#by the time this sees the light of day this will have been sitting in my drafts for 5 days lol

[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.

[writingbluerose]

TWST DRABBLE #19

Ace and Deuce who are your friends, and the only ones that call you by your name

You've been Prefect for so long, you quickly realized no one would see you as nothing else but that. It's always 'Hey Prefect!' 'Can you help with me this Prefect?' 'How are you Prefect?' You got used to it faster though, after all, if it's at least Grim and the ghosts who call you by your name that's more than enough for you

Until that night

The day someone else saw you for something else but the oh so attentive Prefect you always were, and those, were your first friends

Ace and Deuce always stuck to you, even more after the abandoned mine incident, you've soon come to realize that that was the starting point of your friendship. But at first, they were the same as others : when you stepped on those rusty stairs of the Ramshackle dorm in the warm morning, you always heard the same thing : “Mornin' Prefect!” and it had been like that for a long while, the name that was bestowed upon you was the only thing that came out of their mouths ; Until it wasn't

You don't remember when it started, sometime perhaps after a short while of the second overblot happening maybe. You took that a little harder than Riddle's ( speaking of which, who was attentive to you and looked out for you to be in your best health ) and had gained a scar thanks to Leona's powerful unique magic. You had forgave him though, ( as much as you could ) that's what you always did, forgive and forget, after all, even Crowley said so himself 'It is better that way! Holding grudges does nothing to satisfy you!' so he said

One night, you were sitting with the two in the living room of the dorm, Grim snoozing away on the couch you were all sitting in front of, in a warm makeshift tent, with pillows, lights and whatever else you could find around. Nothing could be heard in the room except the laughs and chatting of the three of you. Ace and Deuce were having a blast, you were tired, but you never let it show, after all, this time was precious for all of you, you were friends were you not? that's what you think after all, even if it might not be true. Their voices started getting muffled and your vision got blurry, were you falling asleep or simply just passing out from exhaustion? You didn't know, maybe these two overblots really did leave a mark that went deeper than you thought

It was when you heard a voice did you snap out of it, a call, something you never thought you'd hear while in this unknown world “Hey, Y/N you okay? You seem ot of it” A warm hand on your shoulder “If you want to sleep we don't blame you, after all there's no way these overblots didn't leave a mark. We'll be quiet, promise” It took you a few seconds to register the words, and after you did it was the first time you felt it “Hey!-wh- why are you crying!? Did we say something wrong?!” Deuce was the first one to react, a funny reaction, you'd laugh if you could, Ace was second, as he shifted over to you and patted you on your back“Hey Y/N it's okay, we understand, we got you, you can let it out” Again that damned name of yours, did they really saw you as something else but the Prefect who cleans up after everything and everyone? Were they true friends? Will they stay?

And after you felt their warm bodies close to yours, hugging you tight, you realized that yes, they will stay, you know they will

© writingbluerose 2025

[rainintheevening]

They called it the Shop, seeing as there was a small garage attached to the side, and a sweet black Chevy always parked in back. But the Bartender only worked cars for certain people, usually the lost ones, or the ones who spooked at ghosts in the hallway to the bathrooms.

He was tall, the Bartender was, and he always wore a flannel shirt and jeans. He always looked up with a smile when anyone walked in, but only with one side of his mouth. He had a quick draw, and a dead shot, and soft hands for the young ones and the ladies when they came in to forget the bad days.

There were bookcases in the Shop, tucked into corners, and all stuffed full of old books mostly nobody could make heads or tales of. Well, except for the shelf of car manuals—those were well thumbed.

There was a kid, no more than teenager, who came stumbling in one night, and his face was bruised, but his hands were covered in blood. His eyes were black as midnight, and the closest patrons clutched at their glasses and bottles as they started to float away. You could taste the fear that rolled ahead of that kid like a wave.

But the Bartender took one look at that kid, as the glasses started rattling on the counter, and said, "Leonard, drink some water and go wash your hands." And everyone heard how he drank his water, and the rattling stopped, and the kid went and washed his hands, and came back to sit at the bar, where the Bartender gave him a sandwich. When the kid left, his eyes were a blood-shot, faded green.

Yeah, everyone knows what the Bartender can do, though few have actually seen him do it.

He has a brother, the Bartender does. He comes around every week or so, and everyone finishes up their drinks quick when he walks in, because the OPEN sign goes off ten minutes later.

Few have actually seen the Bartender and his brother—somehow he always picks the quietest moments to walk in. But it always makes the ones who do get real quiet, and usually someone feels like needing to pee.

Because everyone knows the Bartender's brother—the one taller than him, with a book in his hand, and a wolf with a snake crushed in its jaws tattooed on his left bicep. Everyone knows he was right there beside the Bartender through all of it. Everyone knows the Advocate—the one who argued with the Devil for his brother's soul and won. Or so the story goes.

But the Bartender never seems to notice that, no. He always lights up like a Christmas tree when his brother walks in, and he smiles like a boy seeing a gift he's been wanting 'for forever', and they always hug, out in front of the bar, the Bartender meeting his brother halfway.

Usually by the time they've quit hugging, there are more bills on the tables than bodies in chairs, and there's Kansas playing on the speakers, and they go back to the bar to drink one round.

When they lock up, and they go down the side steps, anyone passing hears the clink of bottles dangling by their necks from the brother's hand, and the sound of the Bartender's warm laughter.

They climb into that classic black Chevy, and then the engine purrs away down the road, leaving behind the bar with the lights all off, except for the string of white bulbs above the door, just barely illuminating the sign that no one reads.

Everyone went home from the Shop on those nights, and the city was always quiet, whether the people slept or not. Nothing bad ever happened on those nights.

Because everyone knew: the only thing more dangerous than one Winchester, was two of them together.

The bar was the only place in the city where heroes and villains could both go to without fear of being attacked by their enemies. Not because they formed a truce or anything like that, but because they all feared the Bartender more than they hated each other.

[lotusapple-xia]

Caleb's 5 Love Languages

Caleb is a lover boy and he expresses his love for you in many ways ft the five love languages

Caleb x reader

Some headcanons about how Caleb loves you. Struggled a bit with words of affirmation but I hope it’s good 🤞

🪷Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated!🪷

Boyfriend Caleb who loves quality time.

Caleb loves to build model planes or Lego sets with you. You both sit on the living room floor with soft music playing in the background while you chat about your lives. When the model or Lego set is complete, he displays it on his shelf, soft, domestic memories flooding his mind whenever he looks at it.

Caleb loves listening to you yap about your new interests. Gazing at you with pure love while humming intermittently to let you know he’s still paying attention to your lore dumps. However, sometimes he gets huffy when you rave too much about a fictional crush, “What do they have that I don’t?”.

Caleb lets you put face masks and serums on him. You recognise that he doesn’t take care of himself when he’s not with you, so you love to spoil him with self-care, which he happily encourages. After realising that his skin is glowing the same as yours, he takes it upon himself to have regular self-care dates at home.

Boyfriend Caleb who loves physical touch.

Every morning when Caleb wakes up, the first thing he does is to reach out to you and plant a soft kiss on your forehead. He squeezes your sleeping body closer to him to feel your warmth while the morning sun washes over your bodies. Caleb’s head nuzzles into yours, breathing in the scent of you.

When waiting for the noodles to boil, Caleb picks you up to sit you on the kitchen counter. He stands between your legs, listening to you ramble about your day. Stroking your back in a gentle caress when he can tell you’re getting to the bad parts of the day and rubbing your thighs as he listens to the good events.

When nights get hot and heavy, Caleb presses steaming kisses down your neck and the length of your body. His strong hands gliding across your sensitive chest as he presses his weight into you. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes watching yours, smirking as the way they flutter in pleasure.

Boyfriend Caleb who loves acts of service.

When you’re sick in bed, with a pounding migraine and a numb throat, he makes you hot ginger tea and dims the lights in your bedroom. He sits by your bedside, gently singing a lullaby from your childhood to ease you into sleep.

Caleb gathers your laundry, washes and folds them on your days off. He knows that your career as a Deepspace Hunter is physically demanding and can drain you of energy. He wants to take the burden off you so you can focus on resting in clean clothes.

Cooking is one of Caleb’s favourite hobbies. Not only is it relaxing, but he can ensure you’re well fed too. No matter what you’re craving, whether that be his signature braised chicken wings or a completely new cuisine, Caleb is always glad to cater to your whims. He doesn’t care how much you eat, he will always feel better knowing you’re satiated and satisfied.

Boyfriend Caleb who loves giving gifts.

Caleb loves spending money on you. Ever since he was a kid, he’d use any money he earned to buy you whatever you desired. You’ve been his spoiled pipsqueak since you were young. Now that he’s the Farspace Fleet Colonel, money comes in abundance. He gets you new clothes you’ve been eyeing in magazines, new food while window shopping, and video games on your to-play list.

Caleb takes immense pride in winning you plushies at the arcade. Even if he spends an egregious amount of money, seeing you smile as he hands you your plushie makes it all worth it. And he’d do it all again, even use his Evol to ensure you get what you want.

Caleb often is the one who does the grocery shopping in your household. He always gets the essential products and ingredients for the house but will always get a little something extra. Whether that be your favourite snack or new hair accessories.

Boyfriend Caleb who loves words of affirmation.

Whenever something has upset you, whether that be work or life in general, Caleb is always there to lend a listening ear and words of comfort. He’ll always praise you after a rough day and make sure to cheer you up. “It’ll be ok honey, I’m sorry you’re goin’ through this.”

After any achievement, no matter how big or small, Caleb is always there to hype you up. Praises fall from his lips like summer rain. “Great job pipsqueak I knew you could do it!” he beamed with a dimpled smile. Caleb wants you to know that he will always be proud of you.

Caleb waxes poetic about how much he loves you. Whether it’s date night or driving you both home from work, he always says, “I love you,”. His sincerity and soft eyes gaze upon your face with the utmost affection, hoping to convey the depths of his love through words.

[fluentmoviequoter]

A Princess Worth Saving

Part 4 of Bradford's Princess

Pairing: Tim Bradford x younger(24-26y/o)!fem!reader

Summary: Tim misses a call from you in your time of need, and after he saves you, he promises never to leave his princess alone again.

Warnings: angst, robbery, r is held at gunpoint, comfort and fluff, domestically dominant Tim, softie!Tim

Word Count: 4.1k+ words

A/N: Thank you yet again to @nevereclipse for sharing this idea and letting me have so much fun with it. You're a genius and I hope you like this!

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

Tim pushes your front door open, stepping inside with a large gift box in his arms.

“Hi,” you greet, tipping your head to the side. “Do you need help with that?”

“I got it,” he assures you, kicking the door closed. “You look beautiful.”

You roll your eyes even as you smile. As usual, you stand on the couch cushion and wait for Tim to set the box down and approach you. His hands are warm and steady on your hips as you lean forward to hug him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he says while he pulls you over the back of the couch and into his arms.

“For what?”

You loop your arms around his shoulders, leaning your head against his shoulder as you breathe in his cologne.

“I know I said I would go shopping with you tomorrow, but Lopez and Harper caught a case and need all the help they can get,” he explains, rubbing his hand along your back as he circles the couch and sits. “I offered to work with them.”

“That’s fine, Tim,” you say against his neck. You interrupt yourself to plant a kiss below his ear, then pull back to look at him. “It’s your job. I get it.”

“It shouldn’t come between us.”

“It’s not.” You chuckle at the disappointed look on his face, bringing your hands forward to squish his cheeks until he grunts. “It’s a day of shopping, not our wedding. I’ll be fine.”

“Take my credit card,” he offers, dragging his hands along your waist. “Get whatever you want.”

You lean forward, brush your lips against Tim’s, then remind him, “I already have what I want.”

The mall is just opening as you arrive. The stores are turning on their different music, overlapping in the main walkways as gated doors are opened and lights buzz above you. You’d been looking forward to walking through the stores with your hand in Tim’s, getting his feedback about what you wanted to buy, and enjoying the day with him. You didn’t want him to see how disappointed you were, so you maintained a brave face last night and distracted yourself by kissing him. Now, you try to distract yourself from how empty your hand feels and how strange it seems to not have Tim stationed at your side as a guardian, a lover, and a friend.

Your favorite store is your first stop, and you have a short list saved to your phone of everything you want to look at, try on, and buy. Tim usually looks over your shoulder when you scroll through Pinterest or online sales, pointing out what would look good on you or be a good addition to your home, until he distracts himself by playing with your hair or kissing you until you set your phone aside.

After greeting the college-aged girl working behind the counter, you walk to the back of the store and begin looking through hangers and at displays, practically hearing Tim’s voice in your head as you consider what you like.

Lucy tips her chin up when Tim returns from Angela’s desk. They’ve been looking through witness statements and evidence photos in hopes of finding something they can use to identify the robbery and homicide suspect. He’s robbed several stores in a few short weeks, and during the last theft, he shot and killed an innocent bystander. With the full attention of the LAPD, they suspect he’ll either lay low or keep progressing in violence.

“Is that you?” Lucy inquires.

“What?” Tim sighs as he returns to his previous seat.

“That smell. What is it… rose?”

“Oh. It’s some elixir or something,” Tim murmurs, pushing a case file into his designated ‘unhelpful’ pile.

Lucy smiles, leaning over her keyboard. “Did you buy it for a special someone?”

“She does have her own money and free will, you know,” Tim deadpans. “I don’t just buy her things, contrary to station belief.”

“No, you also get all soft and gooey inside when we bring her up. I can see that you want to smile.”

“What I want is to get back to work so I can go home on time. I was supposed to have today off, Chen.”

“Ah, that’s why you’re grumpy. You’re here with me instead of your pretty princess.”

“Are you done?”

Lucy’s smile droops as she admits, “Yeah, I’m done.”

Less than a minute later, she looks away from an evidence log to inquire, “Why do you smell like her elixir or something?”

“Chen,” Tim warns.

She raises her hands and returns to work, assuming she knows why the scent of your skincare lingers on Tim. If he were slightly less grumpy, she’d ask him how long he’s been assisting you in getting ready.

“Does he always target places that have more than one store?” Tim asks. “Malls, strip malls, outlets?”

“Yes!” Nyla calls from her desk.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, turning to his computer to load a map of Los Angeles.

“Ooh, that color would look so good on you,” you tell a woman staring longingly at a sundress.

“You really think so?” she inquires softly.

“Absolutely! It compliments your hair and skin, and I think your eyes would pop against it.”

“It’s a little… bolder than what I usually wear,” she admits.

You run your fingers along the dress, nodding appreciatively at how it feels. “Try it on. Never too late to wear something new.”

She steps forward and finds her size, smiling at you as she asks a nearby employee to unlock the fitting room. You continue browsing, looking for a sweater Tim sent you a screenshot of last week.

“Are you searching for something specific?” the employee whose nametag says Jenna inquires kindly.

You unlock your phone and find the image as you answer, “This sweater. I saw it online, but I wanted to check in store before I ordered it.”

“Oh, yes,” she murmurs, looking over her shoulder. “I think we moved them to one of the racks over by the register. Let me check for you.”

“Thank you so much,” you call after her, glancing toward the fitting room.

The woman you spoke to before steps out, smiling with the dress draped over her arm.

“And?” you ask.

“I love it,” she admits. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Everyone deserves to wear what they love and feel beautiful.”

She thanks you again before approaching the checkout area, and you text Tim to let him know you’re thinking of him. He had a little longer before work this morning than he does most days, so you enjoyed the extra time together. You sat on the bathroom counter as he did your skincare, and you’ve already decided to surprise him with a homemade dinner tonight, making the most of what was supposed to be an entire day together.

“I found them!” Jenna calls, stepping back into your eyeline. “We have more colors here than that online listing, too.”

“Perfect,” you reply, following her through the store as the mall gets busier.

“Are you sure that’s the same guy?” Lucy asks, leaning closer to the monitor.

“We might be able to answer that if we could see him,” Nyla points out.

Lucy pulls back with a mumbled apology, allowing the others to see what they suspect could be security footage from the first robbery. The jewelry store on the other side of the mall captured nearly a minute of footage facing the targeted store before it moved. In the video, a man wearing a black sweatshirt speaks to the man behind the clothing store counter, then runs out with his arms full of clothes and small items.

“He didn’t look like he had a gun,” Angela muses.

“Progression,” Tim says simply as he clicks the mouse to play another video. “This is from this week.”

This video is blurrier, but it shows the gun pulled from his pants, aimed at the store clerk, and then jerked toward the murder victim now lying in the morgue.

“For a few hundred dollars,” Nyla sighs. “Okay, what else did you get?”

“Possible name,” Tim says, passing a police record over his shoulder.

“We’ll get a warrant,” Angela responds. “Keep looking. And thank you.”

Tim lifts his phone from the desk, smiles, and sets it aside again. Lucy decides not to comment, but she briefly wonders if you have any idea how far gone Tim Bradford is for you.

You open your wallet to pay at the third store you visit, shaking your head when you see Tim’s credit card tucked in front of your ID. Last night, you told him you didn’t need him to buy you anything, though you appreciated the offer. It’s one of the ways Tim shows he loves you, you know, but it’s not necessary. Maybe you’ll use it on one little thing you can both enjoy, like a book or something for dessert.

With another bag hooked on your arm, you enter a store marketing the newest pop culture merchandise and vinyl records. You don’t need anything, and it isn’t on your list, but you’re sure you’ll find something you like or that Tim might enjoy.

“Welcome,” the store attendant calls over the music. “Let me know if you need help or a fitting room.”

“Thank you,” you reply, walking toward the large clearance sign at the back of the store.

As you look through the hangers of graphic tees and patterned hoodies, your gut tells you something is wrong. Since dating Tim Bradford, your instincts have sharpened and begun to sound like him. You move toward the door but hesitate when you see a limited-edition Dodgers jersey. No one enters the store, and the clerk is more than happy to help you get Tim’s size from the wall and even gives you 10% off. Shaking your head as you exit the store, you check your phone before you head to the next store. Now, when you think about missing Tim, you wonder how you managed to go shopping without him carrying your bags before. The thought makes you smile, and you text Tim another short update and reminder that you love him, for more than carrying your bags… and you, when the occasion calls for it.

“Bradford, you got anything?” Nyla asks over the radio.

“Negative,” Tim replies. “Boss said he didn’t show up today and he’s on his third strike. We’ll drive by the house again, check a few stores along the way.”

“Okay. Keep us updated.”

Tim sets the radio in the console, slowing as he nears a strip mall less than three blocks from the suspect’s job. It looks normal, people come and go freely, so he continues driving.

“Where do you think he is?” Lucy asks.

“Laying low,” he replies. “He isn’t a cold-blooded killer; he shot someone, so he’s probably letting that cool off before he pulls another job.”

“Isn’t it weird that he doesn’t take much? That he hits stores and malls with lower-end prices?”

“He’s targeting places he’s more likely to get away with robbing,” Tim says. “They’re not as likely as say a jewelry store to have cameras or to prosecute. Insurance pays out, they write it off. That’s why a shooting throws such a major wrench in his plan.”

