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writingsbytee · 3 days ago

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Rivalry & Romance

Enemies to Lovers workplace romance

*Remember you are in charge of your own consumption. 18+ up audiences only; minors please don’t interact!* THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION

*Please do not plagiarize, repost, or steal my work. This doesn’t count for re-blogs!*

*the book excerpt above is from ‘The Cruel Prince’ by Holly Black

SUMMARY: I think I’m obsessed with the early 2000s. But this is set in the era of MapQuest and Motorola Razrs. You and Terry have been at each other’s throats for months. Putting the term “Workplace rivalry” to shame.

PAIRINGS: Terry x Tatum (black, fem, reader)

WARNINGS: Terry being an asshole

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is going to be a slow burn, So there won’t be any smut in this fic. Just simple character building.

TAGLIST

@nayaesworld @keehendrixx @theereinawrites @theereina @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @megamindsecretlair @episodes-ff @blackgurlnhermoods @dxddykenn @pinkkycherrish @pinkkycherrishh @uzumaki-rebellion @urfavblackbimbo @kianaleani @shallipii @mymindisneverhere @onherereading @skyesthebomb @gg-trini @blyffe @melalsworld @mogul93 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @sweettea-and-honeybutter @notapradagurl7 @miyuhpapayuh @simplyzeeka @playgurlxoxo @yassbishimvintage @dbaileyblog @jimmybutlrr @versaceslutz @ruewritesoccasionally @kaylalb @noir-lullaby @jadatingz @madamedantes @charmedthoughts @daughterofapollo-7 @cardi-bre91 @thabiddie23 @mama200195-blog @venusincleo @slvt4her @skvrpion @constanthavok @dutifulliythoughtfulenthusiast @massivenightdreamer @astasteofmir @callingallbaddies @nubiawrites @nubiagurllll @theglamclosetsl @alicewonderringland @kumkaniudaku @zunibugsiren @secrettawolfpanda @fakxmbj @zunibugsiren

If I missed anybody, please comment and let me know!

“I told you to make a left three miles back!” you exclaimed, crossing your arms in frustration.

“I swear to god if you say that one more time, I’ll pull this car over. I’m literally an ex-marine, I know my way around a map,” Terry said, his voice taking on a rumbling growl. You roll your eyes, huffing as you turn away from him to look out the window. Your cybersecurity company planned a business retreat for you and your coworkers as a way to celebrate the huge account they just obtained and boost morale. Pairing you with your ‘least compatible match’, your boss thought it’d be a great way for you and Terry to try and get along.

FLASHBACK

“Nora please! Pair me with anyone but him,” you begged your boss. You knew it was a strong possibility that she’d pair you with Terry, that doesn’t mean that you weren’t going to fight it.

“Tatum, try and look at it from my perspective. I’ve got two team leads who don’t get along, which is making it really hard for me to conduct meetings. You two can’t be in the same room for more than 5 minutes without world war three happening.”Nora says, closing her laptop.

“Look at it like this, if my top two performers of my team are constantly butting heads, what kind of example do you think that’s going to set for your subordinates? You and Terry either find a way to deal with each other or both of you will have to think of a change in departments.” She finishes, her tone signifying that there’s no room for discussion.

With a sigh you say, “Fine, I’ll do my best. Just make sure you tell that meathead the same thing.”

END FLASHBACK

With a huff you say, “I can’t believe Nora actually though pairing us together would work. We still have 3 hours left on the road.”

“It’ll go by quicker if you shut up,”Terry grumbles, reaching forward to turn his playlist up.

“Ugh! And do we have to listen to classic rock the whole way? Nobody wants their eardrums to bleed 24/7 like you do” You add, positioning your body to stare Terry down. Despite hating his guts, Terry was fucking hot, and boy did he know it too.

“Well, it’s better than listening to your voice all day, or at all for that matter,” Terry glances over at you, a teasing half smirk on his face. He reaches for the volume switch on his steering wheel, turning the volume up yet again.

He wasn't exactly sure how your rivalry started but Terry knew that he couldn’t stand you. How you were always so warm and glowy. Flashing your grossly attractive smile around the office like those knuckleheads deserved to be graced by the sun each morning. Walking around in your stupid clothes that seemed to cling to every curve, his eyes would always be drawn to your annoyingly plump ass. Terry hated your guts, but he could appreciate a fine woman.

You roll your eyes at Terry’s comments, not wanting to further this verbal sparring session. Sliding your eye mask over your eyes, “Just wake me up when we get there,” you said, reclining your chair back.

Terry lets out a defensive snort, clearly unimpressed with your dismissive attitude. “Fine, princess. Don’t let me disturb your beauty sleep.”

You roll your eyes, sitting in silence at Terry’s harsh words. “You’re insufferable,”you mumble under your breath.

Terry just smirks, he laughs,a deep mocking sound that echoes throughout the car. “Insufferable? That’s rich coming from you Tatum. At least I’m honest about who I am and what I want.”

