cause this bastard will do it for you.

- his hands gentle, yet firm on your thighs, his face buried in your neck as he kisses you, soft and gentle, the contrast between that and the way both your bodies are being set on fire with need and hunger is playing with your mind, and his own of course.

- “Always so wet and ready for me, hm?” He lets out in between hot, wet, open mouthed kisses over your neck. His hands still on your thighs, moving higher to grab your hips so you’ll stop moving.

- will have you whining over the fact that he’s fully clothed (the irony) and you’re all exposed for him like he wants you.

- “you’re being so good f’me, yeah? So patient… your princess parts are just waiting to be touched, hm? You want my fingers that bad, baby?”

- oh man, he’s gonna have you in a chokehold with his words, as I’ve said; mind games. He loves that.

- “how can I say no when you beg so pretty for me?” And that’d be the last moment of innocence left in you, if there was any of that before…

- he reaches for your inner thighs, slowly spreading them open. And he keeps talking you through it, loves watching you practically dripping only from his words. And his voice. And that accent oh gosh.

- as if you weren’t a squirming, writhing mess already, he’d drag his middle finger all the way through your folds, not too slow, not fast either, just collect your wetness and watching you fall apart in seconds. Would definitely have you begging for more, but he’s in no rush. He takes his time with you, always. Unless you misbehave and he has to remind you some things you might’ve forgotten.

- “Look at you, little one (I’m sorry for this, he did mention this nickname recently tho) one little touch, and you can barely breathe already… how are you gonna take my fingers?” He’s a menace, a fcking tease. He knows you can take him, let alone his fingers.

- if it’s your first time, he’d be so much more gentle though and much less evil like he’d be after seeing how good you take him. He’s all about patience and process and respecting boundaries (which makes him so much hotter than he already is. [even tho everyone should be that, but unfortunately…])

- another sweet drag of his finger, yet this time he focuses on the clit a little longer, pressing the right amount of pressure to study your reactions and works by what he sees gets the best of moans from you.

- and then, two fingers. Middle and ring. Delicate, veiny, not too long but perfectly made for you. First circling around the clit (definitely the type of guy who can find that, cmon), earning some consent to go further. Every single time.

- again, if it’s your first time, he’d be extra careful, extra gentle, extra caring, asking for consent before he makes the tiniest move or touch.

But if you’ve been together for a while now, or just experienced (not necessarily with him), he’d still ask for consent, just not in the same way he’d do in the first-time case.

- he just has to have your reassurance, to know that you’re okay with going further, no matter how much begging or a moaning mess you already are. He’s all about not pushing too far unless you ask for it. And that’s what makes it all way better than anything or anyone you’ve ever known.

- he doesn’t ask for consent with his words, his eyes talk enough. As his fingers remain between your wet folds, and you’re nodding in agreement, practically begging for him to continue, he leans in and kisses you on the lips, whispering all kind of sweet nothings while his other hand still gripping your hip tightly.

- “Always so good f’me…”

“Always being such a good girl…”

- and oh, his fingers sliding lower with no problems, digits pressing against your entrance.

- “tell me how much you want this, love”

- you could’ve just kicked him in the face if you could from how much he’s pissing you off with all that teasing, but deep inside you know you enjoy it as much as he does.

- he doesn’t even have to tell you “say please” anymore cause you’re, well, fighting his tight grip on your hip and try to move them to finally take his fingers in.

- Oh, he would love to see you try, and try and try, until he just circles around the entrance and slowly pushes his two digits inside.

- this freaky man LOVES watching how his fingers disappear in you. How you’re clenching around them and wrap them so warmly. So welcoming.

- but at this point? You’re already a mess.

- and baby, if you’re looking away, or shutting your eyes close, he’s gonna stop.

“Eyes on me, love. I wanna see how you fall apart on my fingers.”

- “Is that what you wanted?” He twists his arm so his wrist is facing upwards, his fingers working you slowly, stroking your inner walls, sucking them in. Oh, man. He loves the sounds your body makes whenever he’s knuckles deep inside. That makes his pants go tighter with every passing second.

- don’t get him wrong, he loves teasing you. But the pain he himself is feeling when he has to be that patient and listen to all of your pretty moans and whimpers, when he stays untouched, growing harder, is driving him insane.

- Will use his other hand to massage your breast, also using his mouth to suck on the other one (he feels bad if he neglects anything in this world). And his own groans? Insane. He’d make all these noises against your flesh, nibbling gently, sucking around your nipples, creating some hickeys (he’s a sucker for red marks he paints your body with. Also likes taking pics of you later on and make himself proud for his art.) but yeah, he groans as if he’s the one getting pleasure. The room fills up with both of your mixed moans and grunts, and the lewd sounds of his palm hitting your womanhood again and again.

- he knows your body so well that he can almost predict when you’re about to come (a genius for real, as if you’re not clenching around his now drenched fingers)

- “Gonna come f’me, pretty girl?”

- he curls his fingers, doing all the sweet things that can ever be done to your body.

- will have you holding back your moans and biting your lip

- “Don’t hold back, baby. Let me hear how good you feel.”

- “Look at you, taking my fingers like a good little girl, moaning for me. Come on, baby, make me proud and come on my fingers. Come on… you can do it.”

- “That’s right, babygirl. Oh, you’re clenching around them so well. You close, love? You gonna come nice and pretty on my fingers? Do I make you feel good, love?”

- Does he ever shut up? Probably not. But that’s one of the best things ever cause it makes your orgasm 8 times better.

- and when you come, thighs trembling, hips bucking forward, legs shaking, toes curling, heavily breathing, moaning, groaning, whimpering, gripping anything around you (better be his shoulders and make sure you dig your nails into his back and scratch it- don’t ask questions ;)) he doesn’t stop, even then. Until you beg him to stop or until it’s too much. He loves you so much he doesn’t wanna hurt you. But pushing you over the edge after you already came? That, he loves.

- keeps your thighs open for him as he groans, watching how you fall apart and let go all over his pretty fingers. His pace is so much slower as he helps you ride out your aftershocks.

- “Gosh, look at you. so pretty when you come…”

- “Can you take one more for me, love? Just one more,”

- if you say yes, you make him the happiest man alive. But if you refuse, he’ll understand and pull out his fingers of you.

- When he finally (unfortunately) pulls them out. It’s slow. your head spinning, ears blocked, sight nearly blurred out from all this intensity (he didn’t come to play).

- you finally gasp for air before you try and fix your breath, and fail cause before you know it, you witness him licking his fingers clean from your essence.

- and baby, when he does that? HE MOANS. Sucks off his fingers clean and it doesn’t stop there.