“Interesting,” Lucy hums. “Hey, there’s another mall a block east of here, if you want to check it out.”

Tim nods, hitting his blinker to turn off before they check his house.

“Good morning,” you greet as you enter a men’s clothing store.

“Morning,” the teenage boy behind the counter replies. “Everything is 25% off today, and clearance is buy one get one for a dollar.”

“Awesome. Thank you!”

“Sure. My name’s Dustin, let me know if you need anything.”

You nod, moving slowly along the right wall, looking for something Tim would wear. He spoils you with gifts, and though it isn’t your preferred love language (not like it is for him, at least), you like getting him small things and spending time with him while he enjoys it.

This is the busiest store you’ve been in today, but you attribute that to the sale and the fact that it’s nearing lunchtime. Four men browse the clearance racks while two more talk about colors and debate which items to try on. You smile at the only other woman in the store, who taps her finger back and forth between two different sizes, like she’s trying to remember what size she needs to buy.

“Sir, that door needs to stay open,” Dustin calls. “Mall policy.”

The door clicks closed, and you turn just as the hoodie-wearing man slides the lock into place. “Everybody stay calm, and this will go a lot smoother and faster,” he says.

You step backward, your eyes widening as you drop your bags and fumble for your phone. The woman beside you ducks behind the closest rack, whispering to whom you assume is a 911 dispatcher. One of the men makes a discreet call, holding his phone against his leg. Your first idea isn’t 911, however. After you tap Tim’s name, you pull a shirt off a display table to drape over your wrist and hide your ringing phone.

“Nobody move!” the man demands, raising a gun above his head. “Empty the register.”

Dustin nods as he fumbles with the control on the tablet beside him. The woman beside you ends her call abruptly when the intruder walks toward the back of the store. Tim’s voicemail plays, muffled beneath the shirt as you attempt to end the call. Before you can move your other hand, the man rips the shirt away. His fingers wrap cruelly around your wrist, tugging you closer as he displays your phone to the other shoppers-turned-hostages.

“You see this?” he yells. “Stupid! I said stay calm and stay where you are.”

You turn your head away from him, his voice too loud in your ear, and his touch painful. He twists your arm sharply, causing you to drop your phone onto the table your thighs are pressed against. You quickly forget that your arm is suspended over your head and pulled back painfully when the cold barrel of a gun is pressed against your temple.

“Don’t do what she did,” the man says, quieter now, as his chest heaves against your side. “How’s that register coming?”

“It’s open, but we haven’t been to the bank yet this week or anything, so there isn’t much,” Dustin rambles.

“Well, that won’t do. What should we do about that?” he asks, leaning too close to you as his hand twitches on the gun.

“If he moved out yesterday, he was probably upset about the shooting, right?” Lucy asks, returning to the shop after an unhelpful conversation with the suspect’s former roommate.

“That’s one possibility,” Tim replies, closing the door too hard. His phone lights up, and he furrows his brows when he sees a missed call from you. He wasn’t gone long, and you rarely call when he’s at work. As he prepares to call you back, dispatch radios an alert of a robbery in progress.

“The mall,” Lucy sighs. “Think it’s our guy?”

Tim is no longer concerned about that. He hits the lights and sirens, yanks the gear shift into Drive, and steers the shop into a tight U-turn to speed toward the scene. It’s not just any mall, it’s the mall you are in. Tim decides not to call you back, his adrenaline pumping as his mind threatens to show him the worst-case scenarios.

“Tim,” Lucy grunts. “Easy.”

He doesn’t reply, blowing through a red light as he nears the mall.

“What store?” he asks.

Lucy opts not to argue. She raises the radio to ask where exactly the armed suspect is, then tells Tim. He follows the signs toward the entrance closest to that store, pulling up onto the curb before he pulls his gun from his side and leads Lucy inside.

The mall is evacuating, so people are running out toward their cars, some screaming while others shove people and displays aside carelessly.

“Where?” Tim barks at a security guard cowering behind a table in the food court.

“Straight through this archway, and then right,” the man answers, pointing weakly with his stun gun.

“Put that away before you hurt someone,” Lucy demands.

She follows Tim as they enter the archway. He clears the corner, then moves quickly but carefully toward the closed door separating him from you and a man with a gun.

“Tim, think about this first,” Lucy pleads.

“I am,” he assures, ducking to look through the windows covering the front of the store. “One armed at the back of the store,” he tells her. “One civilian behind the counter.”

“And the door is locked,” Lucy adds, nodding toward the heavy metal rod holding the door in place.

“Back up,” Tim requests.

He stays low and shoots through the glass panel beside the door. It shatters as his shot echoes, but he doesn’t care about the noise as he climbs through the opening, his gun aimed at the thief.

Tim swallows and moves his gun an inch to the left when he sees that the man has a hostage. He reminds himself that he can’t remember it’s you, not if he wants to ensure you go home safely with him. For now, he’s Tim Bradford, the cop, not Tim Bradford, the man with a princess in need of saving. A cruel voice in his head points out that you might not be in this situation if he’d answered your call, but it’s too late to think like that.

“LAPD,” Lucy yells, taking her position beside Tim. “Put the weapon down and let me see your hands."

The man shakes his head and moves behind you, his gun at your temple and his other arm around your neck. You keep your eyes on Tim, your teeth grinding together painfully as you dig your fingers into your palms.

“Out,” Tim demands. Dustin rushes out through the broken window, disappearing around the corner as the two men closest to the entrance follow after him.

“Let the other hostages go,” Lucy encourages. “Then we can talk.”

“Sure,” the man says. “Everyone behind me can go.”

The rest of the customers take that invitation, running as fast as they can out of the store. Then, you’re left alone with a crazed gunman who didn’t get what he wanted, and two cops who don’t have a clear shot. Tim nods to you, nearly imperceptibly, but you don’t know what it means. Is it a promise he’ll save you, a command to do something?

“It’s over,” Tim says. “Let her go, and this goes much smoother for you.”

“I lost everything,” the man behind you replies. “It’s been over.”

You look at Lucy, then quickly turn your eyes to the left. She narrows her eyes slightly, so you move your fingers away from your palm. She tips her head quickly, then adjusts her grip on her gun.

“Bradford,” she murmurs softly. “Derecha.”

At that, you pull to your left, gaining less than a foot of freedom before the man tightens his grip on your neck. Or tries to. Tim takes the opening, firing at his chest. His arm falls away as you stumble back toward Lucy, who holsters her gun and steps toward you.

“Cuff him, Chen,” Tim says, taking her place. He pulls you into his arms, tucking your face against his chest as you cling to his uniform. You hear Lucy talking into her radio, but you’re so relieved to be with Tim that you don’t listen. Within a few minutes, you’re being led away from your boyfriend and escorted into an ambulance. The paramedics tell you it’s just a quick check of your vitals, but you watch the mall parking lot outside as they work, ignorant of what they do as you wait until you can return to Tim.

“I understand,” Tim tells Wade. “Can I go now?”

Wade sighs as he signs off on Tim’s statement. He nods, then walks toward the sergeant interviewing Lucy. Tim turns toward the line of ambulances parked in the handicap spaces, but he doesn’t know which one you’re in.

You’ve been waiting beside a police car for the last minute and a half, watching Tim's back. So, when he turns away from his watch commander and is alone, you don’t hesitate to run toward him. He doesn’t see you coming, yet still manages to catch you in his arms. Relief floods into him, seeping into you where you’re pressed against him.

Tim clings to you, one arm secure around your waist, while the other hand raises to your shoulder to brush your hair away from your face.

“Get out of here, Bradford!” Angela yells when she sees you in his arms. “Take her home!”

Tim takes you to his home, though you spend enough time at each other’s places that the lines are beginning to blur. He pats your hip after helping you change, a silent instruction to sit on his bed. You obey, watching his back as he disappears into the bathroom. You haven’t spoken yet, aren’t sure where to start, but being this close to Tim is the only way you think you’ll be able to deal with what you’ve been through.

When Tim returns, he has a wet cloth and a bottle of lotion. Your bags from the mall are still in Tim’s trunk, but he placed a book, a drink, and your favorite snack on the nightstand for you, so you have more than everything you need.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Tim says, standing between your legs. He sets the lotion beside you, then hooks his finger beneath your chin to lift your face.

“I was scared,” you whisper. “But when you got there, I knew everything would be okay.”

Tim nods, frowning as he observes the bruise on your forehead and the redness of your neck. He dabs the cool washcloth against your injuries, then gently wipes the rest of your face. When he’s content and convinced that you're comfortable, he steps away to put the cloth in the sink, but he’s back at your side in mere seconds.

Tim helps you get comfortable in his bed, reclined against pillows with everything you need in reach. He picks up the lotion as he joins you in bed, passing you the remote. After you turn on your favorite movie, Tim takes your hand. He squeezes a drop of your favorite lotion into your palm, closes the tube against his leg, and rubs his thumb over your palm, spreading the lotion with a relaxing pressure and his usual reverence. He uses both hands to massage you, moving the lotion down your fingers as you relax beside him. Every second he touches you is calming, and you’d be content to stay here forever, you think.

“Thank you,” you say as he finishes with your other hand.

“I should have answered the phone,” he replies. “I’ll answer next time.”

“It’s not your fault, Tim. You saved me. That’s more than I’d ever ask for.”

“You’re going to be okay?”

“I am,” you assure him. “Mostly because you’re here, and I’m not alone.”

Tim smiles, kisses your hand, and invites you to recline against his side. Comfortable under his arm, you can feel his heart beating as he drags his fingers up and down your arm.

“You’ll never be alone,” he promises. “Everything and everyone that you face… your enemies have to contend with me, and I’ll never be far. I won’t miss another call.”

“I love you,” you say, turning your face toward his. “I love you so much, Tim.”

“I love you,” he promises, kissing you gently as he tugs you impossibly closer.

You might be Tim’s princess, but he will always be more than a prince. He’s a knight, a protecter, a pamperer, and that's just the surface of who he is. He’s yours, he’s the love of your life, he’s a constant, and you will be by his side no matter what.

“I was going to buy you a gift,” you murmur, “but something came up.”

“Gifts are my job,” Tim argues. “Besides, this is more than enough for me.”

You chuckle, then pull Tim’s shoulder. He understands what you’re inviting him to do, and he slides down in the bed to hook his arm around your waist and rest his head on your chest.

“Angela wants to know when you’re up to meeting everyone,” Tim says against your sternum, growing heavier against you as you run your nails along his back.

“I was always ready,” you remind him.

“You met Lucy today, that’s enough for now.”

“Whatever you say.”

Tim slides his hands along your waist as he reaches up to kiss your jaw, then he relaxes again, and your memories of being scared disappear as you find comfort in Tim Bradford, growing happier each day you are lucky enough to be his princess.

[gay-dorito-dust]

… maybe bob with a reader who also has mental illness? And has low self esteem also. :3…. not super fluffy but it can become fluffo

'why do you like me?' you asked Bob after having not been in the best mindset for the past couple of days, it had hit you out of nowhere, but it was still enough to have you sitting within your room with the curtains drawn and burrowed in your own multitude of blankets as you let your own void consume you.

Bob was suprised to hear you say such a thing, he was always the one to ask you why you liked him, so seeing you look at him with such hopelessness and saddness only made his heart ache as he didn't hesitate to take a seat next to you and grabbing ahold of your hand. He didn't like seeing you like this but knew -that just like him- you had your down days as well as your best ones and he was going to be the grounding force you needed however he could, whether it be just sitting here and holding your hand as the day passes you by or otherwise then he'll do it a thousand times over just for you.

'How could i not?' Bob begins softly, 'you are the kindest person i've ever met and the most genuine soul that never felt the need change for anybody and remain to your truest self, the one person who always managed to keep their head held high when the situation seemed bleak.' He kisses the side of your head and allowing you to rest you head against his shoulder, allowing him to be your light within this dark moment of yours, much like you have been for him in his. 'The strongest person that never once gave up when the going gets tough, yet sometimes forget that you're human and not every day is going to be a good one.' he finishes as you look at him through your eyelashes.

'what if i can't get out of this...emptiness? what if i just accept that most battles are too hard to win and think i'm deserving of being forgotten and or left behind like i'm not worth the trouble of comforting?' You were just saying the things that had been within your mind for a longwhile now, things that you knew you'd never you would never get an acceptable awnser for even if it was a believible one, you'll still always have that lingering doubt within the back of your mind that they were just saying it for the sake of saying something that sounded plausable...for a while until you get like this again.

So you wondered how long it would take until Bob grew bored of reassuring you, of getting ride of the sour thoughts that plauge your mind all too frequently nowadays, of having to hold your hand when the darkness clouded any sembelence of light from passing through. However what you weren't willing to see in your current state of mind was that Bob would in fact gladly reassure you as many times as you needed, chase away the sour thoughts time and time again until you were ready to come out of your room, hold your hand and guide you through the darkness until he could effortlessly do so with his eyes closed.

He didn't like the idea of leaving you alone with your thoughts, especially not when they were making you second guess eveything about yourself, not when you were within a room devoid of leeting any light in, allowing the worst of your thoughts to be let in without warning and stay to fester; up until all you could think about was the supposed worst traits you possesed and how you didn't think you were worth any ounce of attention. So Bob was more then willing to be stubborn and stern with you, even if it meant getting through your head that you were more then worth every ounce of attention and support given, that you were worth going back for ten times out of ten.

'i won't let you.' Bob replied frowning. 'i won't let you becuase i'll stay here with you as long as it takes, as long as you need until you do feel wanted and seen becuase you didn't leave me with my mind when i wanted you to, you stayed with me until the early morning looking tired as hell but happy that i finally stepped out of the shadows.' He tucks you futher into his side, his body guarding you from the dark of your own room as though he was the only one who could keep you safe from it all, keep you protected from the worst yet to come and within his arms you felt the safest you've ever had in a long time. 'So why would i ever leave you to face your battle alone?' Bob asks.

You shrugged, geuninly at a loss on how to awnser him, but far too content within his arms to move away from the warmth he emitted. 'i'm not worth all of this Bob, i'm not worth your efforts but yet you still stay here as though there is nowhere esle you wanted to be-'

'There is nowhere i want to be other then right here, with you. i won't let you think any diffrently about yourself, out of anyone in the Watchtower i can't think of anyone but you to spend my days with, no matter if we're sat like this or doing the dishes together.' Bob cuts you off, looking at you with those sofe blue eyes that you swore could see into your soul and thensome. 'As long as i'm with you my day could never be wasted at all, i want to be with you on your worst days as well as your best days, all you've got to do is let me in instead of shutting me out.' He finishes earnestly, holding you closer to him as you burrow your face into his neck, your hands were gripping the back of his sweater as though you were scared to let go of Bob in fear that he'd dissapear.

Bob noticed how tightly you were gripping onto him and began rubbing your back with his large hands in soothing motion. 'i'm here. i'm not going anywhere, not without you, never without you okay?' he says and hears you hum in agreement as you made yourself comfortable against him, even offering your blanket to cover him somewhat before finding yourself inable to fight off the need for sleep, and Bob rubbing your back didn't make matters better either as you were esscencially lulled into drifting off; the scent of vanilla or perhaps chamomile and new books invading your senses as you murmurered agaisnst his skin. 'Thank you for not giving up on me.'

'never.' Bob whipsered back, leaning back against the wall for some brief shut eye, all the while making sure you stayed close to him as his back caresses soon slowed and came to a still, finding their resting place at your waist that he'd occasionally grip as though trying to tell you he was there in some sort of morse code that he'd hope would reach you in your dreams where he would be too; only for him to fall asleep completely soon after.

bonus;

Later that day Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei were walking through the hallway, wondering where you and Bob were, only to come across your slightly ajar door where Yelena peaked inside and smiling upon seeing you and Bob cuddled up tightly together asleep on the floor. 'i found our little lovebirds.' She says to the rest of the group as they too poked their heads inside soon afterwards, similar smiles plastering across their faces.

'That doesn't look pratical.' Ava said as she notes your sleeping possitons, knowing that both of you will wake up complaining about your aching necks, but she couldn't help but find you both adorable in this situation.

'At least we don't need to send a search party for them both now.' John says, wincing when Alexei claps him on the shoulder, wiping away a tear that had fallen from his eyes.

'Bob is protecting his love even in his sleep, how valient of him.' He adds as Yelena and the group decided to make boht of your situations a little more comfortable for you both. Yelena and Ava would put pillows behind your's and Bob's head, Alexei would shift you both slightly into more suitable positions for you both, and finally John would adjust the blankets so they would cover you both properly with the intent on keeping you and Bob warm and safe.

The group, once satisfied with their work, left you both be and shut the door behind them as they did in order to give you both the rest and privacy you both nedded.

[pillow-coded]

Five Hours

Summary: After weeks of pleading, Y/N is granted five rare hours alone with her husband, Spencer, inside prison for a conjugal visit. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) MDNI!!!!! Content Warning: Angsttttt but also kinda fluff and then angst again, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, prison!reid, crying during sex, aftercare. A/N: loosely based on CM S12, prison Reid arc. Word Count: 7.8K

According to the Oxford Dictionary, a conjugal visit is a visit to a prisoner, by the spouse of the prisoner, especially for sexual relations.

However, Definitions are cold and stripped of nuisance.

They don’t tell you about the ache in your chest that doesn’t fade with time, or the way silence settles into your bed when the person you love isn’t in it.

They don’t tell you how it feels to wash your hair and suddenly remember the way his fingers used to rinse the shampoo out for you, gentle like he was afraid you’d break.

So no. Sexual relations is definitely not why I spent two weeks calling people, filing paperwork, arguing with strangers in suits and uniforms.

It wasn’t for sex. Even if it happens, even if we need it like oxygen—that’s not why I did it.

I did it because Spencer’s been in prison for a month, and I don’t know how much longer I can go without holding him.

All I want is to hold him in my arms. To kiss the corner of his mouth. To brush those soft curls away from his forehead and whisper that he’s going to be okay—that no matter what this place is doing to him, he’s still himself.

But I’ve seen it happening. His eyes have been growing dimmer with every non-contact visit. That’s all they’ve allowed me—cold chairs, thick glass, a phone pressed to my ear while I watched him shrink in real time. The only people granted private visits until now were Emily, and Fiona.

And now, finally… me.

I pushed, pleaded, filed the paperwork, followed up, waited. Jumped through every hoop they put in front of me. Some of the guards smirked when they handed me the forms—like they thought I was here for something cheap, something selfish.

But I would’ve done anything to get this time. I did do everything for these five hours they gave us.

And now I’m being escorted down a long corridor toward the conjugal suite—a room designed to look almost like a motel bedroom. Almost normal. Cream-colored sheets, a nightstand, dim overhead lighting. A sad little lamp that tries too hard to feel homey. There’s even a fake window with a painted blue sky outside of it. Like that could fool someone who hasn’t seen the real one in thirty days.