You snatched the eye mask off your face, a gentle rage brewing under the surface. “Don’t pretend that you know anything about me, Terry.”

Another chuckle leaves his mouth, a cold and mirthless sound. “Oh, I know plenty about you, Tatum. More than you like probably. After all, it's not hard to figure out what makes you tick when you’re so transparent.” He reaches forward, turning down the volume slightly, “You’re a puzzle, sure, but not a particularly complex one. Jealous, insecure, and secretly craving validation from those you despise.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes, “Please remind me when I asked for your lackluster input. You know nothing about me Terry.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, a teasing smirk adorning his infuriatingly handsome face,”You didn’t have to ask, it’s written all over you. I figured since we’re stuck on this drive together, I might as well entertain myself by analyzing your pathetic attempts at independence.”

“Why are you like this?” you ask with a shake of your head.

Terry pins you with his piercing green eyes, “We don’t have enough time to go through all of that, princess.”

“Well whether we like it or not we’re stuck together for the weekend. Obviously it seems like we’re not going to make any progress so how about we don’t speak to one another unless it’s absolutely necessary,”you say your hands wringing together. All of this hostility was triggering you, and you didn’t want to have a full fledged episode in front of Terry.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “If that’s what you want, then so be it.” He adjusts his hands on the steering wheel focusing on the road. Terry looked seemingly lost in thought, but the set of his jaw and the rigid line of his shoulders betrayed his true state. You got under his skin, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Terry just knew he had to get you out of his system one way or another.

You however, were fuming inside. How dare Terry pretend to even know a thing about you. It pissed you off even more to know that he was right.

“You’ve been avoiding me around the office,” you start. “Whenever we need to come up with a proposal together, you send someone else in your place. You always leave the room when I enter it. What did I do to you to make you dislike me so much?”, you ask, your eyes burning holes in the side of his head.

Terry sighs, “Avoiding you implies that I care more than I should. That is not the case.” His words are dismissive, but the way he keeps glancing at you could indicate otherwise.

You huff in frustration, you’re not getting through to him, “So if you’re not avoiding me, what would you call it?”you press, tilting your head to the side slightly. “Because it feels like you’ve been going out of your way to avoid me these past few weeks.”

Terry flicks on the blinker before exiting the highway, within the next six minutes you’re parked at a ‘Buc-ee’s’. You watch as Terry takes a deep breath, seemingly composing himself before saying, “I’m focused on my work, performing well and efficiently. I don’t understand why you can’t get that through your thick fucking skull.”

The deflection pisses you off, “So why me then? You’re perfectly pleasant with everyone else in the office, but when I’m involved it’s different.”

Terry’s eyes drift over you, a mask of indifference painting his face. “Is this conversation going anywhere? Or are you going to keep whining about not being liked?”

You sigh with defeat, turning to face forward you decide to keep your mouth shut, this conversation doing more harm than good.

“I’m just going to fill up and grab something to eat, do you want anything from inside?” Terry asks, grabbing his keys and wallet. You shake your head, ready for a few minutes alone to screw your head on straight.

“Suit yourself, just don’t bother me if you’re hungry in an hour,” and with that, Terry gets out of the car. Halfway into the store, Terry turns back and spots you wiping your eyes. Something in his chest tightens at the fact that he made you cry. Your verbal sparring sessions would always be the highlight of his day, you always had a witty comeback, giving him a run for his money. He’s so lost in his thoughts about you, he doesn’t even realize that he’s next up in line. Terry places his order, getting something additional for you, then heads out.

Back in the car, you call your mom, needing a pep talk from her. “Baby, sometimes two people just don’t get along. Just keep being you, that’s all you can do. I’m sure he’ll come around, what’s not to like?”

You sigh, “But mama, you don’t get it! He’s so frustrating, nobody’s ever gotten under my skin like this. It’s like he knows where and how to press my buttons. It’s getting tiring, Nora said we need to get along or she’ll transfer both of us.”

Your mother stays silent on her side of the phone. She knows her daughter, and her daughter just might have a crush on her work rival. “Are you sure there’s no other reason why you two don’t get along?”

Her statement stuns you, your train of thought coming to a complete halt. “Mama be serious, he’s told me time and time again that I’m not his cup of tea,”you say, wrapping your cardigan tighter around midsection. Looking up you see Terry come out of the Buc-ee’s, bags in hand, making his way to the car.

“Look mama, I have to go but I’ll call you once we get settled in. I love you , bye” you say ending your call. Terry watches as you hang up the phone and pull down the sun visor to wipe away any moisture gathered under your eyes. Guilt heavy like a rock sat uncomfortably in his gut. He never wanted to make you cry, or feel bad about yourself. The truth is, he admires you, how you never seem to let the pressures of the day get to you. How you had a smile for everyone in the office, including Greg, who obviously wanted to fuck you. Always smiling your perfect smile at these people who didn’t deserve it, him included.