- He’d lean in and kiss you, smile into the kiss as you moan into his mouth, tasting yourself on his plump, cherry lips (Of course he’d ask you if it’s too much in the first place, but if you two are experienced and have matching interests in bed, he’d do it straight away.)

- when he pulls away from your lips reluctantly, there’s a wet sound when your lips separate. He presses his forehead against yours, looking deeply in your eyes.

- “You did so well for me, love… always so good for me, yeah?” In the softest tone (fuck him), all whilst his hands caressing your sides and apologizing if he went a little too far. no matter how many times you’d tell him not to apologize you realize men will be men. They never listen. So at least get you one with skillful hands.

[laurfilijames]

Die Fun

Pairing: Jax Teller x female reader

Words: 1.4K

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Drinking, smoking, making out, dry humping.

Summary: A spontaneous ride out to the coast is the break you know Jax is in need of where he's able to let go, allowing him to indulge in loving hard, living fast and staying fun.

A/N: I was listening to one of my favourite songs and thought of this little idea that seemed to suit Jax and had to write it. This is dedicated to all the wonderful people here who have encouraged me to continue sharing and loving my work. Thank you 💗

---

“Let's get outta here,” you suggested in a sultry whisper, a playful smile tugging up your full lips that had just pulled away from his.

Jax couldn't help but return it, feeling his heart do a small flip in his chest as you hovered over him, your low-cut top putting your cleavage on display.

“Where?”

You shrugged, moving from between his spread legs, your hands pressing off his chest that made the leather of his kutte creak.

“Anywhere. It doesn't matter.”

You loved being on his bike just as much as he did, and he couldn't deny you that thrill whenever you requested it, craving the feel of your body hugging tight against the back of his and how your hands always danced across his stomach.

He stood from the couch he was slumped in when you reached for his hand, eager to follow you wherever, his other one landing on your hip as he watched you bite your lower lip to try to hide your grin as you started walking toward the door.

“Are we runnin’ away, darlin’?” he asked, the words coming out in a soft chuckle.

You looked over your shoulder at him, your eyes alight with vigor and lust that screamed of a freedom he was desperate for, and when you spoke, your words were calling him like a siren.

“If that's what you want.”

He rode until he couldn't stand not having you in his arms any longer, the way his hand rested on your thigh as much as possible not nearly enough to satisfy him, catching himself digging his fingers into the torn denim covering your leg as his need to have you became unbearable.

The coast was now in sight, and the salty air filled his lungs each time he took a deep breath in, the two hour ride to get here simultaneously feeling like an eternity and no time at all.

Jax rolled into a lookout spot, the view of the ocean clear as day from the space he parked his Dyna in, the surrounding trees creating a little seclusion that would be perfect for watching the sun sink down on the horizon.

You dismounted first, your hands gripping his shoulders for stability as you swung your leg over, and Jax caught your smile as he looked behind him.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, unfastening the strap of your helmet where you shook out your hair, and before he had the opportunity to ask where you were going, you skipped off across the road toward a little corner store.

Jax removed his own helmet and sat for a minute, feeling the vibrations of the bike start to shake away from his hands now that everything was still.

He closed his eyes, relishing in the calm, the realization that he needed to get away from the stress of the club and the bullshit that came with the everyday of being VP hitting him now that he had the opportunity to breathe.

He must’ve sat there for longer than he intended, lost in the serenity of nothingness, the sudden feel of your hand smoothing over his back and up to his neck startling him.

“You okay?”

“Hmm, yeah,” he smiled, angling his face up to you where you leaned down to kiss him, both of your smiles fading as the push and pull of your mouths intensified.

With a sigh, you reluctantly pulled away, the temptation to never stop overwhelming you.

“What’d you get?” Jax asked, nodding at the bag in your hand, his brows scrunching together.

You held up what was obviously a bottle of booze wrapped up in a brown, paper bag and shook it in a teasing way, taking a step back away from the bike in hopes he would follow.

“You’ll have to come see!”

You walked backwards for a few steps with a bright grin on your gorgeous face, your eyes full of mischief and a promise of making him forget everything he needed to, and Jax followed eagerly, his draw to you like a magnet.

You sat there for hours, alternating sharing sips from a cheap bottle of red wine that somehow tasted better than it should, the last of the blazing orange that burnt the sky fading into a deep indigo.

Jax had you between his legs where you both faced the sea, his arms enveloping you completely in fear you were getting cold, your head resting in the space between his neck and collarbone.

Your fingers trailed up and down his forearm, his tattoo exposed by the sleeve of his hoodie, the sensation of that and the slight buzz from the wine feeling like complete bliss.

The breeze came in waves, mimicking the swell of the tide, and when Jax closed his eyes he could hear it before it blew toward you, the rustling of the leaves nearby giving him a few seconds notice before it hit his face, dancing in his hair harshly at first and then softer as it passed.

He took a deep inhale, nestling his face in your hair as he did, and pressed a kiss on your head when he exhaled.

“This is perfect, darlin’,” he purred, his voice loose but raspy, the evidence of his last cigarette hanging on it.

“I think so, too,” you agreed, shifting out of the cage of his arms and legs to face him.

You straddled his lap, holding his face in your hands where you admired how the colour of his eyes rivaled the water that crashed against the cliff below you.

The lines that flanked his mouth etched deeper as he smiled, your fingers tracing their permanent tracks, and you realized there wasn’t one part of him that didn’t mesmerize you as his long, golden lashes fluttered on his tanned skin when he closed his eyes.

Your lips captured his, stealing his breath that blew into your mouth with a chuckle, your body arching toward his to seek more of him.

His warmth transferred onto you, surrounding you along with his scent of lingering tobacco and faded cologne, the sharp taste of wine off his tongue making you more intoxicated than when you drank it yourself.

Jax delved deeper into your mouth, desperate and needy as he gripped your waist, pulling you closer where he guided you to rock against his stiff cock that strained in his jeans.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his lips still brushing yours.

You raked your hands through his hair, the pull making him moan and tip his head back slightly, and you couldn’t resist the thick column of his neck, your lips kissing and sucking his smooth skin.

A low groan that turned into a dark chuckle rumbled through him, his fingers tickling your side to force you to stop even though he really didn’t want you to.

You squirmed and unlatched yourself from his neck, satisfied to see a burgundy mark stain his porcelain skin even in the growing darkness, and took a steadying breath as you adjusted your hips on his.

Trying to ignore how his cock felt pressing up against your soaked and aching cunt, you reached beside you for the bottle, bringing it to his lips where he accepted the offer and let you pour what was left into his mouth.

He laughed as some spilled out, and you quickly licked his chin clean, the scruff of his beard on your tongue a strange combination of soft and prickly.