My palms are sweating. My heart won’t stop pounding.

In just a few minutes, I’ll get to touch him. I’ll get to kiss him.

I’ll get to breathe him in, memorize the sound of his voice without static in the way. I’ll get to be his again, not through glass, not with guards watching, but here—in this tiny, borrowed pocket of time where the world outside doesn’t exist.

I didn’t tell him about the conjugal visit.

I wanted it to be a surprise.

I wanted to see his face soften the moment he sees me sitting on the bed. I wanted to watch the disbelief bloom in his eyes, see the guardedness fall away. Just for a second. Just long enough to let him remember he’s loved.

Just long enough to let him feel free—even if it’s only for five hours.

“The prisoner will be here in a few minutes,” The guard says, voice clipped, bored, like this is just another Tuesday. “We’ll call eventually, when your time has run out. If you do not answer this call, we will be coming in regardless of what you two are doing. Got that?”

I nod, throat tight.

She gives me a look—somewhere between warning and pity—then shuts the door behind her.

And just like that, I’m alone again.

In a room pretending to be a bedroom. Waiting for my husband like I’m not half shaking.

I glance at the mirror in the corner, force myself to sit on the bed—knees together, hands folded in my lap. I don’t want him to see the nerves first. I want him to see me. The real me. The one that still believes he’s coming home.

I smooth down my clothes and stare at the door like it might open by magic.

Any second now.

My fingers twist together in my lap. I force them to still. The bed creaks under me when I shift, and I flinch like I’ve broken something sacred. Everything feels too loud. Too sharp. Like the silence in here is made of glass and I might shatter it just by breathing.

Then—The sound of keys, a bolt turning, footsteps. My heart stumbles in my chest, the door opens.

And there he is.

He steps inside slow, cautious, eyes adjusting to the low light. For a second, he doesn’t see me. He’s still in that survival state—shoulders tense, gaze scanning for threats before comfort. His hair is longer, curls hanging low over his forehead. His jaw looks sharper, like he’s lost weight again. His posture is too straight, too stiff. His body has learned prison, and it shows.

And then he sees me—Really sees me.

His breath catches.

That’s when everything changes.

His eyes widen like he can’t believe I’m real, like maybe the prison food’s finally driven him to hallucinations. His whole face crumples—relief first, then disbelief, then something wordless and raw that makes my chest ache. He takes one shaky step forward.

“Y/N?” he breathes.

I nod, standing up slowly, cautiously, as if I might spook him.

“Surprise,” I whisper, smiling through the lump in my throat. “You didn’t think I’d let them keep me away forever, did you?”

He’s already moving.

Crossing the room in a few long, clumsy strides until his arms are around me—tight, desperate, anchoring. I don’t even remember closing the distance. We just fold into each other like we never learned how to be apart.

He buries his face in my neck. I feel him inhale deep, like he’s starving for something only I can give. His whole body trembles against mine.

“I didn’t know,” he whispers. “They didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want them to,” I say softly, fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform. “I wanted it to be a surprise”

He pulls back just far enough to look at me, his hands coming up to cup my cheeks like he needs to memorize every inch. There’s so much love in his eyes, but it’s cracked around the edges. Worn thin.

“You’re here,” he says, as if still not believing it. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here, baby,” I nod. “For five hours… I’m yours.”

His voice breaks on a sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. I can't tell. I don’t think he can either.

Then he kisses me—soft at first, reverent, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast. I kiss him back like I’ve been waiting for this every second of the last month. Because I have.

Because I’d wait forever just to feel this again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against the crook of my neck. He clings to me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear—arms tightening around my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my dress. “I missed you so much.”

“So did I,” I whisper back, barely holding it together. I run my hands over his back, exploring every new ridge, every place this month has hollowed out. “So, so much.”

We’re still wrapped around each other when the door clicks again—followed by a voice that slices straight through the moment.

“Your wife’s already been informed,” the guard says dryly, arms crossed over his chest like he’s seen this scene too many times to care. “But I’ve gotta say it for the record: we’ll call in when your time is up. If you don’t answer the phone, we’re coming in. It’s protocol.”

He pauses for effect, then adds with an unimpressed glance toward the bed, “So please answer the call. We don’t want to walk in to see… well. You know.”

Spencer flinches, just slightly. Not out of embarrassment—out of habit. Like he’s bracing for punishment, even here, even now.

I feel his breath hitch against my skin. His fingers twitch where they hold me.

“We’ll answer,” I say flatly, shooting the guard a look that makes him shrug and back out without another word.

The door shuts again, but the spell is already bruised.

Spencer doesn’t pull away from me. If anything, he holds me tighter. I press a soft kiss to his temple, breathing him in.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, rocking us slightly like I’m trying to soothe both of us at once. “They’re not here now. It’s just you and me.”

“Just you and me…” he repeats, but it sounds more like a question. Like he’s trying the words on his tongue, testing if they’re real. If this is real. His voice is thick with disbelief, the kind that comes from a month of fluorescent lights, shouted orders, and not a single safe place to land.

I pull back slowly and meet his eyes. They’re wet—but not broken. Not yet. There's still a little spark behind them, flickering like a candle in wind.

I reach for his hand—cool and calloused from rough sheets and cold routines—and he lets me take it without hesitation. His fingers thread through mine like muscle memory.

“Come here,” I murmur.

And I lead him toward the bed.

It creaks when we sit, but we don’t notice. We’re too busy drinking each other in like we’ve been wandering through deserts and finally found water.

He looks around the room, almost bashful now. “This feels… surreal,” he says. “Like I’m not allowed to have this.”

I bump his knee with mine, gentle. “Well, you better enjoy it,” I say with a teasing smile, though my throat is tight. “I busted my ass trying to get this visit. Took a whole week of phone calls and paperwork and playing nice with people who looked at me like I was asking for too much.”

His eyes snap back to mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be.” I squeeze his hand. “It was worth it the second I saw your face.”

He swallows hard, blinking faster now. I can tell he’s trying to stay in control—but emotion’s already slipping through the cracks.

“I’m sure I can get another visit,” I say softly, brushing my fingers against his. “But it might take a while. So for now… just let yourself have this. Please.”

He nods, slow and deliberate, like he’s promising me something sacred.

And then he leans in—forehead to mine, breath to breath—and for the first time in thirty days, we let the world fall away.

“How’d you manage to arrange this? A conjugal visit is rare in most of America.”

His thumb brushes over my cheek, barely there. His eyes are on my lips like he’s forgotten how kissing works but remembers that it mattered once.

I smile, just a little smug. “I know.”

“Seriously,” he says, brows knitting. “You must’ve pulled some impossible strings.”

“I did,” I admit. “There were forms. So many forms. And begging. And calling. And smiling at people I didn’t want to smile at.”

He huffs a laugh, the sound small but real. “You charmed the system?”

“I bullied the system,” I correct, grinning now. “Emily helped push it through once I got it on paper. Fiona found a loophole in the visitation code, and I… well, I gave one hell of a speech to the warden’s assistant.”

His mouth tilts up at the corners. “What kind of speech?”

“The kind that makes people uncomfortable if they say no,” I say, lifting a brow. “A little desperate. A little dramatic. Very persuasive.”

He laughs again—really laughs—and I swear I feel his body melt just a little more beside mine. Like the weight is starting to come off, molecule by molecule.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs.

“No,” I say, reaching up to trace the outline of his face. “I’m your wife… and your wife has been desperate to hold you again,”

And then, like gravity shifts between us—he kisses me.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’s trying to relearn me by feel alone.

He pulls back just slightly, his breath shaky against my lips. His forehead rests against mine again, eyes still closed like he’s afraid they’ll betray how close he is to breaking.

“I was terrified that you would forget about me,” he says, voice cracking on the edges.

My heart squeezes. I cup his face in both hands, forcing him to look at me. “Spence… how could you ever think that?”

“I don’t know…” He swallows hard, like the words are knives on the way out. “This place… it’s dark. It changes you. You start to doubt everything.”

His eyes shine wet. He doesn’t blink.

“My mind keeps going to places I’ve never dared to think of. I imagine you moving on. Laughing without me. Falling asleep next to someone who isn't waiting for a phone call to say goodnight.”

I shake my head fiercely. “No. That’s not real.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. But in here, knowing isn’t enough. The silence gets inside your head. It starts sounding like truth.”

I press my forehead to his, trying to pour every ounce of love I have back into him. “You haven’t lost me. You won’t lose me.”

“I don’t want to forget who I am,” he confesses, voice barely there. “And I’m scared I already am.”

“You’re Spencer,” I breathe. “You’re brilliant. And soft. And good. You’re mine. And no steel bars or sleepless nights or whispering doubts will ever take that from me.”

He closes his eyes. A single tear slides down his cheek, and I catch it with my thumb before it can fall too far. He’s holding back. Like he didn’t want to ruin the little time we had by breaking down.

“You’re still you,” I whisper again, like a prayer I refuse to stop saying. “Even here you’re you.”

And then I kiss him—deeper this time, slower—both hands buried in his hair like I’m trying to hold all the broken pieces together before they slip through my fingers.

When I pull back, he’s staring at me like I’ve just given him air.

“I think about you all the time,” I say softly, brushing my thumb across his cheekbone.

A real smile—small but real—tugs at his lips.

“I think about you too,” he murmurs, his voice steadier now. “All the time. Every second I can spare.”

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s trying to let go of something he’s been holding in for too long.

Then he looks at me with that kind of aching desperation only someone truly starved can have.

“Tell me…” he says. “Tell me something about the outside. Anything. I just want to hear your voice talk about something normal. Something real.”

I smile, blinking back tears, and thread our fingers together.

“Well…” I begin, letting my voice soften like we’re already under blankets at home, “Henry won the spelling bee.”

Spencer lets out a small, breathy laugh—surprised and tender. “He did? What was the word?”

“‘Ephemeral,’” I say, and that makes him laugh again, fuller this time, like it physically lifts something from his chest.

“Of course it was,” he murmurs, pride shining through the exhaustion in his eyes.

“And…” I glance at him playfully, “Penelope and Luke seem to have something going on.”

His eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“Really,” I nod, grinning now. “They think they’re subtle. They are not.”

He chuckles and shakes his head like he can’t believe he missed that part of the story—like he’s trying to stitch himself back into a life that still exists without him.

“And I…” I pause, brushing his knuckles with my thumb. “I learned a new recipe. A fancy pasta dish with fresh herbs and this creamy lemon sauce. I think you’d love it.”

He closes his eyes and hums, like he’s trying to taste it in his mind.

“I can’t wait to make it for you,” I add, quiet now. “When you come home.”

That makes him open his eyes again. They're glassy, full of something that isn't quite sadness—but close. Hope, maybe. Or the kind of grief that comes from knowing hope is still possible.

He blinks once, then cracks a crooked smile.

“I can’t believe you managed to make a meal without burning the kitchen.”

I scoff, nudging his knee with mine. “Oh, like you’re any better. The only thing you’ve successfully cooked is cup noodles.”

“Excuse you,” he says, mock-offended. “I’ve made grilled cheese. Twice.”

“Spencer, you set the second one on fire.”

“That was a structural issue with the toaster oven.”

“You tried to grill it in the toaster oven.”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Details.”

I laugh, and it feels like something sacred. It’s small, but it fills the space between us like warmth in winter. For a second, we’re not in a prison conjugal suite. We’re just… us.

He watches me like he’s memorizing the way I laugh. Like he doesn’t know when he’ll get to hear it again.

And then, softer—barely above a whisper—“God, I missed this. You. Us.”

My smile fades into something quieter, deeper. “You missed us?” I murmur, a hint of competition laced in my voice. “Spence… I can’t stop thinking about you. Twenty-four seven. You’re all I think about.”

Spencer’s heart swells at the words, something warm blooming in the hollowed-out space inside his chest. He knows this is hard on me—knows I’m carrying the weight of both of us on the outside—but still, hearing it… hearing that I ache for him just as much—it’s almost too much.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” he says, and it comes out like a confession. “All the time. I just… I wish I could hold you, kiss you, touch you. I miss everything about you.”

My hand reaches for his cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye. “Honey… don’t cry.”

He blinks. His brows pull together slightly, like the realization only just hit. He hadn’t even noticed the tears until my touch caught them.

He wipes at his face with a shaky hand, a flush of embarrassment rising. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “I just… I can’t believe this is happening. That I’m stuck in here. That you’re out there, living our life without me. And I can’t be with you.”

My fingers curl gently under his chin, coaxing him to meet my gaze.

“You are with me,” I whisper. “Right now. I’m here. You’re not alone, Spencer. Not even for a second.”

He leans into my palm like it’s the only steady thing in the world.

“I’m here now,” I say again, firmer. “And for the next five hours, I’m not going anywhere.”

I lean in and press soft kisses to his cheeks, one after the other, catching the tears as they fall. Salt and skin. Love and ache. I kiss each one like I can take it away—like I can undo the weight this place has put on him, one touch at a time.

He lets out a breath of a laugh—a soft, bittersweet chuckle that trembles in the space between us.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time, like he knows it’s unnecessary but still feels the need to say it.

“Don’t be,” I whisper, brushing my nose against his.

He tightened his hold on me, his fingers trailing slowly up and down my back—gentle, reverent, like he was trying to memorize me. Every curve, every freckle, every breath I took beneath his touch.

Then he lifted his head, propping himself up on one elbow to study my face. His eyes softened as he traced the line of my jaw with his fingertips, feather-light and full of quiet awe.

His gaze drifted downward, lingering at my neck. He leaned in, pressing a delicate kiss to the pulse point just above my collarbone. It was slow. Intentional. Like he was grounding himself in the rhythm of my heartbeat.

“You know,” he murmured against my skin, “I dream of you every night.”

He kissed me again, lower this time. Another soft press to the side of my throat, then another—each one careful, reverent. Like prayer.

I shivered beneath him as his hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers skating across my skin. His touch was feather-light, almost hesitant, as if I might break under it. He brushed the curve of my hip, pausing when he felt me tremble.

“You do?” I whispered.

“I do,” he breathed. “It’s been hell in here. A constant loop of missing you. Of dreaming about you. Wishing I could hold you, touch you, just… be with you.”

His hand moved to the front of my shirt now, fingers brushing each button with aching slowness. He began to undo them, one by one, savoring every inch of exposed skin like it was a miracle.

“Spence…”

“Shhh,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss me—soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world. “Just let me look at you.”

His hands moved reverently across my body, rediscovering me inch by inch. His mouth followed—kissing along my shoulders, the hollow of my collarbone, the gentle rise of my chest. Each touch was a vow. Each kiss, a homecoming.

I let out a breathless laugh, unable to help it. “This isn’t looking,” I teased.

He smiled against my skin, warm and unhurried. “Then let me look with my hands.”

He hummed, his fingers undoing the last of the buttons before slipping it off my shoulders. He paused then—really paused—his gaze sweeping over my bare torso like it was something sacred. Like I was something sacred.

No hunger. Just awe.

He leaned down, lips brushing softly against the skin just above my navel. Then he kissed lower—slow, tender kisses that trailed along my stomach, his tongue flicking out now and then to taste my skin. He moved upward again, mouth worshipping a path back to my chest, my throat, until he hovered above me—eyes burning, but gentle.

“Honey…” I whispered, voice breathy and reverent. Like the word itself was a prayer.

Spencer gazed at me adoringly, his eyes reflecting the warm glow of the setting sun filtering through the small window of the visitation room. In a voice low and thick with emotion, he murmured.

"Beautiful... You're so beautiful, Y/N."

His fingertips traced the delicate curve of my cheek, slow and deliberate, like he was carving the shape of me into his memory. He leaned in closer, nose brushing mine, breath mingling with my own.

"I want to remember every detail of you," he whispered. "The softness of your skin. The rise and fall of your chest when you breathe. I’m terrified of forgetting… of losing this. Of losing you."

Coming from Spencer—someone with an eidetic memory—those words shattered something in me. He could recall entire textbooks word for word, yet here he was, terrified that even his perfect mind wouldn’t be strong enough to hold on to us.

His eyes fluttered shut, and a single tear slipped free, trailing down the sharp line of his cheek. But still, he didn’t stop. His mouth continued its journey, kissing down my neck with a reverence that made me ache—each kiss warm, wet, and trembling. Each one a vow.

His hands drifted lower, abandoning the bare skin of my torso to fumble at the waistband of my pants. I didn’t hesitate. My hands moved to meet his, tugging gently at the fabric of his prison uniform, desperate to strip away everything that stood between us—between now and before.

“You’ll never lose me,” I murmured, voice firm even as emotion caught in my throat. “We’re gonna get you out. I promise.”

“Promise?” he asked, forehead pressing to mine, like he needed the contact to believe it was real. Like he was anchoring himself to my warmth.

“Yes,” I whispered, resting my palm over his heart. “Promise.”

Something in him broke then—not in a destructive way, but in a release. Like hearing those words gave him permission to let go. To feel. To want. To have me, even just for tonight.

He kissed me again, slow and deep. Not hungry. Not rushed. Like a memory being rewritten—carefully, reverently. His hands moved over my body like he was afraid he’d miss something if he moved too fast.

I peeled off the top half of his uniform, it was easier than I expected—like the fabric was eager to fall away. I wanted to touch him. To feel all of him again. But then I saw them.

The bruises.

They weren’t clustered, but they were everywhere. Spaced out and blooming beneath his skin—angry shades of violet and blue, like ugly secrets painted across his ribs and hips.

“Spencer—” I breathed, my voice catching with horror. My hand reached instinctively for his torso, but he stopped me.

His fingers closed gently, but firmly, around my wrist.

“Please don’t,” he whispered, voice raw with shame. “Please just… let’s not talk about it. Not right now. Just... let me have you. Please, Y/N.”

His eyes found mine—desperate and pleading—not for pity, not even for comfort, but for escape. For something pure. Something real. Something to remind him that he hadn’t been ruined completely. That there was still softness in the world, and it lived here, in this room, in me.

So I leaned in and kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then each of his cheeks—tender, deliberate—until I had touched every part of him that looked like it might be hurting.

When I pulled back, I met his eyes again and gave the smallest nod. No words. Just yes. Just I'm yours.

Then I kissed him.

He cupped my face the moment our lips met, like he needed the contact to tether himself. And he kissed me back like he needed it—like this was his last breath and he chose to spend it here, on my lips. There was nothing hurried about it. No urgency. Just heat and devotion, building slow and deep beneath the surface.

His hands slipped down to my hips, guiding me gently onto my back. He followed, hovering just above, not rushing—just looking. His gaze roamed my face like it was the first time he’d seen it. Or maybe the first time he was allowing himself to believe it was really here. That I was really here.

“I love you,” he whispered again, as if repetition might stitch the moment into reality. “So much.”

“I love you more,” I whispered back.

His hand slid down the soft curve of my side—the one he knew by heart, yet had missed so deeply during his exile. He touched me like he was trying to memorize me all over again, as if he didn’t quite believe I was real. As if this was the dream.