“You tryin’ to take advantage of me or somethin’?”

The bottle fell from your hand, the clink of it on the ground lost as you brought your face closer to his, your noses brushing each other as you shared a breath, the tension continuing to grow between you.

“Maybe…”

His hands slid under your shirt, smoothing up your back as he crashed his mouth into yours, his cock throbbing with the thought of filling your tight, wet pussy and fucking you until you screamed.

Breathless, you peeled away, your chest heaving with restraint.

“So, what now, Teller?”

He smirked, his eyebrows raising on his forehead. “I thought this was your idea.”

Your giggle turned into a whine when he lifted his hips up against you, the friction on your cunt too much to bear, trying to think through the haze in your mind driven by lust and alcohol but fully aware you wouldn’t be able to drive back home.

“How much cash do you have on you?” you asked, your voice strained with want.

“Enough for a sleazy motel and another bottle,” he drawled, grabbing your ass roughly. “Come on, gorgeous, let’s go blow it all.”

---

Taglist:

@dailydragon08 @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls @littlenosoul @maggotzombie

@rmwarn90 @paintlavillered @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989 @justreblogginfics

@spaghettificationandpretzels @whatever-lmaoo @steviebbboi @charethcutestory02 @daryldixonpls

@puffins-muffins

[rowdyluv]

𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺 ＆ 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗂𝗅𝖽𝗎𝗉 ♡︎

｡·°ʚɞ°‧｡ summary: jack took y/n (momma) up on her offer to hang out with her twins when he gets to missing his niece. and her littles are tee-totally smitten. || collage images of the twins and their time spent with jack and a collage of family activities that didn’t really go as planned + back ground info!

｡·°ʚɞ°‧｡ notes: images are from pinterest and editted into the collage squares by me. these are all pretty much raw thoughts. very minimal editing has been done to this. I literally wrote this well past 4am. !! there is a link in cherry’s section to a blurb. the portion available to read in this post is not the full version. when you see […] there is a chunk missing. go read the full version via the link!! ♡︎

｡·°ʚɞ°‧｡ warnings: mention of jack’s injury + reaction, lack of biological parent presence mentioned, sickness(flu) for one of the kiddos || if I missed any please let me know!

｡·°ʚɞ°‧｡ disclaimer: anything created with in this AU is entirely fictional. anything that may pertain to real life is entirely perchance or can be proven as a fact. example: Jack Hughes plays professional hockey. fact: He plays for the NJ Devils

｡·°ʚɞ°‧｡ © property of rowdyluv ; do not copy and re-upload as your own - anywhere. do not place my work inside AI codes, chat generators, etc. if you would like more of a certain fic please ask me, not ai.. do not translate.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

bubba & jack シ

Bubs and Jack are not instant best friends when Jack appears in his house. Exhibit 1 is in picture 1. He sulks himself into a nap when Jack first comes over!

Bubs sees his house as his territory. He thinks it’s his place to protect. (even at his young age.) Bubba knows that he’s the “man” of his house. At least that’s what his momma tells him!

keep an eye out for blurbs and fics on the shenanigans bubba pulls during his defiance against jack.

when he and Jack do become besties…

See that diabolical grin in the third picture on the second row?

THAT is the look of boy who was just told he was getting to see his best friend for the first time in almost a week!

A week without seeing him? Did Jack and Y/n argue? Were the twins sick? Was Jack or Y/n sick? No to all questions. The devils were on an extended roadie.

Bubs (cherry too) have a hard time grasping the concept of away games when they’re this little. (which is why momma doesn’t travel often)

Jack’s injury..

Jack’s injury rattled Bubs the most.

They were watching the game live, the twins having had a late nap were awake for most of the game. Cherry had just fallen asleep in her momma’s lap, but Bubs was wide awake. Mimicking Jack and Nico’s moves with his mini stick and ball.

Until it happened.

He dropped his mini stick and froze.. When Jack didn’t get up he let out wail loud enough that if the neighbor across the street didn’t hear him, Y/n would be shocked. Y/n moved cherry out of her lap as gently, but quickly as possible so she could move to her baby boy. “Bubs, sweetie. Jack is okay. It will be okay.” She did her best to soothe him, but even she didn’t believe her words. She turned his small shaking body away from the tv as they keep replaying Jack slamming into the boards from different angles. “Mommy,” he hiccuped and gasped for air from crying so hard. “C-ca-can you pr-promise Jack is coming back?” Oh her sweet, boy. In his mind it was the worst of the worst, she had turned him away before he could see he eventually skated off. “Yes baby. Jack is going to come back to us. Don’t you worry.”

When Jack was recovering he flew the trio out to Michigan after learning about Bubba’s reaction.

But he was scared to go near Jack until he was out of his sling and mobile again. Even then he was apprehensive.

It took Jack putting him on his shoulders at the beach to prove he was back to ‘normal.’

⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*: ⋆.ೃ.

Cherry & Jack ❀

Unlike her brother, Cherry has been attached to Jack since the first day.

Jack and Cherry took a trip to a little cafe his first time over. He didn’t want to continue making Bubs uncomfortable by being in his house. But by the time Jack thought of the idea he had already fallen asleep. But y/n let Jack take Cherry anyways.

Cherry talked about their “date” for weeks. She even told Nico allllll about it at the next home game. “That’s why I’m wearing his jersey!”

It became a regular thing for the two of them.

A week without her Jacky.

Being told she’s seeing him for the first time in a week: Picture one of the entire collage. Happy squeals, with a happy dance to follow!

Jack saying he’s going home and he’ll see her next time: Picture 6 or 3rd picture of the 2nd row. Pleading with her eyes, clinging to him, and pouting so cutely. He just couldn’t say no! He ended up being at Y/n’s place until way after 2am and way after the twins were in bed.

Daddy, Daughter Dance (see this blurb for the full story)

The pre-k that the twins attend hosted a daddy, daughter dance shortly after having hosted a mother, son event. Cherry brought home the flyer in her folder and Y/n felt her heart plummet when she saw it. How does she explain to her baby girl that she’s not getting to go to her special event but mommy took bubs to his? Cherry had it covered. […] She motioned for him to lean down so she could to whisper in his ear. “Jacky will you be my daddy?” Jack choked back a surprised cough. He reached for his water in an attempt to wet his suddenly dry mouth. […] “Sweetheart, I can’t be your daddy. Your mommy and I don’t like each other like that.” Jack watched her face fall from excited, hopeful, to defeated and sad. […]

Jack’s Recovery

It absolutely killed Cherry when she learned about her Jacky’s injury and a simple “kiss it better” wouldn’t work.

When she found out about his surgery? She had to be near him as soon as possible. She was not scared of his sling or of him. That’s her best friend.

5th picture (2nd row, 2nd picture) is her seeing him for the first time since his injury. Clinging to him (typical), eyes glued to his every move, being his tiny nurse.

“Jacky thirsty?” “Hungry, Jacky?” “Jacky wanna play Mario ka, oh im sorry” (remembers he can’t hold the control) “oh! jacky walk?”

Jack has no chance to mope about missing playoffs, Cherry is a firecracker.

Cherry & the Flu - 1st time Jack kinda shows his interest

Cherry gets the flu at Christmas. It’s just Momma, Bubs, and Cherry in New Jersey.

Jack and Luke went to Michigan for Christmas Eve and day.

Problem? Cherry is refusing her medicine. She has a high fever and Y/n can’t get her to take her medicine.

She packs all three of them up and takes her to the closest children’s hospital.

Christmas Morning Jack FaceTimes Y/N. Not thinking about her scenery, she answers. Knowing it will lift Cherry’s spirits and Bubba would like to talk to him.

The moment he sees she’s in a hospital room, the questions are flooding in. A conversation happening in the background but can’t be made out.

He was talking so fast she almost missed when he tells her, “I’m on my way home, Mom was listening while you were talking. She got me a flight. You’re not alone in this sweetheart. I’ve got you, I’ve got the twins. Always.”

⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*: ⋆.ೃ.

“family activities” that ended up being more jack & y/n activities

In typical kid fashion, most times whenever Y/n and Jack try to do something “family” oriented the two end up ‘bored’ or wanting to play with something else. Leaving Jack and Y/n to finish whatever they had planned.

That is not to say they don’t enjoy the time they spend together letting their inner child out.

Y/n discovers that Jack is talented when it comes to building with legos. But he’s really, really talented at making friendship bracelets.

Bubs goes through this picky eater phase where he will only eat pasta or pizza.

It was starting to get a bit old to eat the same thing every single day but Jack didn’t mind coming by and sitting down with a bowl full of canned spaghetti or a slice of a store bought pizza. — “If it means little dude eats and you and Cher can eat something else, I’ll do it. May need to recruit Luke soon for some back up on the pizza.” Jack snickered at his own comment and smiled up at Y/n. “I told you before I’ve got you, I’ve got these two little stinkers too.”

Y/n was told about this little farm that would let a few families come in and pick berries and other fruit alike when they were ripe.

Neither Jack nor Y/n could reach the apples, so Jack lifted her on his shoulders. Further proving his healing process to Bubs. Bubs stared in awe at Jack. His mind running as fast as it could as to how he could possibly lift mommy. — Bubs ran to close the distance between him and Jack. “J! J!” He tugged on his index finger, something he had done since warming up to him. “I want to be just like you!Strong so I can lift mommy!” Bubs was bouncing on his tip-toes his eyes sparkling like he’d just been handed the newest toy he wanted. Jack quietly laughed and smiled at Bubs. “Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do about that little dude.”

One day while the twins were at pre-k Jack had the spontaneous idea that him and y/n needed to go to build-a-bear. The two of them made matching bears. That then became the twins’s bears. Cherry takes hers everywhere. It was left behind on a rare away game, Y/n had to travel on. That was the longest four days for the entire team.

Turns out she had left the damned bear in Vancouver! The bear beat us home with a very important letter from her teddy’s rescuer,“huggy bear”(whoever could that be?), about responsibility and how scared her little bear was with out her.

⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ𐦍*:･⋆𐦍.ೃ࿔*: ⋆.ೃ.

[deans-queen]

𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐦...

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Y/N)

Summary: After a painful breakup, Dean Winchester shows up at (Y/N’s) door weeks later, begging for forgiveness and confessing he made a mistake. Torn between heartbreak and lingering love, (Y/N) must decide if she’s ready to give him a second chance.

Warnings: Angst, Emotional heartbreak, Past breakup, Swearing, Mentions of emotional manipulation, emotional themes, alcohol use, suggestive/sexual tension

Pre- AN: this fills the “Don’t you dare!” square for my @jacklesversebingo card. This story is also inspired by the song “Down Bad” by Taylor Swift -> bold text: song lyrics

This was also inspired by a prompt on character a.i.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 - 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

What the hell did I just do?

I’m sitting at the library table, half a bottle of whiskey already gone, and I still can’t get her voice outta my head. The door slammed a while ago, but it keeps echoing—loud, final, like a gunshot.

“Then fuck you if I can’t have us.”

She meant it. And she’s gone.

I keep telling myself I did the right thing. That pushing her away was better for her. That she deserved something more than me, more than this life. But it’s bullshit. I know it. I fucking know it.

I said I didn’t want her.

I lied.

I wanted to believe if I pushed her hard enough, she’d move on, forget me, find someone who could give her a house and a white picket fence and some kind of peace. But now all I can feel is this ache in my chest that won’t let up—like I ripped my own heart out the second she walked out the door.

Sam tried to talk to me, asked what the hell happened, but I couldn’t even look at him. Just raised my hand and told him to back off. I don’t wanna talk. I don’t wanna hear it. I just wanna sit here and drink until the pain blurs out.

But it doesn’t.

Not even close.

Because the truth is… she’s gone.

And it’s my fault.

I told her I didn’t want her—

And now I have to live with the truth:

She’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕

Days pass. And then weeks. And then a month.

It’s a Friday night. The sun is just starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.

Inside my apartment, everything looks the same as it did a month ago. Except for one big difference—an empty space on the coffee table where a framed photo of Dean and me once sat.

In the kitchen, I’m standing at the stove cooking up a batch of spaghetti, while drinking a glass of red wine. Behind me, Coco sits on her bed in the corner, happily gnawing on a new toy.

As the sauce simmers and the smell of garlic and tomatoes fills the kitchen, I swirl my glass of wine, lost in thought, barely noticing the sky darkening through the window.

Then—a knock.

Coco immediately perks up, her ears straightening and her tail thumping against the floor as she lets out a sharp bark, protective and alert.

I freeze for a second, brows furrowing. I wasn’t expecting anyone. My heart skips a beat—not in excitement, but that old, familiar pang of unease.

Setting my wine down on the counter, I wipe my hands on a dish towel and glance at Coco. “It’s okay, girl,” I murmur, trying to reassure both of us. She doesn’t buy it, still growling low in her throat.

My bare feet pad across the hardwood floor toward the door.

Then I slowly unlock the deadbolt and open the door.

And there he is. Dean Winchester.

Standing on my doorstep, bathed in the last light of the sun.

Dean stands at the door, looking down, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He looks at the floor before looking at you. His face is full of different emotions at once, and he takes his hands out of his pocket to show you a bouquet of flowers that he was holding. But he didn't hand it to you immediately.