His forehead pressed gently against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. I felt the brush of his eyelashes against my cheek, and then his voice—ragged, trembling—barely a whisper in my ear.

“Stay with me,” he breathed, half plea, half prayer. “Stay with me, Y/N.”

My heart clenched at the sound of my name. Stay with him... God, I wished more than anything in the world that I could. But our clock was ticking—fast. Too fast. That’s how time worked in here. Warped. Cruel. We had a couple hours left, and it already felt like sand slipping through our fingers.

“I’ll stay with you,” I whispered, breathless, trying to hold on to the fantasy that we could keep this—this closeness, this moment. “I’ll stay with you forever.”

And with our bodies entwined, he entered me. Gently. Slowly. Like it had been years. Like it hurt to be apart, and this—this was how we stitched ourselves back together.

My fingers tangled in his hair, soft and slightly damp with sweat, and his arms tightened around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer—like he was trying to erase every inch of space between us. Seal me to him completely.

The world outside vanished. No guards. No concrete walls. No ticking clock.

Just us.

Just breath.

Just the steady rhythm of our hearts beating in sync, echoing through the small, borrowed room.

“Do you remember…” I whispered against his lips, the words tumbling out in broken pants, my body trembling beneath his. The feeling of him inside me—of us—was almost too much. “Our first time?”

He swallowed hard, his eyes locking onto mine with a kind of reverence that stole the breath from my lungs.

“Every second,” he said, his voice thick, trembling. “Etched in my mind. In my soul.”

I chuckled, but my voice cracked right in the middle of it. “You head-butted me when you came.”

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, forehead dropping to rest against mine. “I was nervous,” he whispered, smiling despite the tears still threatening at the corners of his eyes.

“You were flustered,” I corrected, running my fingers through his hair. “And apologizing for like ten minutes while I couldn’t stop laughing.”

He shook his head, burying his face in the curve of my neck. “I still think about that. How embarrassed I was. And how beautiful you looked… even when you were laughing at me.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” I said softly, smiling into the memory. “I was laughing because you were embarrassed over an accident. It was sweet.”

His arms tightened around me, pulling me closer—like he didn’t want to miss even a second of this. His movements grew slower, more deliberate. We hovered at the edge of everything—not just release, but the kind of closeness that makes the world go quiet.

“I think…” I whispered, voice catching as I pressed a kiss to his temple, “I think that’s when I realized I was in love with you.”

Spencer stilled, just for a moment—his breath faltering against my skin. Then he looked up at me, eyes wide, glassy with unshed emotion.

“You did?” he asked, barely audible.

I nodded, holding him close. “You were so sweet. So nervous. You cared so much about how I felt—how I was. It was messy and imperfect and real. And I just... I knew.”

He kissed the side of my neck, a soft, trembling press of lips.

Spencer lost himself in the sensations—in the feel of me beneath him, around him, enveloping him. Every curve, every dip, every soft swell of my body pressed against his skin, and it was almost too much to bear. It was perfect. It was everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d ever dreamed of.

His movements grew more urgent, more deliberate—driven not by lust, but by a desperate instinct to make sure I knew. That I felt it. All of it.

“I love you,” he gasped, the words torn from his throat—raw, broken, honest. He needed me to know. To understand. To feel it in the way he touched me, the way he kissed me, the way he breathed me in like he couldn’t get enough.

His control was slipping fast, the edges of the world blurring until there was nothing left but this. Me. This moment. This love, in its purest, most desperate form.

I didn’t want it to end.

But it was building—rising, unstoppable.

I could feel him unraveling in my arms, every breath he took getting shakier, every movement deeper—more desperate. Like he was pouring everything he had into me. Every ache. Every prayer. Every silent scream he’d swallowed behind prison walls.

“I love you,” he said again, and it was almost a cry this time—like the words had clawed their way out of him, like they couldn’t stay buried a second longer.

“I love you too,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

His forehead pressed against mine, and for a moment, he stilled—our hearts racing together, bodies trembling as if trying to memorize the exact shape of each other. Then I felt it—that last, broken wave washing over him. The way he buried his face into my neck, his fingers digging into my hips, his whole body surrendering to the feeling as he finally let go.

I held him through it. Anchored him. Whispered his name like a balm.

He collapsed onto me, not heavy, just present. Just Spencer. His breath was warm against my collarbone, soft and uneven. His arms never loosened, like if he let go, I might slip through his fingers again.

I cradled the back of his head with one hand and traced lazy shapes across his back with the other. Stars. Spirals. Infinity signs.

He didn’t speak, not at first. Just breathed. Listened to my heartbeat. Grounded himself in the soft rhythm of the only thing that hadn’t left him.

Then he whispered, “Please don’t let this be a dream.”

His voice was so quiet, I barely caught it—just a fragile breath against my skin.

I tightened my arms around him, kissed the crown of his head. “It’s not a dream,” I murmured. “I’m here. We’re here.”

His breath stuttered, and I felt the tremble in his shoulders before he pulled in a deep, shaky inhale.

We lay like that for a while. Twined together. Skin on skin. Nothing but our bodies and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights overhead. It wasn’t a hotel room, or a bed at home. But right now, it was the safest place in the world. Because he was in my arms. Because he still felt like Spencer.

I ran my fingers through his hair, curling soft strands behind his ear. “You’re okay,” I whispered. “You’re okay now.”

His body trembled against mine—not from what we’d just done, but from the release of something heavier. Like tension stored in his muscles had finally found an exit.

He was quiet for a long time.

Then, barely above a whisper: “You know I have an eidetic memory. I can remember what you wore the first time we met, what song was playing the first time we kissed…”

He swallowed, voice catching.

“But lately, I… I’ll be lying in bed and I can’t recall the exact sound of your laugh. Or how your hair smelled that morning you fell asleep on the couch. I know it’s in there, but it’s like I have to dig for it, like it’s fading behind noise.”

I felt him tense again, like he was waiting for me to flinch. I didn’t.

I pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “It’s not fading. You’re just exhausted. You don’t have to hold on so tight, Spence. I’m here. I’ll remind you of everything.”

He nodded against my forehead, the motion subtle, like it took effort just to believe me.

We shifted slowly until we lay side by side, still tangled under the thin blanket. His body curled slightly toward mine—unconscious, like instinct. Like a plant bending toward light.

I rested my head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. It was slower now. Grounded.

But I could still feel it—the tension he hadn’t released. The thoughts that hadn’t been said.

For a long moment, we just lay there in the hush, the kind of silence that feels full, not empty. His fingers brushed absentmindedly against my arm, over and over, like a reflex. Like he was still making sure I was real.

Then his voice, low and raw, cut through the quiet.

“I don’t even know if I did it.”

I stilled.

His breath hitched, just slightly. “The murder. The setup. Whatever this is. There are hours of that night that I… I don’t remember. And that terrifies me.”

He swallowed hard, like the words had burned on their way out.

“I keep thinking—what if the reason I don’t remember isn’t because someone drugged me, or manipulated me, or because I was targeted—what if it’s because I did it? What if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be?”

He laughed then—quiet and bitter. A single breath through his nose that didn’t even try to disguise the self-loathing underneath.

“I mean, isn’t that the irony? The guy with the perfect memory, the one who can’t forget anything… can’t remember the one thing that could save him.”

My hand found his, instinctively, lacing our fingers together.

“Spencer—” I whispered.

But he shook his head, eyes glued to the ceiling. “I’ve been going over it again and again. I’ve reconstructed the timeline. I’ve looked at it like I would any other case. But when it’s me... everything blurs. I can't trust my own mind. And if I can’t trust that, then what do I have left?”

He turned to look at me then—finally—and it gutted me.

Not because of the tears in his eyes. But because he wasn’t fighting them anymore.

“You didn’t do it,” I said, firm despite the lump in my throat.

His brow furrowed, bitter and disbelieving. “How can you be so sure of that? I mean—I went to Mexico without telling you. I’ve been lying. Hiding things. Being secretive about this whole mess since the beginning.” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s not exactly the behavior of an innocent man.”

I reached for his hand again, squeezing it tightly. “Honey, I know you didn’t do it,” I said softly. “Because I know you. As cliché as that might sound.”

He turned his face slightly toward the wall, like he couldn’t bear to look at me while I said it.

“I know the way your voice goes quiet when you’re scared,” I continued. “I know the way your hands shake when something feels out of your control. I know how hard you try to do the right thing even when it hurts you. I know how much you love. How deeply. How fiercely. And I know you would never—never—hurt someone like that.”

I swallowed hard, pressing my forehead to the side of his.

“You're not perfect. You mess up. You shut people out. But Spencer... you are not a killer.”

His jaw clenched, a tear slipping down the side of his face and into the pillow.

“But what if I’m broken?” he asked, and it came out so small, it didn’t sound like him at all. “What if prison is breaking me, and I don’t even realize how far it’s gone?”

“Then we’ll get through it together.” I whispered. “I’m not saying I can put you back together, because I cant… but I sure as hell will try to help you through this.”

He let out a shaky breath—half a sob, half a sigh—and pulled me into him like I was the only thing tethering him to the world.

We stayed like that for a while, curled into each other. No sound but the ticking clock we were both trying to ignore.

But I felt the shift in him—the way his grip loosened, the way his breath hitched again. He was spiraling. Quietly, but fully.

I reached up and cupped his face in my hands.

“Spence, look at me.”

He hesitated, then let his eyes find mine. They were glassy, full of fear. Shame. Exhaustion.

“You're still in there,” I whispered. “Even when you feel lost. Even when your mind starts telling you lies. You're still in here.”

I took his hand gently and guided it to the center of my chest.

“Feel that?”

He nodded, lips trembling.

“That’s yours,” I whispered. “You’re still in here with me.”

His face crumpled then, and I wiped the tears that spilled over before they could fall too far. My thumbs brushed his cheekbones, my forehead resting lightly against his.

“You’re not alone,” I breathed. “You never were.”

We held each other like that as the minutes slipped away from us. Soon enough the minutes turned to hours, all spent with us talking and holding each-other.

I didn’t want to remind him of the time, but it reminded us anyway.

The sharp ring of the phone on the nightstand cut through the silence.

I flinched.

Spencer didn’t move at first. Just stared at it. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled like the air had been knocked out of him.

I reached for it, hand trembling.

“Time’s up,” the voice on the other end said. No warmth. No pause. “You have five minutes to dress and prepare the inmate for escort.”

I didn’t respond. Just hung up.

Spencer sat up slowly, moving like his bones didn’t want to cooperate. Like gravity had gotten meaner in the last hour.

I helped him dress, my hands moving on autopilot—straightening seams, buttoning cuffs, smoothing down the stiff collar of his prison uniform even though it didn’t matter. It was a pointless gesture, but I needed the contact. I needed something to do. Something to get my mind off this awful feeling of leaving him.

My fingers trembled, clumsy and obvious, and I hated that I couldn’t stop it. That I couldn’t hold it together for him, even now.

He watched me the entire time. Quiet. Still. His hands stayed at his sides, balled gently into fists like he was physically holding himself back from touching me. His jaw was tight, lips parted slightly like there was something he wanted to say—but couldn’t.

Then he stood.

And I stood.

And something in the room shifted. Broke.

I stepped into him without thinking—without breathing—and he caught me like he’d been waiting for it. My arms wrapped around his torso, and his came around me just as fast, one hand splayed across the back of my head, the other curling around my spine like he was afraid I’d disappear.

I pressed my face into his chest and let myself fall apart. The sob started in my throat and cracked its way out, ugly and trembling and loud. I didn’t try to muffle it. Not anymore. My whole body shook with it, and he just held me tighter, swaying us gently like he could rock us back in time.

“I don’t want you to go,” I choked out, the words barely making it past my grief. “I don’t want to leave you here.”

“I know,” he whispered. His voice sounded scraped raw, like he’d been crying on the inside for weeks. Maybe he had.

He kissed the top of my head, soft and lingering. Then my temple. Then my lips—a kiss with no pressure, no heat. Just ache. Just love. His eyes were wide open the whole time, like he didn’t want to blink. Like he didn’t want to miss me for even a second.

Then the knock came.

Two sharp taps against the door. Not rude, but not kind either. It was the sound of routine. The sound of time’s up.

Spencer stilled. I felt the breath leave his lungs like he’d been punched. His arms didn’t drop right away. He lingered, like his body hadn’t caught up with what had to happen next.

Then, slowly, he stepped back. Not because he wanted to.

Because he had to.

His eyes darted over me like he was taking inventory—my face, my hands, my mouth. He was memorizing again. Storing me somewhere safe.

And then he turned toward the door.

But just before it opened, he paused.

He turned back, and for a moment, we just looked at each other.

I was standing there, my hands on the hem of my shirt, clutching it like it could keep me together. My tears had blurred everything, but not enough to lose him. Never enough to lose him.

His face was unreadable—but not empty. It was full. Of everything he couldn’t say. Of every goodbye he couldn’t bear to speak aloud.

His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for me again.

But he didn’t.

And then the door opened.

He looked at me one last time.

And then he was gone.

[cheolieji]

unspoken pt 2 - choi seungcheol

wc: 4,534

idol au

14th member fic

angst angst angst and angst, did I mention angst?

guide for requesting on my page [17] please check it out before requesting!!

Scarlet's Masterlist

unspoken pt1

A/N: is it bad that I cried while writing this? oopsie lol

A/N2 : sorry this took a bit I dislocated my shoulder a while ago and after that I was too lazy to write hehe

The next morning, he tries again.

You’re in the kitchen, minding your own business, trying to act like you’re not shaking just holding a stupid glass of water. Everyone else is keeping their distance. Probably heard the fight. Probably heard the silence after. But not him. Of course not him.

He stands by the counter, arms crossed, but his face is softer than you’ve seen in days.

“Hey,” he says, like you’re not avoiding him on purpose. “Look, about yesterday…”

You don’t even blink.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Really. I was an idiot. More than usual.”

You turn away. Start rinsing your glass even though it’s already clean.

“I was pissed off. And I took it out on you. I said stuff I didn’t mean. Stuff I knew would hurt. And I’m sorry. That’s not… that’s not who I want to be. Especially not with you.”

He follows when you move to put the glass away. He keeps going.

“I heard what you said to Jeonghan. I shouldn’t have. But I did. And it messed me up. Not because I don’t feel the same but because I do. I do, and it scared the hell out of me.”

You walk past him toward your room. He follows. Again.

“You think I didn’t notice you pulling away first? You think I didn’t see how you stopped looking at me when you thought I wasn’t watching? It killed me. And instead of being honest, I picked a fight. Like a dumbass.”

You reach your door, hand on the knob. He stops right behind you.

“You’re not selfish,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re not. I am. I’ve always been so focused on keeping everything together, I forgot about you. About us. That’s on me. I get it.”

You say nothing. The silence is so loud it drowns him out.

“I know you’re mad. You should be. You should hate me right now. I hate me right now. But I’m not giving up on you.”

He exhales, frustrated, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m not good at this. I’m not good at talking when it actually matters. But I’m trying. For you.”

Still nothing.

“I’m sorry. For every single word. For being a coward. For making you feel like you don’t belong here. You do. You always have.”

You open the door. About to step inside.

“I like you,” he says quickly. “A lot. More than I know how to handle sometimes. And I don’t want to lose you like this. Not like this.”

Your hand tightens on the handle.

“I’ll say it as many times as it takes,” he says. “I’ll say it until you believe me. Until you let me fix this. Please.”

But you step inside anyway. Quiet. Done.

He doesn’t follow this time.

But his voice comes soft through the door.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He keeps trying.

That same night, your phone lights up.

cheol [22:42]: are you okay?

You ignore it.

cheol [22:58]: i know you’re not

cheol [23:05]: i’m sorry

cheol [23:10]: please talk to me

You mute the notifications.

The next day, he’s already waiting in the kitchen when you get up. He’s sitting there like he didn’t sleep, like maybe he’s been there all night. His eyes go to you the second you step in. You pretend not to see him.

“Morning,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

“Did you sleep at all?” he tries again. “You need to eat.”

You walk past him like he’s air.

When you leave, you hear him sigh. Not annoyed. Just tired. Just sad.

Later that day, another message.

cheol [15:26]: you left your jacket in the practice room

cheol [15:27]: i’ll bring it to your door

cheol [15:28]: i won’t bother you. just thought you’d want it back

You open the door five minutes later. The jacket is folded neatly on the floor. He’s nowhere in sight.

That night, you hear a knock.

“Hey,” his voice comes through, soft. “I’m not here to force you to talk. Just… I was thinking. About how much I miss hearing you laugh. How much I miss you sitting next to me even when we’re not saying anything.”

You close your eyes, leaning back against the door. His words feel like they sink straight through you.

“I hate that I made you feel like this,” he says. “I hate that I’m the reason you’re shutting me out. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

You hear him sit down. Right there, on the other side of the door.

“I’ll sit here as long as it takes,” he mumbles. “I’m stubborn. You know that.”

He stays for a while. Talking quietly. Just him and the wall between you.

When you finally open the door, long after he’s gone, there’s a little post-it stuck to it.

I’ll be here tomorrow too.

The days keep passing like that.

He texts you every morning.

cheol [08:12]: hope today feels a little less heavy

cheol [08:13]: even if you don’t wanna talk to me yet

cheol [08:14]: i’ll wait

You keep ignoring him. But he keeps showing up.

In the practice room, he’s careful. Never raises his voice. Never gets too close. But his eyes find you. Every time. Always that same look. Full of regret. Full of something he can’t say out loud anymore.

When you stay late to practice alone, you hear the door open. You don’t look, but you know it’s him.

“I’m not here to get in your way,” he says. “Just making sure you get home safe.”

You leave without a word. When you check your phone later, there’s a message.

cheol [23:02]: text me when you’re back safe?

cheol [23:20]: or don’t. just. please be careful.

You don’t reply.

But you know he waited for you to come back. You saw his shoes by the door. Still there. Still waiting.

The worst part is he never gets angry. Not anymore. Not when you ignore him. Not when you leave rooms just because he walked in. He takes all of it. Quiet. Patient. Like he thinks this is what he deserves.

And maybe it is.

But it still hurts to see him like that.

It hurts more to admit you want to forgive him. That a part of you misses him so much it physically aches. But you can’t forget what he said. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You go to bed thinking about the way he said your name. Like it broke him to even say it.

The next morning, another text.

cheol [07:58]: it’s okay if you hate me right now

cheol [07:59]: i’m still not going anywhere

--

It happens after practice.

You’re already exhausted. The weight of pretending is suffocating. And then there he is again. Waiting outside the room like always. Watching you. Following you. Keeping his distance but never really leaving.

You snap.

“What do you want from me?” you spit, whirling around to face him. Your voice is sharp. Loud. It startles him.

He freezes. “I… I just wanted to—”

“To what, Seungcheol? Apologise again? Say sorry for the hundredth time? You already said it. Over and over. What do you want me to do with that?”

He takes a step closer. You take one back.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly.