"Y/N... I... We need to talk." He tries to sound as calm as possible.

“No, you’ve said enough…” I say sharply, my voice cold and cutting as I start to close the door on him.

He moves slightly, but I don’t care—I won’t let myself fall into that trap again.

Not this time.

He hurt me once. Tore my heart out and walked away like it was nothing. I’ll be damned if I let him do it again.

As I grip the edge of the door, my chest aches, but I keep my jaw tight and my spine straight. I’m not going down this road again.

Dean puts his hand, preventing you from closing the door. "Sweetheart ... please. I've spent a lot of nights thinking about what happened. And all I want right now is to talk. I'm not leaving until we talk. " He looks at you, his eyes pleading. He couldn't stay away from you, not after all this time.

“Why!? So you can hurt me even more??” I yell, my voice rising with all the pain ’ve kept bottled up for the past month.

Coco growls from behind me, picking up on my emotion. I glance back and quickly add, “Down, girl… it’s okay…” My hand gestures gently, calming her just enough.

But nothing about this feels okay.

I turn back to Dean, my eyes blazing. “You left me, Dean. You looked me dead in the fucking eyes and told me you didn’t want me anymore! And now what? You just show up here like none of that happened?” My voice cracks, but I push through it. “Why should I even listen to you?”

"Because I was wrong," he says, feeling his heart tightening with each word you said. Dean takes another step toward you, without letting go of the door. "I said things that weren't true, Tianna. I know that now. I know that I made a mistake, a very big mistake."

Dean looks from you to the bouquet of flowers, and without hesitation, he hands it to you. "These are for you. I know it's not enough to apologize, but accept them. Please. Accept them, and let me in..."

I glance down at the bouquet in his hand—sunflowers.

He remembered.

That one small detail pierces right through the wall I’ve been trying to rebuild around my heart. My fingers reach out slowly, almost like they move on their own, and I take the flowers from him, the soft petals brushing against my wrist.

I swallow hard, keeping my eyes low for a moment before I finally look up at him. “Five minutes,” I say quietly, my voice tight but steady. “That’s all you get…”

I step aside and open the door wider, letting him in.

Coco watches cautiously from her bed, tail flicking, as the door shuts softly behind him.

I place the flowers gently on the table—right where our photo used to be.

For a moment, I just stare at them… then I turn back to the stove and shut it off, the soft hiss of the burner fading into silence.

With a deep breath, I turn to face him, arms crossing tightly over my chest like armor. I lean back slightly against the counter, watching him carefully, guarded.

“Okay…” I say, my tone cool, steady. “You wanted to talk. So talk, Dean.”

Dean's eyes roam your body for a very long moment, he missed you. Dean missed seeing your face, your smile, the way you looked when you were worried about him. Your expressions as you stared at him. That voice, the way you said his name.

He lets out a low sigh, shaking his head, before opening his mouth to speak. He tries to start at least a few times, but the words were stuck in his mouth. Until finally, he spoke.

"Y/N... I love you... I love you so much it hurts."

“Dean…” I whisper, the ache in my chest returning all at once. My arms tighten across my chest as I fight the sting in my eyes. “How can you say that? **After everything…”

I take a small step forward, not out of softness—but pain. “You told me I wasn’t enough. That you didn’t want me. You watched me fall apart and didn’t stop me from walking out that door.”

Dean lowers his head when you said those words, feeling his eyes wet for a moment and he tries to say something, but the words come out choked. His voice was husky and pained when he finally spoke, lifting his head to look at you.

"I said those things because it was better for you. You deserve more than what I can give you... you deserve someone normal."

“No…” I snap, my voice rising as I take another step toward him, the fire in my chest finally breaking loose. “Don’t you dare.”

My voice cracks now, the weight of everything crashing down again. “I didn’t want a white-picket-fence life. I didn’t want a guy with a 9-to-5. I wanted you, Dean. All I’ve ever fucking wanted… was you. Only you.”

The words hang between us, raw and shaking. My heart is beating so loud I can barely breathe. “But you pushed me away and made that choice for me.”

Dean held my hands tightly, his gaze never wavering as he looked at me with those familiar, soulful green eyes—eyes that used to feel like home. They were glossy, teary even, as he finally let down the last of his walls.

“And the worst part is that…” he said, his voice low and shaking, “I wanted you too, Y/N. I just wanted you. Your company, your affection, your lips… your heart. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And you know that. But I wanted it without hurting you. Without dragging you through the hell that comes with my life.”

I swallowed hard, my heart tightening at every word. But I didn’t hesitate. I stepped closer and took his hands in mine again.

“Then don’t let me go again…” I whispered, voice barely holding steady. “It’s simple, Dean. All you have to do is stay.”

His breath caught, and then, without another word, he pulled me into his arms. His grip around my waist was firm, like he was afraid to let go again. His breath brushed against my ear, that husky voice of his trembling with emotion.

“I will… I’ll stay with you… I’ll stay forever,” he whispered. “I love you, baby… I love you so much…”

I could barely breathe, the weight of everything between us pressing down and then slowly… lifting. And just when I thought I couldn’t be more overwhelmed, I felt him shift.

Dean pulled back.

And then—he dropped to one knee.

My breath caught, the air suddenly thick around me. My hands flew to my mouth in shock as I looked down at him, eyes wide and glassy with tears that refused to stay hidden.

“Dean…” I whispered, barely able to speak.

He looked up at me with nothing but love and certainty in his eyes—like I was the only thing in his world that made sense. And in that moment, he wasn’t just the hunter I fell in love with… he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

And somehow, despite all the heartbreak, despite everything we had been through…

I was ready to say yes.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞:

Hope you enjoyed this story!

Feel free to let me know what you think! I always love reading feedback! Also let me know if I should write a part 3!! Like & follow for more !! Xoxo

Want to read more? Check out my other stories!

Master list 📝

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

@kr804573 / @deanscherrypie420 / @reignsboy19 / @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx / @riah1606 / @deanwinchestersgirl8734 / @thoughtfullyfurryangel / @10ava01 / @jackles010378 / @winchesterwild78 / @ladysparkles78 / @whimsyfinny / @deansimpalababy / @suckitands33 / @malindacath

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Check out a playlist I made on Spotify for all of the Dean girlies out there ! — including me. Listen here 💚🎶

[preemptivejustice]

Arthur stopped by the door, though didn’t respond right away. He watched the subject closely for a few moments, watching the breath that caught and the posture that softened, the flicker of something that played behind the eyes. It was subtle, but not nothing; it was body language that had no reason to be there outside of mimicry. 

But was it possible for the being to mimic reactions to internalized emotions, without understanding them fully? Was it possible to understand them fully, without feeling them? Was it possible to have memorized Kane so well that he could calculate what went on inside his head? It was possible. Anything was possible, especially when dealing with the unknown. 

And yet the motivation behind the request was surprising. There was little reasoning behind it, unless the thing was still being influenced by Kane’s request; though even that didn’t line up perfectly enough for Arthur’s liking. 

Fear would make sense. Confusion, obsession - this felt more like concern. Concern and care. 

Arthur exhaled long and slow, shifting his weight off of his bad leg and leaning briefly against the wall. “… Alright,” he agreed, nodding once. “I can do that. I have contact with the team handling her case - I’ll pass it on just like you said.” 

Emotion didn’t live in his tone, as it so rarely ever did, but there was something less cold in it. Something a bit less clinical, a bit more like he was listening. 

He reached for his notebook and pen one last time, just to write down exactly what Kane had said. He put it away, posture straightening once more. “I’ll be back sometime tomorrow, most likely. If you need me sooner, just ask for me - my name is Dr. Harrow, like I said, but you can ask for me in any way that feels comfortable. There’s always someone listening.” 

He gave a brief smile, just something to be polite before walking out of the room, leaving Kane alone again. 

─── ⋆⋅⚖️⋅⋆ ─────────────────

Arthur’s desk was something closer to just a long table, seated directly in front of the one-way mirror. It was easiest to observe and write at the same time, and Arthur had long ago traded his comfort for function. The chair was stiff, the surface was metal. The lighting was low, just enough to illuminate his pages without reflecting anything into the glass. 

He lowered himself into the seat with a slow exhale, his leg protesting slightly. His cane leaned against the table’s edge, within reach; he didn’t need it to write, but having it back with him was an immediate relief. He relied on it so heavily that walking without it always led to too much pain. 

Kane was still visible, the observation glass rendering Arthur invisible to him. Arthur only half-watched him, for now, mostly focused on his notes; he had to get it all down while it was still fresh in his mind. 

The pages of the notebook fluttered slightly as he turned them, his handwriting organized but brisk. His pen scraped in quiet loops, pausing only when his fingers cramped slightly - sometimes he swore that his body was nothing but nerve damage.

It was ignored, him adjusting his grip and continuing. 

The silence in the room was nice. No hum of vents, no ticking of clocks, no sound from the other side of the glass unless he chose to turn on the microphones hidden in there. Arthur was in his own isolation, though one that felt more pure and controlled; Arthur didn’t mind it. He preferred it. 

Only once his notes were complete did he look up again. He didn’t write, didn’t even move; he just sat, back straight, hands loose in his lap, and he watched. 

The subject’s presence in the other room didn’t disturb him, but it didn’t sit cleanly either. He wasn’t like other patients that Arthur had dealt with. He wasn’t violent, and he wasn’t broken. He was… measured. Careful. As if he were practicing humanity the same way one might rehearse a foreign language; phonetically correct, but with something off about the breath beneath the words. 

The subject was one of the few things in the world that unsettled Arthur, not that he would ever admit to it. 

There were cameras too, of course, connected to the laptop that sat near Arthur. High resolution cameras, audio logs, facial recognition software that could track muscle tension and eye dilation. Data was constantly being recorded, though Arthur didn’t trust it more than he trusted himself. Watching was better than reading data. Seeing was better than reading. 

Arthur rested his chin briefly against steepled fingers, elbows on the desk. A long breath passed through him; the mimicry was too good. It was almost a problem. Everything about this felt like a problem, like a puzzle that was missing too many pieces. 

He rubbed his thumb against the knuckle of his index finger, in an absentminded motion. His gaze fell back down to the notes, eyes reading absently over them; it was a lot of information for one day. It was more than he’d expected, for a creature that was something. 

Displays hesitation, uncertainty, and mild emotional distress in conversation, especially around memory-related topics. Demonstrates posture shifts expected alongside guardedness and rehearsed confidence. Capable of exhibiting empathy, or at least pattern of empathy. Requested communication be relayed to Lena. 

Subject reacts with visible tension and internal pressure. Noted sniffles, sighs, postural shifts, when discussing the original Kane. Recollection of events is emotionally significant, indicating possible emotional mimicry or learned sentiment. Chooses to believe that Kane chose to die before their meeting. Suggests that this is absolution from blame. 

Subject may be operating on a complex algorithm that includes the mimicry of emotional patterns, but some responses feel unscripted. I believe the behavior extends beyond a programmed response; doubtful early self-awareness, likely emotional synthesis. Determination will require further observation. 

Hypothesis is that subject was unable to fully simulate Kane’s identity, and now is attempting to finalize identity through observation of others. Emotional reactions tied to legacy and perception of ‘Kane’ may suggest a moral figure, or type of ‘role model’. 

Maybe it, indeed, is comforting to think this way - to assume that Kane had always known about the fact that whatever had been changed about him, his existence, couldn't be undone. That he was aware of the fact that he wouldn't survive, wouldn't manage to find his way back out; He'd asked other-Kane, the one he's seen developing, growing, becoming inside the lighthouse, to go and look for Lena instead...

And, in the end, it had caused everything to happen the way it did. The zone of the unknown is gone now, yet what it had created remains - plants, animals, and... Kane. Him. It. Not-Kane. Lena. A changed Lena. Them both. Memories. Knowledge. Existence.

...Comfort, another concept. Is this what Kane experiences when thinking about the other's possible decision, the fact it had been made before they've even met to begin with? It's different from that weight inside his chest - it feels... soft, almost. Gentle.

Movement follows, not from him but from the other who shared a room with him at this very minute; It prompts Kane to look back up as he watches the man standing up from where he'd been sitting on the floor, watches and observes...

Perhaps he was shaped by Kane. Perhaps Kane did shape Kane, while Kane copied him - took information, collected whatever it could get, put it all back together. Hadn't Kane been around back then, not-Kane wouldn't be here, that's a fact - it had only taken on and mimicked what had already existed to begin with while also creating something new by using the very essence of existence itself to turn it into a different existence.

---And Kane is part of it now. His DNA persists, created bone, tissue, organs, a life; Yet Kane isn't Kane, not quite at least, but he's similar. He is Kane while not being Kane at the very same time.

A drifting gaze meets Harrows's again when he speaks once more, calls him something chosen as a possibility. Something relied on. Something good. Maybe not a someone, a something, but good. It... it does something to him, has Kane inhale briefly before that breath gets stuck inside his throat.

There had never been good nor bad, both concepts feel foreign to him. Yet he knows the theory of both - and good is the approved one of them, the option that's sought out, desired.