“Yeah? You’re trying? You should have tried before you said all that shit to me. You should have thought about how it would feel to be treated like I was nothing to you.”

His face twists. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. You don’t let him speak.

“You made me feel like garbage, Seungcheol. Like I wasn’t even part of this team. Like I was a burden. Like I was disposable. And now you’re standing here acting like sorry is going to erase that?”

Your voice cracks. You hate that it does. You hate that he sees it.

“I know I messed up,” he says, desperate. “I know. You don’t have to remind me. I’ve been thinking about it every second since.”

“You should feel bad!” you shout. “Because I can’t stop hearing your voice in my head, repeating every awful thing you said. And it hurts. It hurts so much and you’re the one who put that there.”

Tears spill over. You wipe them away harshly, frustrated with yourself, frustrated with him, with everything.

“I hate you for this,” you choke out. “I hate you for knowing exactly how to break me. And still doing it anyway.”

His face falls. Completely. He looks wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you like this. I was angry and I was scared and I handled it the worst way possible.”

“You think that changes anything?” you snap. “You think that fixes it?”

“I know it doesn’t,” he says. “But I’m still going to keep apologising. Because you deserve that. Because I was wrong.”

He steps closer.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice gets softer with every word. “I’m sorry for the fight. I’m sorry for not saying how I felt sooner. I’m sorry for being a coward. I’m sorry for every single time I made you doubt yourself.”

You shake your head, but he keeps going.

“I’m sorry for not protecting you. For not choosing you when it mattered. For saying things I didn’t mean. For not stopping when I should have. For hurting you when all I ever wanted was to be close to you.”

Your chest feels tight. Your hands are clenched so hard they hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He reaches for you like you’re made of glass.

“I’m so sorry. Please. Please let me fix this. Please let me try.”

Your breath comes out in a sob.

“I don’t know how to forgive you,” you admit, broken.

“That’s okay,” he says right away. “That’s okay. Take your time. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it again.

“I’m sorry.”

He repeats it until his voice goes hoarse.

And for the first time, you don’t walk away.

[yvaineseleneposts]

Can you do nico x reader where they are dating for a while and she's a volunteer on a hospital and one day a lil baby girl goes to adoption and the reader ands up bounded sm with her that they adopt her?

(English it's not my first language)

Little Shifts of Fate

A/N: I thought this was a lovely request and I hope it meets your expectations!

Requested: yes by @choppedbluebirdprincess

Pairing: Nico Hischier x reader

Words: 1.5k

Warning(s): none (I think)

The children’s hospital was quiet that afternoon, a rarity in your experience. Usually, the halls buzzed with activity—nurses moving quickly, monitors beeping, tiny voices echoing from the playroom. But today felt... still.

You liked these moments. They gave you space to breathe, to reflect, and most importantly, to visit Ellie without interruption.

She was in the corner of the infant ward, nestled in a bassinet with a soft yellow blanket tucked around her. Her wide brown eyes met yours as soon as you approached, and a gummy smile spread across her face.

“Hi, Button,” you whispered, brushing her soft hair back. The nickname had stuck—she’d just looked like a perfect little button from day one. “You miss me?”

She cooed in response, grabbing your finger with surprising strength. You laughed gently, letting her wrap her tiny hand around yours.

You weren’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the first time she fell asleep on your chest, or the day she giggled while you fed her a bottle. All you knew was that you had bonded with her in a way you couldn’t explain.

That evening, you came home to find Nico sprawled on the couch, fresh from practice, a protein shake forgotten on the coffee table. His face lit up when he saw you.

“Hey,” he said, sitting up to make space. “You okay?”

You smiled and dropped beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“About her?”

You didn’t need to answer. He already knew.

Nico had met Ellie once—just a quick visit when he brought you lunch during a long shift. She’d taken to him instantly, smiling like she knew him. He’d held her gently, a little awkward at first, then with a confidence that surprised even him.

“She’s still there?” he asked.

You nodded. “Her birth mom left a few weeks after she was born. No one's claimed her. They're starting the process to put her up for adoption.”

Nico went quiet. Then, softly, “Have you thought about... what that would mean?”

You turned to face him. “All the time.”

Another pause.

“Would you do it?” he asked. “Adopt her?”

“I want to,” you said, heart thudding. “But only if it’s something we both want. This wouldn’t just be my decision.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve watched you with her. You light up when you talk about her. I can already see how much you love her. And... I think I’m starting to feel it too.”

You blinked at him, overwhelmed.

“You mean it?” you whispered.

Nico turned to you with the softest smile. “Let’s become a family.”

The conference room at the family services office smelled faintly of stale coffee and photocopier toner. You sat beside Nico, your hand laced tightly in his under the table as a social worker named Marianne flipped through a thick folder labelled with Ellie’s temporary case number.

“You’ve both read the placement guidelines?” she asked, glancing between the two of you.

“Yes,” you said quickly, while Nico nodded beside you. He was in his calm, focused mode—the same one he used before big games. But you could feel his thumb rubbing circles on your knuckles. He was nervous too.

Marianne leaned forward. “This isn’t an easy process. You know that. Background checks, home inspections, references. And because she’s still technically in state custody, there’s a chance another family could petition before everything is finalized.”

You swallowed hard. “We understand.”

“But,” she continued, her expression softening, “Ellie’s already formed a strong attachment to you, and the staff reports have been overwhelmingly positive. If you're serious, and you're both willing to commit, we’ll begin the paperwork today.”

You looked at Nico, and his eyes met yours.

“We’re serious,” he said firmly. “She's already part of our life.”

The pen in your hand trembled slightly as you signed the first set of documents. It felt like the beginning of something sacred. Nico leaned in and kissed the side of your head.

“One step closer,” he whispered.

The next few weeks were a blur of logistics—clearing space in your flat, converting the guest room into a nursery, finding a family attorney, scheduling interviews. Nico juggled it all between games and practices, never once complaining.

One evening, you came home from a shift to find him building a crib in the middle of the living room, sleeves rolled up, and a measuring tape stuck behind his ear.

“Should I be worried this looks like IKEA trauma?” you joked, setting your bag down.

Nico grinned. “I’ve fought playoff defencemen. I can handle wooden pegs.”

You laughed, walking over and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. He leaned into your touch instinctively.

“I love you,” you murmured. “For doing this. For being all in.”

He turned, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “I don’t want half a life with you. I want everything—including Ellie.”

The day of the home inspection, you were a bundle of nerves, smoothing down non-existent wrinkles in the freshly vacuumed rug. Nico, cool as ever, passed the baby monitor back and forth like a puck in warm-ups.

The caseworker arrived right on time. She walked through the home, checked the outlets, peeked into the fridge, and asked dozens of questions—from how you’d discipline to how you’d balance parenting with Nico’s hockey schedule.

When she finally smiled and said, “I think she’ll be very happy here,” you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

A week later, Marianne called with the news:

“Parental rights were officially terminated. Ellie is eligible for adoption. And we’re moving forward—with you two.”

You sat on the floor of the nursery, phone pressed to your chest, tears slipping down your cheeks as Nico scooped you into his arms.

“We’re really doing it,” you whispered.

“We’re going to be her parents,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

And in that quiet room, surrounded by stuffed animals, pastel walls, and soft light, everything finally felt complete.

You didn’t sleep the night before.

You tried—God, you tried—but every time your eyes shut, your brain flooded with checklists and emotions: bottles, blankets, the tiny outfit folded on the dresser, the realization that in a few hours, Ellie would be yours forever.

Nico didn’t sleep much either. At 2 a.m., you found him sitting in the nursery, the soft hum of the white noise machine barely audible under the weight of your shared anticipation. He was rocking slowly in the chair, one of Ellie’s stuffed bunnies in his lap.

“She’s going to love this place,” he murmured when he noticed you, voice rough from exhaustion. “It already feels like hers.”

You nodded, curling into the other chair. “I think I’m just scared it’s too good to be true.”

“It’s not,” he said simply. “This is real.”

The drive to the hospital that morning felt surreal. You’d walked through those double doors hundreds of times, but never like this—never as Ellie’s mum. A diaper bag hung from your shoulder, and Nico carried the car seat, his grip steady even as his eyes betrayed the storm of emotion building behind them.

Marianne met you in the infant ward with a warm smile. “She’s all ready for you,” she said, leading you through one final round of forms and instructions.

Then she opened the door.

There Ellie was, in a tiny fleece jacket with ears on the hood, her little legs kicking happily in her bassinet.

“She’s been waiting for you,” Marianne said softly.

You scooped her into your arms, and all the paperwork, all the home inspections, all the nerves—everything—melted away.

Ellie gurgled and reached for your necklace, her chubby fingers curling around it instinctively. Nico stepped beside you, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, then one on yours.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “You ready to come home?”

The ride home was quiet. Ellie fell asleep halfway through, one hand gripping her pacifier, the other resting gently on the edge of her blanket.

You couldn’t stop looking back at her in the mirror.

“She looks so peaceful,” you said.

“She’s already used to us,” Nico replied. “Like she knew it was supposed to be this way.”

When you carried her across the threshold of your flat—her home now—it felt like stepping into the first chapter of a new life.

You placed her gently into her crib, and Nico stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“She’s ours,” you whispered, almost not believing it.

“She’s ours,” he repeated, firmer this time. “And we’ve got her forever.”

You turned to face him, tears threatening. “You ready to be a dad, Hischier?”

He grinned, that same grin that made you fall for him in the first place. “Only if I get to do it with you.”

And just like that, the little girl who once had no name, no parents, no place to call home, became the heart of a family that had been waiting for her all along.

[marauroon]

hiii i saw that u were asking for reqs and i loved reading ur best frenemies fic with remus, i was wondering if you would be open to writing about that dynamic more. like maybe they're in the same friend group so they're in close proximity but they can't stand one each other and maybe the reader got stood up or something and remus is there or really whatever you want. Anyways thank you for your work, i really enjoy it

── .⏾ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐫.𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧)

you didn’t even really invite him, but the fact he didn’t show up still put a damper on your mood. remus thinks it’s killing the whole room’s vibe.

remus lupin x frenemy!reader | 1.2k | h/c? | masterlist.

a/n | went back to the og og ship for this one, shout out to blackinnon

There’s something aggravating about someone who’s simultaneously the smartest in the room and also the most infuriating. Sure, maybe he’s handsome in a very I-read-sad-poetry-by-lantern-light way, but that only really makes it worse.

And, unfortunately, thanks to Marlene’s thing with Sirius (on again, off again, like the world’s most emotionally exhausting lumos charm), you are now in proximity to said infuriating boy far more often than you’d like to be.

It’s become a balancing act, really—sitting at the Three Broomsticks with your best friends on one side and the Marauders on the other, trying not to glare directly at Remus every time he says something clever. You think you’ve managed rather well. Mostly. Until now.

Because today, of all days, your maybe-date didn’t show.

You’re not even sure you’d call it a date. You’ve been talking with Michael Rossiter in Herbology for a couple of weeks, mostly about plants but sometimes—when he was feeling cheeky—about music or Quidditch or the way you looked when you were annoyed with your mandrake.

He wasn’t brilliant, but he had nice eyes and a decent laugh and said, when you told him you were going to Hogsmeade with your friends, “Maybe I’ll see you there then.”

You'd smiled. Told yourself not to get too giddy. And yet, here you are. Giddy, then deflated.

The booth you’re all crammed into is loud—Marlene is practically on Sirius’s lap, Mary and Dorcas are exchanging knowing looks, and James is loudly arguing with Peter over the latest Wimbourne Wasps game. And Remus—Remus is directly opposite you, because of course he is, because of course Sirius just had to say, “Oi, Moony, let the ladies have the bench side, be a gentleman,” and Remus just smirked and obliged, sliding in across you like he belonged there.

You’ve been waiting. Watching the door. Laughing too loudly at Mary’s jokes. Pretending to sip butterbeer just to keep your hands busy. And when Michael doesn’t show—when it becomes obvious he’s not going to—you shrink a bit. Quiet. Withdrawn.

And Remus notices.

Of course he does.

"You know, for someone who supposedly convinced a boy to change his Hogsmeade plans just for her,” he drawls, not even looking up from his drink, “you’re doing a marvellous impression of someone who’s just been stood up.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him. You just keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the steam fog up the panes.

Remus pauses.

Usually, this is the part where you snap something back—about his sad little jumpers or the way he chews the ends of quills like a stressed-out academic or how he’s basically a walking dissertation on how not to relax. But you don’t. You sit still, hands clenched in your lap.

The silence between you grows taut.

Remus frowns. He nudges you with his foot under the table—annoying. Like a brother, if your brother was your intellectual rival and also kind of handsome in a way you wish you didn’t notice.

“Oi,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, still not looking at him. “You wouldn’t get it. And I don’t want you to.”

That gives him pause. He turns toward you fully now, leaning on one elbow. “Alright, that’s a bit harsh.”

You shrug.

Then he sighs, long-suffering and dramatic. “Who was it? The boy. No, don’t tell me— Rossiter?”

You glance at him, surprised. “How did you—?”

“Everyone saw you flirting over flobberworms in class last week,” he says, deadpan. “He told Sirius he was thinking about asking you out. Got all red-faced about it, too. It was tragic.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Merlin.”

“He’s a right sod, you know.”

You lift your head just enough to glare. “That your professional opinion?”

Remus shrugs, grinning slightly. “My personal one. But it’s backed by a great deal of observational research.”

You huff. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know him better than you do,” Remus says, slumping back into the booth. “Do you know his mum still buys his underwear?”

You blink.

“I’m serious. Thomas the Tank Engine ones. We saw them last year when someone hit him with a jelly-legs jinx and his trousers fell down on the Quidditch pitch. Looked ridiculous.”

You can’t help it—you snort. It’s brief, but it’s real.

Remus perks up like a cat that’s just caught movement under a curtain. “And I once caught him picking his nose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re making this up.”

“I wish,” he says, grimacing. “We were in the library and he was just mining. Like he thought no one could see him. It was vile.”

You giggle. You actually giggle.

Remus looks triumphant. “And they say I’m the wild animal.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re awful.”

“Only to those who deserve it.” He pauses, then adds, more gently, “You really thought he was coming?”

You nod, shoulders drooping. “I mean… he said maybe. He was sort of flirty about it. I thought—” You cut yourself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

Remus doesn’t say anything at first. He leans his head back against the booth, watching you. “I hate that you’re sad,” he says eventually. “You’re annoying when you’re sad. It’s harder to make fun of you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile’s still there. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm again. “Still sucks, though.”

The warmth in your chest surprises you. You look at him again, properly this time, and there’s a softness in his eyes that doesn’t match the usual sardonic glint.

It’s disarming.

You blink, glance away. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grins. “Don’t get all emotional on me. I might have to start being nice to you regularly and that’s not good for my image.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” you say dryly.

“Unimaginable.”

Sirius leans over suddenly, draping an arm across Remus’s shoulders and nearly spilling his drink. “Oi, Moony, you pulling or pining?”

Remus doesn’t even flinch. “Trying to comfort someone after being disappointed by the tragic shallowness of her romantic prospects, actually. Something you’d know nothing about.”

Sirius pouts. “Rude.”

Marlene snorts. “Let her be. She got stood up, she’s rightfully upset,”

Sirius frowns. “Who stands you up?”

You wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

But Remus answers anyway. “Michael Rossiter.”

Sirius sits back like he’s been slapped. “Rossiter? No. That absolute knob?”

“You see?” Remus says, gesturing. “It’s not just me.”

“Bloody hell,” Sirius mutters. “Should’ve hexed him when I had the chance.”

“You did hex him,” Remus points out.

“Not enough, apparently.”

[iluvbuckets]

❤︎ paige bueckers x fem!reader ❤︎

summary: you and paige are best friends. one night you come over to hang out, expecting paige to either be on her ipad or sat in front of her tv on the playstation. instead, you find her hiding in the bathroom, overthinking about hateful comments. you try to reassure her–if sticking a hand down her pants counts as reassurance.

warnings: fluffy smut, standing in front of a mirror, praise, dirty talk, whimpering, the tiniest amount of begging, a little teasing, maybe even a little possession, bottom!paige (not sorry about it), mutual pining, lowkey clothed sex, paige is a little whiny, there's not really a height difference

word count: 3.1k

notes: i haven't written on tumblr since 2018 so please be gentle ❤️‍🩹 i've had this draft for a while for a longer story and i was gonna add more but this ending felt right

✷✷✷

going to paige’s apartment after a long day was an everyday routine at this point. it seemed like neither of you could go a day without seeing each other. the very few times you didn’t see each other, she was out of town for an away game or an event, but that usually resulted in a facetime call anyway. paige’s team joked that you were attached at the hip and you would be lucky if you saw one without the other, but you didn’t mind the jokes. you stayed at paige’s so often you should probably contribute to the rent and you attended anything that paige could snag you an invitation too including team dinners. 

as usual, you walked down through the living room and hallway to paige’s room, giving jana and allie quick hellos on the way. they were sitting on the couch doing homework, completely unfazed by the way you had just walked into their apartment without knocking, and gave you a hey in return.

when you pushed open the door, you had expected paige to be laying in her bed with her eyes trained on her ipad watching a game, or maybe even with a playstation controller in her hand, but she was nowhere to be found. her bed was slightly messy like she had been laying in it, but it was empty along with her desk chair. the only hint to where she was being the half-open bathroom door that allowed the light to shine into the room. 

you hesitantly walked to the ajar door, expecting her to be on the toilet or in the shower. even though you had sat in the bathroom while she showered many times, being around her like that had been feeling different lately. your gaze lingered on her body a bit too long when she wore a tight shirt. your mouth went dry when the skin of her stomach was exposed when she reached above her head. you had always known paige was very attractive, but she was gaining muscle and holding herself with a different type of confidence lately. it was making you question if what you felt for paige was really just platonic.

paige wasn’t in the shower or on the toilet, though. she was leaning against the counter, phone in one hand, gaze fixed on whatever she was reading. as you approached, you noticed that she was chewing on the thumbnail of the unoccupied hand anxiously. her hair was down and slightly damp, dressed in one of your old high school shirts and a pair of aeropostale sweats that she’s probably had for years.

“paige?” you called softly, leaning against the doorframe.

she whipped her head over to you like she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t have been, immediately locking her phone and setting it on the counter behind her. she sniffled, looking away to hide that she had clearly been crying or was about to cry.

“hey,” she greeted you sheepishly, still not meeting your gaze. 

“what were you looking at?” you asked. 

“nothing.” she chewed on her bottom lip, clearly trying to distract herself so she wouldn’t get emotional again. 

you moved forward so you were standing in front of her, closing the door behind you and crossing your arms. “it obviously wasn’t nothing,” you replied in a soft, yet stern, tone. “tell me.”

you had only seen paige like this a handful of times. she was usually put-together, smooth, and confident about everything, even with some things you wish she would drop her guard down for. she tried not to let anything get to her, but today seemed to be an exception. 

“okay,” she nodded, still staring at her feet on the ground. you knew something was really bothering her if she was struggling to make eye contact–that has always been something she was great at. “i was reading some comments,” she hesitated, “mean comments. about me.”

“why–” you sighed, slightly disappointed that she was letting some miserable people on the internet get under her skin like that. people who were probably only saying those things because they could never compare to someone as charming, funny, kind, and gorgeous as paige bueckers.

“i didn’t mean to, i swear. i just–” she paused, taking a deep breath. “they’re just saying stuff about how i look like a man and i’m not very feminine or whatever. i don’t know. i usually don’t care, but–” she cut herself off as you stepped forward, cupping her face in your hands, forcing her to look at you. 

her eyes were glassy, but luckily, you didn’t see any tear streaks on her cheeks. you caressed her cheeks with your thumbs comfortingly, nonetheless, knowing that she needed the comfort. she leaned into your touch like it grounded her.

“paige,” you started, contemplating if you should say the words that were urging their way to the front of your brain. ultimately, you decided to. “you are the prettiest girl i have ever seen.”

you could feel the heat rise to her cheeks beneath your thumbs as she looked away again.

“no, i’m–”

“paige,” you interrupted her attempt to protest.

paige didn’t reply. her eyes shifted to your lips for just a second before they met your eyes again, but you did your best to ignore it. it was probably an accident–a mistake caused by the proximity. which brought how close you had gotten to your attention. you tried to disguise the way your breath caught in your throat, hoping she didn’t notice. if she did, she didn’t make it obvious.

“you’re just saying that because you have to be nice to me,” she mumbled.

“i don’t have to do anything.” you moved your hands to brush her hair behind her shoulders and tuck it behind her ears, then allowed them to rest on her upper arms. “i’m saying it because i mean it. seriously, i’m not sure there’s anyone more beautiful than you.”

“besides yourself?” she asked boldly, slightly tilting her head with an intense stare into your eyes to gauge your reaction. 

you managed to keep yourself pretty steady, though. it wasn’t abnormal for you two to compliment each other anyway, about anything and everything. you were always the first person to tell paige if she looked good and vice versa, but this time it felt different. with your evolving emotions and the way she had glanced at your lips a few moments ago–it felt far more loaded than it had ever been before. 

“p, i don’t want these comments to get to your head,” you replied, ignoring her. she probably wanted you to address it to take the intense attention off herself, but you refused. “they will never understand that you are feminine because they have a false sense of what being a woman really is. you’re confident in what you say, strong on and off the court, and you’re not afraid to be vulnerable with your emotions. they don’t like a successful woman, especially one more successful than them.”

“yeah, but–” 

“but nothing. don’t argue with me about this,” you said sternly.

she parted her lips like she wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how to reply without it sounding like she was arguing. your gaze was soft as you looked at her, wishing she could see herself through your eyes. this was new for you, though. paige had never really expressed insecurity in herself whether it was her basketball, her looks, her energy–she was always confident and maybe even sometimes a little cocky. she held herself like she was the best person in the room at all times, yet was still so humble when you spoke to her. she was a clip farmer, too, knowing that she was attractive and milking it to get edits from her fans (which you definitely didn’t have a folder of).

“i never look at stuff like that,” she shook her head like she was ridiculous. maybe she was, she knew better than to indulge in those kinds of comments. no matter what she did, she couldn’t please everyone and someone would have something to say.

suddenly, you place your hands on her waist and turn her so that she was facing the mirror. there wasn’t much of a height difference, so you were able to hold eye contact with her over her shoulder. she kept her eyes trained on you, trying to figure out what you were doing.

“look at you, paige. they’re just jealous they can’t have you,” you say playfully with a small smile then quickly add, “anyone would be lucky to have a girl like you.”

“anyone?” paige asks with a raised eyebrow. she is obviously baiting, and you debate whether or not you should give her the answer she’s searching for. you’re usually one to beat around the bush and make people say what they want, for sure.

“anyone.” 

your eyes stared into hers, hoping she could feel the intent behind your words. she swallowed like she was nervous, or maybe like she was trying to read the situation, you couldn’t really tell. you had never really seen paige nervous, and definitely not because of you. you hate to admit it, but the more nervous she seemed, the more your confidence grew. it definitely helped that someone so sure of themselves lost the confident exterior because of your doing.

her eyes flickered to her own reflection, lips parting in hesitation like she was working up the courage, then darted back to you, “even you?”

you slid your hands from her waist to her hips, using them as leverage to pull your bodies together. this caused a quiet gasp to leave her lips as your front pressed against your back. you hooked your chin on her shoulder like you were just trying to give her a hug, like you always do. your hands moved under paige’s shirt, tracing over the bare skin of her abs with your fingertips.

your thoughts were running wild, thinking about how easy it would be to dip your hands into her pants and feel her–to touch her like all the times you had imagined when you were alone in your bed late at night. wetness pooled in your underwear as your hands became dangerously close to the waistband of her pants, then close to the bottom of her tits. you continued tracing her skin like it was an innocent mistake, still not answering her question.

paige’s pulse was racing so fast you could feel it, her skin warm beneath your fingertips. you didn’t even realize you had shifted your gaze to watch your hands until you looked back her face to see her staring at you with an intensity you had never seen. it was expectant, maybe even a little lustful, but you couldn’t tell. she had never looked at you like that before.

you smiled, loving the control you had over her right now. you moved your head so your lips were pressed against the shell of her ear, pressing the tips of your fingers under the waistband of her sweatpants. “especially me,” you whispered. 

it was so soft paige wasn’t even sure if she actually heard that or if she was imagining it, and the placement of your hands wasn’t helping. her head was swirling with a combination of her feelings that she had been suppressing for you and a need for you to touch her–to make her feel good, to prove something. the contrast of your cold fingers against her warm skin didn’t help either. she knew that your statement could mean nothing, it could be friendly, but the way your hands were on her told a different story.

she swallowed nervously again, feeling like she was dreaming in this moment. this was a complete shift from this morning when you two were eating breakfast in the kitchen at the gym with paige’s teammates. technically, you weren’t supposed to be there as a non-athlete, but no one ever said anything to you as long as you were with paige. she had been stealing glances at you with a fond smile that morning while you joked around with the team, not really having conversations with paige. 

which was fine because it gave her the opportunity to admire you. 

the way you spoke. the way you laughed and the way your eyes crinkled as you snorted. the way you were able to keep banter going so smoothly. the way you were able to insert yourself into her life so easily like you had always known each other–like you were the piece of her that she had been missing until the day you met. she would never get over how damn easy it is to love you.

without even thinking about the repercussions, she blurted out, “you already have me.” 

butterflies erupt in your stomach at her words, and a smirk rose to your lips. you take it as a green light to press a kiss to the shell of her ear, then behind it, then trail down her neck. your hand moves up under her shirt to move the collar to the side so you can kiss her shoulder, and paige whines when your palm lightly grazes her nipple. you kiss down to her shoulder with light, closed-mouth kisses, but they quickly turn into slow, open-mouthed ones as you go back up to her neck. she breathes out of her nose at the feeling, craning her neck to the side to give you a better angle. 

“yeah?” you say, but it comes out as more of a moan unintentionally. you let go of her shirt collar, slowly moving your hand back down her body. your fingers slowly trace back and forth under her sweatpants, over the waistband of her underwear. her abdomen flexes at the contact. you ached to dip your hand, but as much as you wanted that, you wanted to tease her more because paige wasn’t a very patient person.

“yes,” she breathes out. “all yours.” 

you bite back a moan. she wasn’t even touching you, but you always had a thing for possession. this was the girl that you had been silently pining over, waiting to hear her say those words for so long. and finally hearing her say them felt like christmas day as a kid when you got the gift you had been begging for all year, the one your parents had been saying they weren’t sure if you were going to get it.

without hesitating, you move one of your hands down lower, carefully tracing her over her underwear. you could feel her warmth–the way her clit pulsed and the wet spot growing near her entrance. paige moaned quietly, her eyes closing and head falling to the side to rest against yours at the feeling. after that, you didn’t waste any time pushing her underwear to the side and circling two fingers on her clit. she gasped, hips bucking into your hand without permission–like she had been waiting for this for forever. 

“you like when i touch you like this?” you asked, allowing your fingers to increase their speed. she only moaned in response. “paige,” you say her name, trying to get her to respond. again, she doesn’t verbally respond, but she does nod her head. “tell me.”

“yes,” she moans. “been waiting so long.”

as a reward for finally answering, you dip your fingers further and waste no time before pushing them inside her. she was soaking, so it wasn’t difficult at all. you pumped them out shallowly a few times before shoving them deep, curling your fingers. her head fell forward, so you quickly removed your unoccupied hand from her sweats. you grasped at the hair on the back of her head, pulling back to force her to look forward. she opens her eyes in surprise, clearly not expecting that, your fingers working relentlessly inside her to bring her to the edge.

“look at how pretty you are getting fucked by my fingers,” you start, pressing your lips to her ear again and used your thumb to circle her clit. “my pretty girl.” 

she whimpered. you couldn’t help the way your hips bucked up into her at the unexpected sound. her hands scramble for purchase, one grabbing your arm and the other flying up to grab a fistful of your hair on the back of your head. 

“just for you. all for you, no one else,” she replied mindlessly.

“all mine,” you agreed. 

with all the years you had known paige, you would have never guessed this was the way it would be playing out. you figured with the way she normally carries herself, she would be a cocky dominant top. yet here she is, putty in your arms, taking your fingers and whining, moaning, whimpering. it made you want more and had your mind swirling with all kinds of things you could do to her. the things you could make her say, make her do.

“feels s’good,” she moaned, her thighs clenching as she felt the release building in her stomach. she was almost embarrassed at how fast it was approaching, but the overwhelming sensation of your fingers inside her and your thumb circling your clit was almost too much. maybe it was the feeling or maybe it was the person making her feel like this, or both. she even doesn’t know the last time she was touched like this, or if she ever really was. not only that, but how easily she was able to fall into submission. she had never been in this role before, but she had also never been so turned on in her life. “just like that, fuck, don’t stop!”

you had the urge to pull away, to deny her, make her beg for it, but the way her mouth dropped open, her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and her hips bucked forward made you think twice. you kept going as she wished, watching her in the mirror as she cried out and came undone on your fingers. you slowed your pace and untangled the hand that was in her hair, but kept moving to work her through it. 

“that’s it, you’re so good for me, baby. look so good while you come for me like that,” you spoke softly into her ear, talking her through her orgasm. 

you placed a soft kiss to her cheek as you pulled your fingers out, causing her to wince from the sudden emptiness. she immediately turned to face you, an unreadable expression on her face that made a sudden nervousness wash over you.

“paige–” you begin to say, but she cuts you off by grabbing the collar of your shirt and pulling you in for a kiss. you make a strangled noise of surprise, but quickly recover and place your hands on either side of her face. she drops her grip on your shirt so she can grab your hips, gripping them like you might float away.

“that was crazy,” she mumbled against your lips. you couldn’t help but laugh.

[moon-fics]

Some Nights

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: During the day, the tower is filled with laughter and banter. It's a warm feeling. Until night comes and the silence is too much.

Warnings: none

A/N: This came to me during a class lecture. I physically cannot make myself write angst for him. I've tried and I just can't.

There's never a quiet moment during the day. Everyone has gotten close enough to talk regularly. There are conversations started on complete nonsense, and then there are ones about past traumas. Over time, it became natural to hear laughter or yelling every once in a while.

There'd be banging of pots and pans while Walker tried cooking. Alexei would be trying to start a dance party while everyone rolled their eyes. There were too many examples, and yet you treasured them all. It was a family you never thought you could have.

It's almost perfect. Until the night comes crawling, and suddenly the tower is dead silent. Everyone is asleep way before you. It's impossible to sleep when you're now being watched by media outlets and citizens. It's nerve-wracking to not know whether they'll accept you as Earth's heroes.

Sometimes it's unbearable to be left alone with your thoughts. However, you eventually find a solution.

-

One night, you're sneaking out of your room for some food. It's nearly 4am, and you know you should be sleeping. You convince yourself that one snack will be enough and then you can go back to bed.

You slowly open your door, and you almost expect a comically loud creak. Instead, you're met with Bob standing outside the door. His hands are playing with the hem of his shirt, and he looks like he's about to say something.

"I wasn't trying to be weird. I just saw the light under your door," He says while nodding. He has that goofy, closed smile on his lips as if that explains everything. The way your heart skips a beat is almost enough of an answer. "I was trying to gather the courage to knock."

"So, you just stood outside my door in hopes I wouldn't open it?" You ask. You raise an eyebrow at him and wonder how long he's been standing here. You didn't even hear him approach your door.

"Well, no," He starts, but cuts himself off. "Yeah. Yeah, I was just standing here." He admits with a nervous chuckle.

"Do you need something, or were you just paying a late-night visit?" You ask in hopes he'll give a better explanation. Bob isn't the best at giving details or talking about how he's feeling. It's why you often have to ask multiple questions to form a full story.

"Oh, right! I was going to ask if you wanted to hang out!" He perks up.

"It's like 4 in the morning, Bob." You say with confusion. Why was he asking to hang out this late? There's nothing they could do besides sit in her room. "You should be in bed."

You don't mean to sound harsh. You'd honestly love to spend time with him, but it's at an ungodly hour. You aren't sure if pulling an all-nighter is smart. However, you see the way his eyes soften and the corner of his lips dip down for just a second. Your snack will have to wait because he's in no state to be alone.

"Get in here," You sigh. You grab his arm and practically drag him into your room. There's not much to look at, but he still examines it as if there is. "I found an old projector that we can watch a movie on."

You were planning on watching romcoms on it, but maybe it'll have a better use with him. You carefully aim the lens at your ceiling in the center of your bed. It gives a large projection of whatever it's hooked up to. Luckily for you, you know how to get free movies and shows on your laptop.

That's how you two spend the night. Watching movies that he's never seen or comfort movies you enjoy. It becomes a regular thing, and after a few nights, you two end up falling asleep tangled in each other. It was an accident at first. You woke up with his arms around you and didn't have the heart or willpower to pull away. Eventually, you two just accepted that it was inevitable.

You have to admit, you enjoyed feeling his breathing and hearing his body. His skin was soft and lacked the scars most of the others had. It was refreshing to hold someone and understand them completely.

-

It's the second time you've chosen to watch your favorite movie. It brings a deep comfort inside you that you cannot explain. Watching it next to Bob is even better.

You're both lying on your backs while staring at the projected movie on the ceiling. There's a calm silence between you two that creates a tension that you cannot deny. Every once in a while, you'll glance over at him. His eyes are lit up by the movie, and it makes your heart swell.

At some point, he catches you staring and immediately assumes something is on his face. After clarifying that there isn't he asks why you're staring.

"I don't know. You just look happy," You explain. It's the truth, he's been looking happier. Ever since you've invited him to stay the night and relax with you, he's been brighter. The nights are no longer as hard. "I like seeing you like that."

"You make me happy." He blurts out. It's sudden, and his eyes widen. He sits up and turns from you as if he's just spilled a dirty secret. You're frozen in place, wondering what that truly meant.

"Hey, don't shy away from me." You sit up and turn to him. You can't help but let out a laugh at how he's practically shunned himself. You place your hand on his shoulder and pull him towards you. "Come on." You coo.

When he finally faces you, he's beet red. You have another round of laughter before composing yourself. Your eyes land on him, and he's frowning. He looks humiliated, and it crushes you.

"You don't need to laugh. It was stupid of me to say," He mumbles while unable to hold eye contact. His words make your skin crawl at the idea of hurting him. He thinks you're rejecting him or mocking him at least.

"No, no, I'm glad you said it." You grab his chin to force him to look at you. "You make me happy, too." You keep your voice down. It feels more intimate to say in softly than to rush it out.

His eyes brighten once again. There's uncertainty within him because for all he knows, this could mean two different things.

"Yeah, but, uhm, I feel a 'I want to kiss you' happy," He stumbles over his words while trying to explain himself. "N-not like a 'I enjoy your friendship' happy." He speaks quickly as if he's running out of time. Your hand moves from his chin to cup his cheek.

"So, kiss me," You suggest. You try to play it cool, but deep down your heart is pounding. You want more than anything for him to actually kiss you, but when he pulls away an inch, that hope flies away. "Or not. I mean, it's whatever you're comfortable with-"

You're cut off by the harsh crash of his lips against yours. It's sloppy at first, and it feels like kissing for the first time. After a few seconds, it slows down and softens. It becomes natural, and you don't want to pull away. His hands wrap around the top of your neck and reach your jaw. His fingers curl around the base of your hair as he pulls you in closer.

His lips are chapped, but they aren't rough. You can sense his need to be closer, and it's intoxicating.

He's the first to end the kiss to get air. His hands never leave their place.

"Like that?" He asks nervously. His puppy eyes are too much to bear. He's so anxious about doing it right that it only makes the moment more special.

"That was perfect." You assure him. Right after you pull him back into another kiss.

[rebelssvy]

whipped ✧.*

bokuto x reader ⋆·˚ ༘ *

ੈ✩‧₊˚

summary: smut sex bokuto is your roomate and he is whipped by you. like in love.

bokuto has always been at your complete mercy. you two had been roommates for a year now. and bokuto has gone around and told everyone he knows that he is going to marry you one day. even as busy has he is as a rising star volleyball player, he always made time for you.

he always made time for you.

you knew bo had a little crush on you. the way he would make way in crowds with his tall figure, just for you. or when he would rub your back after long days. he did a lot of things that made you swoon. you never really considered dating him though.

well untill today. he had gotten home after his work out and was wearing only these short shorts. his abs, shoulders, back, all on sight for you to see. he had said hello to you and went to his room to shower. you then made both of you dinner. he ate all of it, gave you compliments and then did your dishes after. then he did somthing he never had before. he kissed your head. it was somthing so natural. almost like you were dating.

so here you were, it was very late at night. you just couldn’t sleep. you had been thinking about him doing crazy things to you for an hour now. it’s all really gotten to your head. first you thought about your life with him as your husband. and then him getting you pregnant and then all the things he would do to you. and it’s just now really really messed you up.

you glanced at the clock. it was about midnight. there was no way he was up. he was a semi pro athlete right now.

you were really horny.

despite all your efforts to stay in bed and rub yourself off you just couldn’t. you gathered all your confidence up and took it with you. you were gonna need it.

walking out of your bed room you entered your shared living space. it was really quiet. the lights were so dim you could barely see a thing. you finally made your way to his room. there was a tiny light that gave you hope he was still up. a voice in your head was saying ‘y/n turn around and go back to bed.’

pushing aside all your thoughts you pushed open his door without a knock. too your surprise he was still up. he sat at his desk with his headphones on. he was playing a video game.

“oh hey y/n! is everything ok?” he cheered seeing you. even in your disheveled state he still perked up seeing you.

“why are you up bokuto?” you asked him. casually as if you weren’t about to ask him to fuck you.