It causes Kane to swallow, his head to lower a bit, followed by a brief sniffle and a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's still there, the pressure, the weight, but it is... morphing, again. Almost as if it turns into a solid warmth behind his sternum - still odd, still not something he wants to be stuck with, but... it seems as if said weight is beginning to dissolve a bit - becoming easier to endure.

---He realizes that he's done a lot of thinking, and perhaps Kane needs to do even more thinking to... continue to function.

Is there anything else you feel is worth telling me, Dr Harrow asks, and Kane... blinks. His arms unfold from his chest, both hands coming to a rest on the mattress instead - besides each side of his hips - and he takes another breath, then allows it to escape through his nostrils in a slow, steady stream made of carbon dioxide.

Is there anything else? There's so much and there's nothing at the same time. It's hard for Kane to say. ... But there is something indeed, he realizes, and so he looks back up, flexes his jaw.

"---In case you are in contact with whoever talks to her, to Lena..." A brief pause, a blink, a nod. "...Perhaps you could tell them to tell her that he... cared. About her, about everything. ---I know he did. It's part of me."

[galindatopland]

i make. Drumroll. roughly 10k usd per year. so this discourse is so insane to witness

[thelilylav]

Crashed out about the Prime Minister calling a snap election in the reblogs and ended up getting blocked LMAOOO

[tohrus]

welp . due to "unforeseen" circumstances, imma have to leave my toxic ass household :D

[neverendingford]

.

[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.

[athenaluthor]

Golden Boy

pairing: Bob Reynolds/Sentry x fem!reader.

summary: Riding your Golden Boy. Somewhere along the lines, Sentry takes over and has his way with his girl.

warnings: smut, smut and more smut. bob being a soft boy, sentry being self indulgent and taking you within an inch of your life because you asked for it. (i fear i was the one being self indulgent bcs idk sentry is so hot but so is void. but bob has my heart. let me know what yall think. hope yall enjoy this <33)

word count- 2.2k

masterlist

He wants to live inside you forever. Imprint himself on your very soul and on every fiber of your being. You feel good, you feel so incredibly and unbelievably right.

“Oh God, Bob.You’re so big..” you moan as you sink down on his cock. The dangerously adorable man underneath you has the thickest cock you’ve ever had. The stretch overwhelms you and you bury your face in his neck, arms around him, trying to go as deep as possible. Bob hands grip your hips tightly, stopping you from sinking down on his cock too quickly. Mentally, you curse yourself for taking so long to try this position with your golden boy.

Bob feels dizzy too, his head spinning as he watches you. He craves touch, he craves your touch. His entire life, nobody had ever touched him like you, so lovingly and gently, tracing his skin like you were memorising and worshiping him. Instead, he spent a good portion of his years filling this empty space with drugs, getting high out of his mind and doing awful things he wouldn’t even want to tell you.

Leaning up against the headboard, Bob watches you with lustful eyes, his plump lips part as he pants breathlessly. At this very moment, Bob felt like his heart might explode, death would be welcomed since he had truly lived a life worth living, an angel in his arms, wrapped around his cock. Sex before you was meaningless, he had been far too high to care about anything that was happening anyways.

“G-go slow. Don’t have to get it all in.” He whimpers out between moans, groaning at how wet you are, dripping down the length of the cock.

“I-I want to, baby.” you reply shakily before pushing yourself down fully onto his cock. The stretch makes your eyes water, but he feels so good— you could cum right then and there.

Bob’s hands lift from your hips, moving to clutch your head and pull you away from his neck. “G-god, baby. Y-you didn’t– you didn’t have to.” He stutters out, his forehead flush against yours.

You want to ride him, bounce on his cock until you can't remember your own name. Rolling your hips and clenching down on his cock, your legs tremble at how good it feels. Bob, bless his heart, lets out a choked moan.

“B-Baby, baby. You can’t– you can’t do that. I’ll cum too–oh god, too soon!” He moans.

It takes all your might to begin riding your golden boy. Hands on his shoulders you start lifting your hips, then sliding back down in his cock, over and over again. Your pace is slow yet hard and deep. You want to go faster but the blood in your veins feels so hot, you think you’ll explode if you’re not careful.

His head is thrown back, eyes shut, lips parted and face flushed as you ride him. His hands return back to your hips, clutching you like a lifeline. The Golden Boy under you, is unequivocally and irrevocably yours, and fuck— he looks gorgeous under you.

Letting go of his shoulders, you reach to clutch his face. “Bob? Baby, look at me, please.” you whine, wanting those pretty eyes on you.

He blearily opens his eyes, his pupils blown and he looks utterly debased and lustful. His unnecessarily superhuman senses flare, overwhelmed by everything around him. He can feel every touch on his skin, the soft fingertips on his cheeks trying to reel him in, and the drag of your walls around his cock each time you move up and down.

Bob never wants this to end. He wants to be inside you like this forever. His cock pumping deep inside the love of his life.

The sound of your heart pounding in your chest echoes in his ears as he zeros in on you, the way your blood rushes so loudly through your veins.

The pleasure is too much, it throws you off-kilter. Head spinning, your hands drop down to his stomach to steady yourself.Thoughtlessly, his hands move to cup your breasts when yours let go of his face, entranced by each movement they make when you bounce on his cock. The pads of his thumbs toying with your hardened nipples.

His touch spurs you on, the way his eyes lustfully looks at you has you choking on your own saliva. Invigorated by this, you speed up, bouncing on his cock harder and faster. Bob can only take what you give him, mouth parted, moaning and grunting, here and there. You know you shouldn’t overdo it, but God— his cock stretches you out so good and so deep, you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. You want him to wreck you, rearrange you and ruin you for anyone else.

The coil within you winds up, getting tighter and tighter with each bounce of your body. Body tense and hot, you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, higher and higher. Head light and blood rushing, you’re losing yourself to this pleasure, your legs and thighs begin to cramp but you force yourself to keep going.It's like your mind isn’t yours. You don’t want to stop, you can’t stop.

Bob knows you far too well. He can tell when you’re teetering to the edge of going too damn far. The way your eyes glass over, the way your moans spill out like you're about to cry, and the way you shake. His hands clutch your waist, his grip firm but careful, trying to bring you back to him. “S-Slow down, baby. You’re— fuck! You’re t-trembling.” He says shakily trying not to succumb to how good you feel on his cock.

He says your name so softly, so reverently, trying to rouse you back to him. His arms wrap around you, under your arms, pulling you flush to him. Bob’s hand finds purchase on the back of your head, as it falls into the crook of his neck.

Gibberish falls out of your mouth. Something along the lines of “I want to cum, Robert. Let me make you cum too, please.” if Bob’s superhearing is to be trusted.