“just playing cod with an old friend…” he said turning his attention to the screen. just momentarily before turning it back to you. he gave you a full body glance. his eyes wandered up and down.

he looked so fuckable sitting there too. grey sweats, hair all messed up. no shirt. he turned his attention to the screen for the last time as he said through the mic “hey kuroo i have to get off.” and then he turned off all of his things.

he stood up and made his way over to you. “are you okay? why aren’t you asleep.” he questioned. all of the confidence you gathered earlier disappeared as you laid your eyes on him.

you sat in silence. he was waiting for you to say something. “bo..” you whispered. it was so quiet he had to bend over and ask you to repeat it.

“bokuto..” you started. “i.. i need you to fuck me. i can’t stop thinking about you and i just want you.”

…

…

you swore you heard the crickets outside. you didn’t even have to say anything. you took his silence as a no. you turned around and grabbed the door. you were half way out the room when he spun you around face to face.

“baby i need you to say that again just so i can be sure i hear that right.” his eyes had gone half litted. your words had clearly gotten to him.

“i want you to fuck me bo…”

with those words he grabbed your face and brought it to his. kissing you with a delicate touch. slowly mixing saliva you moaned into his mouth. the delicate touch was thrown out the window as soon as you started making noises. bokuto broke the kiss, picking you up and throwing you onto his bed.

“just tell me what you need and i’ll do it. i’m at your mercy y/n.” he was so hot like this. he had the strength to do anything he wanted to. but he whined for your attention.

even your positioning. he had you sitting at the foot of the bed while he crouched on the rug in front of you. you giggled at bud mannerism.

he peaked his head up at the sound of your laugh. it was one of his favorite sounds.

“bo… just make me feel good.” you watched as his face flushed a deep red. he shook his head and sat next to you on the bed.

almost like he was savoring you he tilted your head to the side, parting a way to your neck. he slowly kissed at it, starting at your ear and moving to your collar bone. he stopped only once to look at your flushed state. before he continued.

“can i?” he asked prodding at your tshirt. you nodded before pulling it off yourself. he gawked at your naked chest. you hadn’t been wearing a bra. you also hadn’t noticed you were holding your breath. nervous of what he was going to think.

“you don’t know how long i’ve dreamt of this..” he said softly, almost like he was taking to himself. the took both your boobs delicately into his hands. playing with them before he licked at him. the sensation of his tounge onto your hard nipples settled the urge in your core for a moment.

you groaned letting your head fall back “mmmbokuto yes..” you whispered.

his head bolted to yours in an instant like he was starved. mushing his lips to yours all of this restraints shattered at the sound of your words.

you gasped into his mouth as he made quick work of you. positioning you flat on your back, his hands still found your breast.

he parted to stare at you. you sat underneath him. he didn’t say a word, moving in silence to your pants. undoing them with a pace that might kill him. slowly he took your pants off to reveal your sopping pussy. you hadn’t had on any underwear.

his cock grew in his pants. he took a sharp breath in. you noticed your effect on him. slowly you opened your legs for him to get a better view. he got lightheaded from the sight.

his eyes shifted to yours. instead of lust he found love. the way you nodded at him was a sign of affection. the moment he had always waited for was here.

he broke the mutual silence. “are you sure this is okay baby? i mean fuck.. can i please touch you?” his head was screaming at him to just take you. but there was no way he wasn’t going to savor this.

“bo i already told you.. i just want you…” you spoke as you moved around, bringing your hand in a seductive manner, you pinched your breast and moved slowly down your torso. finally reaching your wet cunt you spreaded your folds for him to see.-“ i just want you to make me feel good.” you finished your sentence.

bokuto was ravenous. flipping you to hkm he propped your feet onto his chest. he moved his hands in a face pace to your wet cunt. he spread your pussy all for him to see.

at this moment he realized his pants were still on. he got up to take them off. coming back to you he slapped his cock onto your stomach. you mouth dropped.

“kou… your too big.. i don’t know if it’s gonna fit..” your tone was laced with concern. but the pride bokuto got out of that was inhuman.

“y/n.” he said, “i’m really trying to contain myself but you can’t say stuff like that.” he moaned. he moved his cock through your folds. your body jerked at the touch. he watched as you twitched, your eye brows scrunching up while he collected your slick on his cock.

he slowly pushed himself into you. you pulled him into you. your pussy clenching and spasming around him.

he had to stop himself from plowing into you. he leaned forward to bottom out. coming face to face with you he dropped his head to your ear and whispered. “your taking me so well. funny how you new i would fuck you.. i’ve liked you for so long.” you gasped at his words. he was talkative in bed as well..

he slowly started rolling his hips against you but not once did he move. every inch of him was in you and only going farther.

“i just really want to make you feel good but it’s hard to.. not lose myself when i think about you.”

your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, his words were too much- until he brought a hand to your tummy.

you felt like you could feel everything. even your juices slowly flowing out of you. the ones that were creaming around the base of his cock. you could feel everything.

“mm fuck- i can feel myself in you. such a good girl taking my cock like this”

his words were pushing you over the edge. your nails dragged crossed his back as a warning. you were close. he moved from his skin to skin position, “y/n i just wanna make you feel good..” he blabbered out. je snapped his cock into you with a harsh that went straight to your core. you arched into him, grabbing at whatever you could. you mumbled ‘fucfyckfuckfuck’ as he pounded into you.

you snapped orgasming around his cock your body shook. your waves crashed over you, you moaned his name but your brain went fuzzy. you came around his hard cock. it was too much for him.

he stayed inside you until you came down from your orgasm and he pulled out and came on your tummy. his cum dripped down you.

as soon as he caught his breath he said the first words that came to mind.

“let me marry you.”

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

[popcornpoppypop]

They'll Do It Because They Have To

Summary: Jack Abbot x Single mom!reader; The continuation of Like You. You and Jack reckon with Matt as he starts recovery.

Warnings: Slight violence towards women (no physical altercation), shouting, blood, broken glass

A/N: I heard the calls for more of this story and I was trying to figure out how I wanted to handle it. It took me a minute to figure it out. Just remember you all asked for it! I was sad when I wrote it so my characters must also be sad *insert evil villain laugh here*. Anyway, there will more to this. If anyone has any suggestions for a series title let me know! As always, I edited this half asleep.

The fluorescent lights made Matt’s eyes burn. He hated the sterile smell of the hospital. He had been stuck in a bed for a week and it was starting to drive him mad.

“You remember my friend Dana?” Jack asked as he wrote in a notebook. “She works day shift with Robby. She’s going to come help when your mom and I are working late.” He heard the bitter guffaw from the bed and looked up to see Matt shaking his head.

“I’m seventeen. I used to be able to do whatever I wanted by myself.” Matt could feel the anger rising like bile in his throat.

“Well, not ‘whatever’ but yeah, it’s going to feel weird for a while.” Jack said, closing the notebook and leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Matt snapped, grabbing his iPad from the bedside table.

“Not a babysitter. She’s just there to help if you need it. Until we get the prosthetic fit you’ll be on crutches, it’s not easy getting around on those fuckers.” Jack sighed, remembering when it was all he had. It was annoying having to hobble around, not to mention the arm rests dug into his armpits and left sores because he was too damn stubborn to get them properly fitted.

“How are my boys?” You came in smiling and holding a tray of smoothies.

“Just peachy.” Matt’s voice dripped with sarcasm. He’d entered the angry phase earlier than you or Jack expected. You were choosing to ignore the sarcasm.

“Got your favorite. Walsh said we’ll be able to go home tomorrow! It’ll be good for you to get some rest in your own bed.” You said, handing him his smoothie and running your fingers through his hair.

“Which we moved downstairs for the time being.” Jack cleared his throat.

“So I get no privacy now, too. Fucking great!”

“It’s temporary, just to make things easier for you.” You said as you took his hand.

“Nothing is going to be easy anymore!” Matt yanked his hand from you.

“I know. That’s why we are doing what we can.” Jack said, crossing his arms.

“Now I’m going to be an invalid in the living room like an old person and I have to have a babysitter when you two aren’t there. Dana isn’t even that hot!”

“Watch it.” You warned.

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear she is somewhat hot.” Jack snorted. You shot him a look that told him he wasn’t helping.

“Matty, it’s our job to take care of you. You can hate it all you want, but I’m not leaving you to your own devices.” You looked over at Jack, unsure how to really deal with this.

“You’re about to go through Hell, Matt. If anyone is qualified to tell you how bad it is, it’s me.” Jack leaned forward.

“I just…I want to be normal.” Matt shook his head, wiping hard at his glassy eyes.

“I know, Kid. I know. Normal is just going to look different from now on.” Jack put his hand on Matt’s thigh.

“Everybody is going to stare at me now. I’m a freak.” Matt sobbed.

“No, Honey. You’re not a freak. You’re so brave.” You said sitting on the edge of the bed and holding his face in your hands.

“I am, I can’t even get the fake foot for months! I’m going to have a fucking stump just out, fucking disgusting!” He cried. You looked over to Jack who had his head bowed. He had the same thoughts when his happened, still did on occasion.

“Matt, I know that you’re angry-”

“Angry!? Mom, you will never understand this! It’s not anger! My life is completely different!” He shouted, pushing you off the bed. You land on your feet but are shocked by the forceful gesture.

“Hey! Matt, you can feel all the feelings and we’ll understand as best we can. But do not disrespect anyone, especially your mother.” Jack growled.

“It’s okay. Look, you’re my baby and will always be. I’m going to do what’s best for you.” You tried your best to keep the tears at bay.

“Oh just fuck off Mom! If you had taken care of me, told me not to go I wouldn’t be here!” He threw his smoothie at your feet. You jumped, the tears falling as you turned to grab something to clean it up.

“That is enough! You will not get physical with anyone! I won’t stand for that shit!” Jack barked, looming over Matt. Jack rarely got actually angry with Matt. In fact, neither you nor Matt had seen him more than snap. He made sure to keep control of his emotions; his father never did.

“You’re not my father!” Matt screamed. Jack stood still as stone, the words hitting him hard but not showing it. Not to Matt.

“That’s fine. Whatever I am, I’m going to make sure you get through this shit! You don’t have a fucking choice.” Jack growled as he went over to get you to stop cleaning the damn smoothie.

“I don’t fucking want help! I hate you both!” Matt’s voice was going raw as he shouted.

“Come on. Let’s go. Just give him space.” Jack held you up and started walking you out of the room, an arm wrapped around your waist.

“Everything okay, Dr. Abbot?” A nurse stopped outside the room.

“Yes. He threw his food on the floor, if someone can get that cleaned we’d appreciate it.” He said, holding you tight to his side as he felt the vibrations of your sobs.

“Of course. No problem.” She smiled.

“Be careful. He’s not himself today.” Jack sighed.

“It’s okay. We’re used to it. Never easy to go through limb loss, for anyone.” She gave a sympathetic nod and left.

“I’m taking you home. You need to rest too.” Jack said brushing the hair from your face. The tears left red trails down your cheeks, your eyes were sunken and dark. You couldn’t remember when you actually slept last. You’d taken to sleeping one of the family chairs that reclined, never wanting to be far from Matt.

“Maybe some time alone is what he needs tonight.” You shook your head. You were at a loss, you never thought this would happen. How were you supposed to help him if you didn’t even know where to start?

“I think it’s what you need.” Jack kissed your head as he tucked you into his side and went to the elevator.

“I need to talk to Dana before we go.” You wiped at your face, trying to look normal before people saw you.

“Hmm, yeah. Warn her.” Jack nodded. The doors opened and the chaos of the ER greeted you. It was jarring how much noise there was compared to the other floors.

“Hey, you two.” Dana smiled as you and Jack walked up to the counter.

“You two look like you haven’t slept in a week.” Robby said, almost a joke but laced with genuine concern.

“Feels like it too.” You murmured.

“How’s Matt doing?” Robby took his glasses off.

“Medically, good. Healing well. No infection.” Jack cleared his throat. The ED was used to Jack's stoic nature. They had never seen him emote outside of losing a patient; even then, he kept it mostly to himself—until Pittfest, when Jack saw Matt covered in blood. It had shaken the whole department.

Jack was put on family leave for the next two weeks. He told them it wasn’t necessary, but Robby insisted. He needed to take care of his family. He still would wander down to the ER when his mind couldn’t take it anymore. When he did, there was something broken to him in a way no one had seen before. Newbies would tiptoe around him, but after a while, they learned he wasn’t to be feared but respected. He wouldn’t bite people's heads off for no reason, he wasn’t that angry. He was just blunt and had little patience for sugar coating things. He was a monument of a man, strong but never cruel. Now, he looked like he would crumble if you looked at him wrong. His whole world was collapsing and he couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

“He’s…he’s getting angry again and I don’t blame him. It’s just…hard to watch.” You shook your head, trying to keep the tears at bay. You were so fucking tired of crying. You were just so fucking tired.

“Honey, it’s part of the process.” Dana reached over to hold your hand.

“Psych is supposed to talk with him, have they been by yet?” Robby asked.

“You’re joking right?” Jack snorted. “No. We’ve got him set up with someone in private practice.”

“I wanted to just let you know that you don’t have to stay with him, he’s not easy to be around right now.” You rubbed your face, the pressure on your eyes giving some relief.

“Honey, if I was only around people that were easy to get along with, I wouldn’t be a nurse.” She smiled. “I can handle an angry teenager, I got two at home.” She gave your hand a pat.

“He’s really good at insults these days, just be aware.” You sighed.

“Yeah?” She cocked an eyebrow.

“He said you ‘weren’t even that hot.’” Jack snorted.

“So I’m a little hot is what I’m hearing.” She laughed.

“that’s what I said!” Jack laughed. “But, he’ll put you through hell. Trust me, he’s already tried with me.”

“He’s family too. We take care of family here, no matter how much of a pain in the ass. Right, Robby?” Dana winked.

“I resent the insinuation that I’m anything other than a joy to be around.” Robby crossed his arms.

“You two go home and get some rest. I’ll check in with him when I can. He’s well looked after, promise.” Dana said, wrapping and arm around you. “Eat something, you’re wasting away.” She said.

“Thank you.” You hugged her as Jack lead you both out of the hospital.

The drive home was silent. You turned away from Jack, not wanting anyone privy to your tears. Jack wanted to hold you, make sure you knew you were doing everything right, but didn’t want to push you. The car pulled into the driveway, he took the key out and you both sat in the silence.

“We’ll figure this out.” Jack finally broke the silence. You nodded, unable to rely on your voice. You couldn’t stand the tension any longer and scrambled out of the car. Your chest hurt, like a vice gripped it. Your hands shook as you opened the door.

“Love.” Jack called after you as you ran into the house. You threw your bag down and went to the kitchen. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, why won’t they stop!? Your eyes were clouded with tears as you fumbled to get a glass, sending them falling to the ground in a flurry of glass shards. Your knees were trying to give out as you sobbed.

“Y/N! Baby, stop!” Jack ran into the kitchen, grabbing hold of you before you could fall into the glass.

“How can he forgive me if I can’t forgive myself!?” You sobbed, collapsing into Jack’s arms. His heart broke as he held you close.

“Love, none of this is your fault. It’s no one’s. This was…a tragedy. Senseless. You didn’t cause this. If you had told him no, he would have snuck out. He’s alive. Nothing else matters.” Jack whispered into your ear, just loud enough to reach you over your sobs.

“I can’t lose him, Jack. I can’t.” Your voice raw.

“You won’t. Trust me. We’ll get him back.” Jack kissed your hair. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.” He said, guiding you up the stairs. “I’ll clean up the glass.”

Jack made sure you were comfortable, your eyes falling closed the second your head hit the pillow, before cleaning the glass. He swept it up, the glass glistening in the yellow light. He dumped it into the trash, small piece cutting his thumb. The blood trailed down his palm. He watched the red lines absorb into his skin. Was pain the only thing consistent in his life? Is that all he had to give?

He washed his hand in the sink, the bleeding finally stopped but the thoughts kept swirling. How was he going to get this kid through this? He barely made it. How was he going to bear seeing this boy in so much pain every day?

You felt the bed dip as Jack finally joined you. His arms wrapped around your body as he pulled you close. You learned quickly the different ways Jack would communicate his emotions without words. He was getting better at using his words, but he always preferred non-verbal communication. Tonight, he was holding you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

The morning sun felt harsher than usual as you opened your eyes. Something angry in it, the weight of having to bring Matt home wrapped in it. You rolled over, wanting to ignore it a while longer and bury yourself in Jack, but he wasn’t there. You groaned as you lay flat on your back. He tried to never let you wake up alone if he wasn’t on shift. You knew he was just as anxious.

Eventually you got up, putting your robe on as you padded down to the kitchen. Jack was in the kitchen making eggs. He stood in his boxers and nothing else, the morning light illuminating his muscles. You stood in the doorway, reveling in the peaceful moment.

“Staring is rude, ya know?” He muttered without looking back. You gave a soft chuckle as you walked up behind him, your arms wrapping around his chest.

“Wasn’t starring. It’s called appreciating the art.” You kissed the side of his neck.

“I don’t think most people’s breath stutters when they look at paintings.” He scoffed. Your kisses trailed up to his ear, nibbling at his lobe. “If you keep going like that, breakfast is going to burn.” He sighed, leaning into your touch.

“I just want this moment to last a while longer.” You kissed his shoulder.

“You want to abandon the eggs?” he chuckled.

“Yes, but we should get ready soon. So, make your eggs.” You sighed as you moved to sit at the table.

“Your eggs.” He corrected as he plated them and put them in front of you.

“You’re too good for me.” You smiled as he sat next to you.

“No.” His voice was short, unnerved. “Not too good for you. Never.” He shook his head, avoiding eye contact. “Jack.” You grabbed his hand.

“I’m fine. I just…I know you deserve better. I want to be that for you but I don’t know how.” He closed his eyes with a grimace as if the thought caused him physical pain.

“I know that what I say isn’t going to stick. Not right now. But I promise you, you’re all I need and want.” You kissed his temple.

“Eat. It’s going to be a tough day.” He kissed your temple as he went upstairs.

The nervous energy as you pulled up to the hospital could be felt two blocks away. Jack held your hand as you walked into the hospital, opting for the front entrance rather than the ED.

“Good morning Y/N, Dr. Abbot.” One of the nurses smiled as you exited the elevator.

“Morning. How was he last night?” You clear your throat.

“He did okay. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. Nothing of note really. Dr. Walsh sent her discharge instructions if you need us to go over them with you.”

“Just print them out for us. I’ll handle it, thank you.” Jack nodded, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as you walked to Matt’s room.

“Good morning, Matty! They said your ready to head out!” You plastered a smile on your face, trying to convince everyone you were excited.

“Yeah, great.” He shrugged.

“We can stop at the diner and get breakfast if you want.” Jack offered. “The food from the cafeteria is never good.”

“I don’t want to be out in public.” He wouldn’t look at either of you.

“Okay, we’ll pick up some donuts on the way back if you want.” You offered, moving to tuck a hair behind his ear but he ducked away.

“Not hungry. Just want to go home.” His voice was flat, emotionless. It made your chest tighten.

“That’s okay. We have your meds at home, got some Zofran if you need it.” Jack said.

“Alright, Abbot clan! Lets get you out of here!” The nurse came in handing Jack a stack of papers.

“I’m not an Abbot.” Matt snapped.

“Matt. Please.” You sighed.

“Sorry. I’m going to take that IV out and you will be all set. We practiced with the crutches a little this morning but you’ll go down in the chair. It’s policy.” The nurse did her best to ignore the tension. The nurse made quick work of the IV and wheeled in a chair.

“Do you want me to help you or the nurse?” Jack asked, his hand outstretched and going from open to a clenched fist over and over.

“I’ll do it, Dr. Abbot. Policy anyway.” She smiled, giving Jack an out. You mouthed a thank you to her.

“Thank you.” Matt grumbled as she helped get him settled into the chair.

“You take care of yourself, Matt. Remember to do your stretches and take your meds. I know Daisy in PT and she’ll keep me updated if you start slacking.”  The nurse gave Matt’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Yeah, sure.” Matt nodded.

“Okay, let’s go home.” You sighed.

“I want to go to the ER. I want to see Robby.” Matt said, suddenly filled with nervous energy.

“Okay, yeah. Is everything okay?” Jack asked.

“I just…I need to see him.” Matt’s voice firm and insistent.

“Sure, baby.” You said, looking over to Jack who just shrugged. Jack took the lead wheeling Matt. The elevator ride was as uncomfortable as a breakup know you live together.

“Look who it is!” Dana beamed as she saw you three coming.

“Is Robby around?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, he’s around here somewhere.” She gave a confused smile as she paged him. “How you doing, Kid?” She patted Matt on the shoulder.

“Good. Just tired.” He smiled.

“Yeah, you can never get good sleep in a hospital. A Couple nights in your bed will get you feeling like a million bucks.” She said.

“Matt! Look at you, Bud!” Robby came over, a smile on his face.

“Robby! I wanted to talk to you, if you have a minute.” Matt beamed up at him. You saw Jack’s grip on the handles of the chair tighten, you put a hand on his arm.

“Yeah, I got a minute for you.” Robby nodded, giving you and Jack a confused look.

“Can we have a minute alone? I know I don’t get privacy anymore but I’m sure you’re okay with me being alone with a doctor.” Matt spit.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course Baby.” You said wrapping an arm around Jack and guiding him away. Robby looked confused as you walked away.

“You weren’t lying about that anger.” Dana shook her head.

“I was hoping it would simmer down overnight. How dumb is that?” You gave an exasperated chuckle.

“Oh, Hun. Not dumb.” Dana gave your arm a pat. “You’ll get through this. Boys always come back to their moms.”

You watched as Robby spoke with Matt. He was smiling. Thanking him for something, saving him probably. Robby wheeled him toward you.

“Call if you need anything. You have my number.” Robby said, patting Matt’s shoulder.

“Thank You, Robby. At least you didn’t freeze.” Matt threw a glance over at Jack as he started wheeling himself toward the exit. All four adults stopped, too stunned to speak. You looked over at Jack, his face pale and broken.

“Jack-” Robby started but Jack just shook his head.

“He’s not wrong.” Jack’s voice was tight, almost angry but too sad to be fully so. “He’s good at finding the weak spots.” Jack nodded as he turned to follow Matt.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t how to deal with any of this.” You shook your head.

“No one would.” Dana sighed. “Call me if you two need a break.” You nodded and left before the tears started.

“I don’t know how they’ll do it.” Robby sighed.

“They’ll do it because they have to.” Dana shook her head as she went back to work.

[g1rld1ary]

1980s horror film - james potter x reader

wc: 1469 summary: you work at a video store and james works at a convenience store in a shitty small town. you're both bored as hell, but at least you work across the street. me: inspired by the movie clerks! set in the mid-late 90s (so title is a bit misleading LOL). kind of obsessed with this au so feel free to send reqs if you like it or want more!! a contribution to shop au for @acourtofchaos festival!

You tilted your head back, boredom overtaking your body. You’d already been on shift for, like, seven fucking hours, and you’d maybe leant out three videos. Like, who even goes to a video store in the middle of a Thursday?

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, you wished you could turn them off. Maybe you’d get cooler customers if you were in charge of the decorating. Your first order of business would definitely be to install some lamps or something, anything nicer than the violent white light you had to put up with every shift.

You twirled around in your swivel chair for a few minutes, watching the shelves blur into one multicoloured blob, surrounding you until you thought you might throw up.

Knowing you would be the one to clean it up if you did vomit on the aggressively eclectic patterned carpet, you stopped, standing on unsteady feet. You walked out of the store, not bothering to lock it. You weren’t going far.

You traipsed across the street, having learnt you didn’t need to look both ways before crossing long ago. Hardly anyone ever came by.

The bell jingled above you as you pushed the convenience store door open, the boy behind the counter looking up lazily. When he saw it was you, James’s face broke into a crooked smile.

“Slow day?” He asked, pushing himself off the counter he’d been leaning against. You nodded, heading straight to the row of fridges to grab a Coca-Cola, producing spare change to drop on the counter with a clang.

You cracked the bottle open with a satisfying hiss, hopping up to sit yourself on the counter in front of James. He made a teasing face at your audacity but let you do it anyway, taking a step to lean against the back wall, amongst the cigarettes and porn mags.

“How many customers have you had today?” He asked, pulling a bag of crisps from under the bench, sticking his hand in haphazardly.

“Three,” You answered plainly, stretching out your back with an aggressive twist. James laughed exaggeratedly in your face as if he was proving a point.

“I had seven,” he puffed out his chest as if it were a personal achievement.

“Right,” You stared at him, “Are you aware that you run a gas station and I work at a video store. On a Thursday.” James didn’t appear to see the ridiculousness of comparing your respective careers.

“It’s because of my superior personality and dazzling charm,” He crowed, circling some keys around his fingers to fidget with. You rolled your eyes, sliding off the countertop, examining the selection of chocolate bars under the register.

“It’s because you have gas, drinks and toilet paper. If I sold necessities, I’d be the most popular kid on the block, too, Potter.”

“Speaking of what you do sell,” James scanned the KitKat and started unwrapping it for you, “I’m meeting the guys tonight, got a recommendation?”

You paused, genuinely thinking.

“Well, if it’s the guys, then you’re looking for something ridiculous, right? Something to laugh at, like Scream or Wayne’s World. Remus will hate it and think it’s ridiculous, but the rest of you should like it.”

“Genius!” He cried, smacking the counter. “I thought we were gonna have to rewatch bloody Sleepless in Seattle again coz it’s one of the only tapes Peter actually owns — not that I don’t love Sleepless in Seattle, but we’ve probably watched it twelve times already.” You laughed, shaking your head.

“You’re all softies, the lot of you. I can’t believe you walk around acting all tough when you all pile into Peter Pettigrew’s basement and cry over Sleepless in Seattle.” You shook your head, biting a chunk out of the chocolate.

“Okay, first of all, fuck you, I’m just in touch with my emotions. And second of all, I only cried the first time, and that’s because we were all high.” You cackled, leaning on your knees for stability.

Oh, fuck! Customer!” You saw from the corner of your eye, waving quickly to James. “Softie!” You called over your shoulder as you darted back across the road, ready to greet with a smile.

You ran down an empty aisle, diving (and skidding) into the swivel chair behind the register, bringing up the membership page ready for the customer.

You watched the back of a head browse titles for ten minutes, umming and ah-ing over the romances before finally heading toward you. Your mouth dropped open when you recognised the miraculous head of hair.

“Do you have any thoughts on either of these? Just me and my wife at home tonight, so I thought I’d surprise her with a nice night in but I’m just not sure with all these new fangled ‘rom-coms,” Fleamont shook his head, sliding three different tapes across to you.

“That sounds nice, Mister Potter. You might like It Could Happen To You or Much Ado About Nothing, but My Girl is about two little kids; might not set the mood — oh my God, I cannot believe I just said that.” You slapped your hand across your face, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Fleamont Potter, hot dad that he famously was, only laughed.

“Alright, I’ll take Much Ado then, thanks for your help. It’s a good thing this store has such knowledgeable employees like yourself.” He winked, and you used all your self-control not to throw yourself under the desk and hide until he left. You stuttered through the rest of the renting process, avoiding eye contact as much as possible.

“Hey, uh, Mister Potter, would you be able to tell James to come in on his break?”

He nodded, silver hair attracting the light as he left the store.

“And then I fucking told him it’d set the mood. What the fuck is wrong with me?” You moaned, throwing your upper body across the counter in agony.

“It’s literally fine,” James said through a huge bite of his curry lunch, “Pretty much all of my friends wanna fuck him. You talking about him fucking his wife is probably a welcome change.”

“James!” You squealed, popping back up to face him, gesturing wildly. “You can’t just say that! Most kids don’t talk about their parents fucking that casually!”

James shrugged, mixing his curry around in the container and offering you a fork.

“It’s just life. Everyone has sex; they had to have sex to make me. Even you have sex. I assume.” He looked you up and down with a frankly sassy attitude, and you grew self-conscious of your long jorts and Jaws t-shirt.

“I can get laid, thank you very much, not that you’d know what that’s like.” James opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off, “I don’t wanna know where you’re sticking your dick, okay?” He raised his arms in surrender.

“Whatever, we all know you’d jump if you had the chance.” He rolled his eyes, wandering off to look for the films you’d recommended earlier.

You turned up the music playing over the store speakers, Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic pumping through the aisles.

Taking your hair out of its scrunchie, you loosened out your body, dancing around the store. James’ tall figure popped up from behind one of the aisles, watching you with an amused grin.

“Come on, Potter, not too good to dance, are you? Need to keep active if you’re gonna retain that athlete physique,” You teased him, miming freestyle strokes to travel over to him. James rolled his eyes, nevertheless holding his nose and wiggling his arm to imitate being underwater with you.

You danced for the duration of the song, laughing and enjoying being up and active amidst an otherwise very monotonous work day. James held his hand out like a gentleman, and you took it with exaggerated elegance, the two of you jumping about the store in a terrible waltz.

The bell to the shop door jingled, signalling a customer entering. You and James leapt apart, James returning to where the comedies were, and you practically flying back to your spot by the computer.

You both held coy smiles as you completed the transaction with mock-professionalism as you asked for his full name and membership number, biting your lip to stop your giggles as the old woman shopping inched further towards the curtained off pornography section.

“Make sure you return this by Monday, ‘kay?” You sent James off, rolling your eyes at his corny wink, smiling despite yourself.

[ldydeath]

Why Can't I Have You Part 2 | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: You and Jiyong try to navigate life now that you’ve kind of taking you friendship to the next level. Word Count: 1.9k Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Unprotected p in v., fluff Author’s Note: This is part two to one of my april challenge fics, part one can be found here!

Things had gone back to normal after the night you’d shared with Jiyong. Or as normal as they could be between two friends who were always going to want more. The only real addition to your friendship were the stolen kisses you shared now. 

You never really talked about what it meant, but you knew you didn’t want whatever this was to stop. Maybe it was stupid to continue on this way. Jiyong was your best friend, things had been working fine because you hadn’t crossed any lines. Now you had something to lose and you weren’t sure you liked that. 

“You ok?” Jiyong’s voice brought you back to reality and you turned to face him, giving him a nod. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Just thinking about food.” You shrugged, your eyes scanning the scene in front of you. Jiyong snorted, his attention going back to the main stage. 

You were at another award show, sitting front row with the guys. A tradition at this point. Your groups usually always faired well at these events. Jiyong had kept a respectable distance all night, not that it mattered. You’d always been touchy feely in public. Everyone knew you were best friends. But it was like you both second guessed it now that you’d spent more time kissing these days.

As the lights dimmed, preparing for the next act to go on, Jiyong stood up and moved over to you. His arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders, pulling you to him. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye before relaxing against him. 

“I’m hungry too, but I’m not thinking about food.” He whispered in your ear, a smirk on his lips.

Your mouth opened but no words came out. You closed it quickly, blinking a few times as you turned your head to face him. His eyes shone with mischief, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s gotten out of you. You hadn’t crossed that line yet. Yeah, you made out a few times, and had fallen asleep together more times than you could count. But you hadn’t crossed that line into something more. Hadn’t even joked about it. 

“You can’t say things like that to me in public, Jiyong.” 

Jiyong laughed, his arm staying around you as he leaned in to plant a kiss on your cheek. He was going to have fun with this. He knew he shouldn’t, as much as he loved you he knew that no matter what he did, he’d ruin you. At least if you stayed just like this you’d always be friends. It may not be the more he wanted, but it would keep you safe and with him in some way when everything went south. Because everything always seems to go south when he’s involved. 

“You coming over after?” Jiyong looked at you hopefully, like you might say no. 

“Of course.” 

Jiyong grinned as you agreed and turned his attention back to the group on stage. He moved to stand behind you, his other arm wrapping around you as he swayed to the beat of the song. You moved in sync with him, your head leaning back to rest comfortably on his chest, your hand moving to rest on top of his. 

Daesung looked over, shaking his head as he spotted the two of you. Your eyes locked with his for a second and you shrugged before turning your head away. You knew he didn’t approve of the way and Jiyong hung on each other, but it had been going on for too long to stop it now. Granted, you usually didn’t hang all over each other like this in such a public setting. 

You slid into Jiyong’s car after the event was over, casually scrolling on your phone. You let out a snort as you stumbled across pictures of the two of you from the event. 

“We’re all over the internet.” You held your phone up for Jiyong to see the photo before moving it away, reading over the article. 

“What’s it say?” His brows raised as he turned to face you. 

“Oh, just speculation about our relationship.” You shrugged. 

You’d had a feeling you were playing a dangerous game tonight, but it had been nice to act like something more for even just a second. You could get used to it all, being wrapped up in his arms, whispering nonsense to each other, being a couple. But you would never push him for more than he was comfortable with and you had the unfortunate privilege of knowing him well enough to know he’d never want that with you. 

Jiyong watched you for a second, before turning his gaze back to the road. He noticed the way your face fell as you looked at the photos and it took everything in him to not tell you how he felt. He couldn’t. He loved you and he knew that meant he had to do it from a distance. 

Once you were safely inside his apartment his lips were on yours. He’d been dying to kiss you all night. He kissed you with a desperation that you hadn’t felt from him before. 

You kissed him back, your hands clinging to his shirt as if this was the only thing to keep you upright. His hands cupped your face and he took a step forward, leading you backwards into his apartment. He guided you down the hallway and to his room, never breaking the kiss. He let go of your face to shrug his jacket off himself before his hands were back on you. 

He carefully lowered you to the bed, his lips moving from yours to kiss over your cheek, your throat, down to the top of your shirt. Your hands were in his hair, guiding him down and his eyes shot up to yours as his hands played with the end of your top. You nodded at him and he lifted the fabric up slowly. 

He pulled it over your head before hovering back over you. His eyes took in the sight of your bare chest, and he sucked in a breath. You were the most gorgeous person he’d ever laid eyes on. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispered as his lips crashed down on yours again. 

You could feel the butterflies in your stomach as you kissed him back. He’d never been so gentle with you. Then again, you’d never taken things this far with him in the past. You weren’t going to question what any of this meant, not tonight. You just wanted to enjoy this moment. 

You helped him out of his shirt before moving down to his pants, your hands shaky as you undid his zipper and you cursed yourself for not being as smooth with this as you wanted to be. Pushing them down you eyed him through his boxers. He was hard already and you couldn’t help but lick your lips. You needed him. Now. 

Pulling his boxers down, your hand gripped him and gave him a quick pump. Jiyong let out a low moan, his hands moving to free you from your pants. He could see your arousal through your panties and smirked before he moved his to finish his assault on your skin. 

His lips ghosted over your breast before he took your nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around. Your back arched into his touch as your hand pumped faster on his cock. His hand brushed against your wet slit, his finger sliding to your clit and he rubbed tight circles. You let a moan, which was music to Jiyong’s ears and encouraged him to work his hand faster. 

“Need you.” You panted in between strokes and Jiyong groaned, moving to position himself. 

His cock toying your entrance as you arched further to allow him easier access. He slid into you slowly, entering you completely. He stayed like that for a moment, allowing you to adjust to him before he moved in and out slowly. He wanted to take his time with you, but you felt too good. Like you were made for him, and he wasn’t so sure he’d last long. 

Your hips moved to meet his every thrust, your fingers digging into his back. You knew it would leave marks but you didn’t care. Tonight, he was yours and you’d leave as many marks as you could. Jiyong’s lips were on your skin again, kissing at the sensitive spot above your collarbone, he sucked your skin, his tongue swirling around to ease the red mark he was sure he’d left behind. 

“I’m so close, Ji.” You whispered. 

His eyes locked on your eyes as he picked up the pace, his movements growing faster and a bit harder as he got lost in the moment. His eyes stayed on yours, he needed to see you come. Wanted to memorize every detail of this moment. 

Your head fell back against the bed as you felt your walls tighten completely around him, your head cloudy as you reached your orgasm. You moaned his name and if he thought your moans were music to his ears, hearing you say his name like that? That was the real music. The way you looked right now would be his undoing. He held on, pumping in and out of you as you rode out your orgasm before he came undone himself. He slammed into you hard, coming inside of you. His head buried into your neck. 

“I love you.” The words left his lips before he could stop himself. 

You stayed like that, him inside you, your arms wrapped around him for a while as you composed yourself. Jiyong reluctantly pulled out of you, moving to lay next to you and you curled into him. 

“So, you love me?” Jiyong groaned, hiding his head in his hands. 

“Maybe a little.” He confessed. You reached up, pulling his hands from his face. 

“I love you too, you know.” His hand moved to your face, cupping your cheek as his eyes stayed locked on yours. 

“We shouldn’t do this. We can’t take it back.” He didn’t regret saying it, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t scared to lose you. Especially now. 

“I don’t want to take it back, Ji. I love you. I want to be with you.” You mimicked his movements, your hand resting on his face. “Don’t be scared.” 

“Ok.” He nodded. “Let’s do this then.” 

He leaned in, kissing you slowly. He’d already crossed the line tonight anyway, and he knew there was no going back now. He also knew if he didn’t take a chance now, he’d lose you to someone else eventually, you were too perfect to be single and waiting around for him anyway. He knew as scared as he was to ruin this with you he couldn’t see you with anybody else. 

“Just promise me, if it doesn’t work out we go back to being friends. I need you in my life.” His voice was soft and your heart ached for him. 

“Oh, it’s going to work out. But you’re stuck with me for life either way. I can promise you that.” You kissed him again, a small smile on your lips. “I’m never letting you go, Jiyong.”  

Jiyong rolled onto his back, pulling you to his side. Your head resting on his chest as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He couldn’t remember a time he felt so relaxed, so happy. No matter how scared he might be, this is where he wanted to be and this is where he’d stay for as long as you’d have him.

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