“I-I know, baby.” he soothes you. “L-let me do this for you, baby. Don’t— you don’t have to p-push yourself f–for me.” he reasons with you, knowing you wouldn’t stop until both of you had been thoroughly spent.

Too far gone to think straight, you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him take over. Holding your hips tightly, Bob’s hips begin to thrust up into you, his pace is steady but deep.

The way you melt into him makes his heart pound out of his chest, how you trust him to take over, when even he didn’t trust himself. The way your soft moans spill out of your lips could make him cum inside your silky walls right now.

You want him to go faster, harder, make you cum so hard, you see stars. Desire has you so deep within its clutches, you can’t escape. So you beg. “Bob, please. Fuck me harder, please.”

“Shh, I– I don’t want to lose control, baby.” he whines back.

“I don’t care, Bob. Please, just fuck me hard.” You beg him, voice needy.

“I need you to fuck me. Just fuck me hard, Robert.” The words leave your mouth desperately without much thought.

Something shifts in the air and you feel it immediately. The sudden influx of unexplainable energy, it feels sharp and strong. Steady and firm, unlike Bob’s hesitance.

Beneath you, Bob shifts, hands gripping your hips even tighter. Then, he plants his feet down onto the bed, angling himself before thrusting back into you, hard. This new angle hits that spot inside you, the one that makes you scream and see stars

The force of his thrusts has you losing your breath, your arms tighten around his neck as you hold on for dear life. Ecstasy flows through your veins, as he begins to fuck you within an inch of your life while your moans spill wantonly from your lips.

This, you think, is new. Bob has never done this. He doesn’t usually fall into your begging, opting to hold back and not let himself lose. Alarm bells ring in your head, but somewhere between his grunts and the way his cock pounds into you, you forget it.

He’s so deep inside you, pounding your pussy like his life depended on it. The pleasure builds within you, the pressure between your legs borders between too much and just enough.

You don’t have a clue how long he has you like this but the coil finally snaps. Intense pleasure washes through you, sending your body into a state of ecstasy,and leaving you moaning and trembling. Your juices leak down Bob’s cock, coating both your thighs. He doesn’t slow down.

His thrusts don't falter. Bob’s pace is unyielding, grunting as your walls clamp down on him. Utterly spent, your body is limp and pliant atop his as you try to get your bearings, letting him have his way with you.

Before you know it, Bob flips the both of you.

The sudden movement shocks you. Suddenly, you are underneath him. Peering up at your Golden Boy, his eyes are shut and his curls fall haphazardly across his forehead, sticking to the sweaty skin.

Without much thought, your hand reaches up to brush away his curls. You think to ask why he stopped when he hasn’t cum yet.

Then, it clicks. The moment your fingers touch his skin, his eyes open. Otherworldly glow shines from his eyes.

Oh. This isn’t your Bob.

“Sentry?” You breathlessly ask.

The being above you doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at you with the ferocity of a starved man. Fear rushes through you yet your excitement outweighs it. His cock is still buried inside your sensitive pussy, you don’t know whether to be afraid of him or do you want him to fuck you into the mattress.

Sentry speaks to you, “It’s unfair that he gets to keep you all by himself.”

Now, Sentry takes the reins. He pins you down onto the bed before thrusting into you. His presence is overwhelming, like he invades every inch of your senses.

Your previous climax had already made you sensitive. The sheer force of his unforgiving thrusts sends your body into overdrive. Overstimulation has you arching your back and curling your toes into the mattress.

In your fucked out state, you can’t even comprehend the words that spill out your mouth.

Sentry thinks you look so damn pretty like this. A lover fit for a god like him, moaning and writhing under him as he pounds into you. Only he should see you in this state.

He increases his pace, pounding into you harder. After all, you had asked him to fuck you hard. He can feel your thighs tremble and he can hear how hard your heart is beating.

The blood in your veins rush rapidly through your body as you fall deeper into your sex-induced high. Sentry too gets high on you. His focuses his efforts on bringing to the edge again, too feel you clamp down his cock and wantonly moan for him. Only him.

He knows he’s close to the edge when his balls tighten and the pressure low in his belly becomes too much. You feel yourself losing control, his cock is so big and he’s going too hard and too fast. When you tense and your body arches without your control, he knows your cumming again.

Only this time, he comes too.

He ruts into you wildly, grunting loudly while letting pleasure take over as he spills himself into you. He holds you close, letting your pinned arms go.

Somewhere in your haze, trembles and aftershocks you manage to wrap your arms around him as he spills himself inside you. It’s so much, even in your state, you know it’s too much.

The sheer volume of his thick cum feels so good inside you.

When he comes to, he can tell you’re still dazed. Your body is soft and pliant under him, while your eyes are glassy. His touch on your cheek grounds you a little. It’s like you see that it's him.

“Baby?” You call out breathlessly to him.

“Hmm?” He replies back but he thinks you don’t even notice.

You wince when he slides out of you. Thick fluids both his and yours leak out of you. He holds back the urge to push it back in. He knows that tomorrow that you’ll be sore but he hopes you don’t regret asking him to fuck you hard.

He lays beside you, pulling your weak body into his and letting your head rest on his chest. Sentry feels your body tremble under his touch, the aftershock of your orgasms.

He softly strokes up and down your arm, you are safe and sound here with him. He is the Sentry after all. A God in his own right.

When your breathing slows, he knows you’ll fall asleep soon. Your body is practically melting on him.

Right as sleep pulls you into its grasp, a soft sentence slips past your lips. Barely coherent and understandable but he doesn’t have superhearing for nothing. “Love you, my Golden Boy.”

Your Golden Boy. He likes the sound of that.

As Sentry closes his eyes, he hopes you wouldn’t mind him taking over your Bob next time. After all, it is unfair for Bob to have you all to himself.

Sentry lets sleep take him too, knowing that Bob will wake in the morning with only memories of this.

Sentry- 1, Bob- 0.

Yeah, he thinks. He’s a God, so why not keep a fucking tally.

[celestialmancer]

...

5 years or less...

That's the most time I have left to scramble everything together despite also struggling w my own health & everything I already struggle with. & That's assuming nothing happens in the time span before then that accelerates everything at a rate faster than I can maybe handle

Bc with the unpredictability I seem to live in constantly, with how common it is for me to have shit strike out of nowhere? When I've never even known stability in the first place so I can't even trust that that 5 years won't suddenly be accelerated to less than 2 years or far less than that? Esp when last year was the start of sudden "yeah so we are becoming rly unstable & idk how well we're going to be able to live here for the next x months/years" that was dropped on me out of nowhere?

...I don't know.