Walking to the passenger side window, Terry taps twice to grab your attention. With a start, you meet Terry’s gaze through the tempered glass. Rolling your window down, you look at Terry over your librarian-esque glasses, something he finds oddly cute.

Passing the bags of food through the open window. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got chicken, beef and tofu in case that’s your thing,” Terry said, his eyes refusing to meet yours. This was uncharted territory for him, he wasn’t the ‘thinking about others feelings’ type. He liked to avoid attachments, they slow him down. Terry didn’t need another person he cared about being ripped from his life, he couldn’t take that pain again.

“Terry? Are you good?” you ask when you notice Terry’s eyes went unfocused and he was lost inside his head.

Terry nods his head, handing you the food, “Yeah sweet girl, hold these for me. I’m going to fill up so we can hit the road.” You barely have time to respond before Terry’s on the other side of the car filling up.

Where the fuck did that come from? You thought. Reaching into the back you pull out a chicken sandwich. Reaching for your drink, you notice Terry bought your favorite. His thoughtfulness sends a shiver down your spine. Terry might not think you’re a puzzle, but he definitely is, infuriating and alluring in equal measure.

Once the tank is full, Terry slides back into the driver’s seat. You can feel the energy shift as he settled in. You glance over at him and you’re startled to find he’s already looking at you.

“Look, I don’t want to spend the rest of this retreat biting each other’s heads off. Believe it or not Tatum, I don’t want to fight with you. It’s clear we both are passionate and have strong viewpoints. For the sake of our jobs, and a cohesive work environment, I think we should just pretend to get along for the duration of the trip.” Terry looks over at you apprehensively, hoping what he just said didn’t piss you off.

You sighed before turning your body to face Terry, “I don’t want to argue with you either, but pretending isn’t going to help anything when we have to go back to the office next week. I’ll do my best to not piss you off, all I ask is that you do the same.” You state, finally meeting Terry’s eyes. He’s looking at you with apprehension, sizing you up.

“You’ve got a deal,” he says, outstretching his hand. You place your hand in his, the familiar spark shooting up your arm. Terry quickly slides his hand out of yours, starting the vehicle, you both head back out on the road.

3 HOURS LATER

“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” Nora exclaims, as Terry rolls both your suitcases into the hotel lobby. Despite being a complete asshole at least Terry was raised as a gentleman.

“Ha Ha, very funny Nora. Those directions you sent sucked,” Terry grumbled, taking his room key from Nora’s outstretched hand, not noticing the devious smirk her face held. You follow behind Terry outstretching your hand as well.

Nora’s face pinches with nervousness, “So, umm, little mix-up with the rooms.” Terry stops abruptly. You watch his head hang, shoulders sag, and you hear a deep sigh come from him.

“Does this mean what I think it does?” Terry asks, turning to face Nora.

“Well somewhere during the registration process, the amount of rooms needed got mixed up. And since you two were the last to make it in, you guys have to room together. And before you ask, the hotel is fully booked for some medical conference.” Nora finished. This was obviously an uncomfortable conversation for her to have. Her face was red as hell.

The last thing you wanted right now is to be rooming with Terry. But, being the people pleaser you are, you give Nora a small smile. “It’s only a few days Nora, I’m sure we won’t burn the hotel down.”

You hear Terry scoff behind you, “Speak for yourself.” You roll your eyes at his comment before patting Nora on the shoulder. With the deepest sigh you can muster, you head toward the elevator.

“Tatum, wait,” Terry says. You turn and Terry takes in your exhausted expression. “I don’t think anyone should be subjected to my snoring. That’s all I meant,” Terry said, with a shrug of his shoulders. A sheepish smile forms on his lips.

Another heavy sigh leaves your lips, “This isn’t ideal for me either, Terry. Do you think I want to be trapped in a room with someone who would rather be anywhere else?” Your enthusiasm meter had finally reached E. All you wanted was a hot shower, a face mask, and a glass or three of wine. Now you’d be spending your evening undoubtably bickering with Terry over what to watch.

Terry’s smile fades, replaced by a grimace of discomfort. “Look, Tatum, I didn’t ask for this anymore than you did.” He rakes his hand down his face, the action oddly attractive to you.

“But let’s get something straight: this isn’t personal. It’s complicated.” Your gaze flickers away from him, unable to hold his stare for long. “We can figure out a way to coexist, can’t we?” he asked, the smirk returning.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s about fifty other things I’d rather be doing.” Terry turns, clearly dismissing you.

An unamused chuckle leaves your lips as you stride past Terry toward the elevators. You may or may not have called him an asshole along the way. Terry scoffed, following behind you. A dark smirk rose on his face as he watched your ass move in the leggings you wore. Not that you needed it, but Terry could really see the difference the pilates classes were making.

You two ride up the elevator in tense, annoyed silence. Terry insists on carrying both your luggage all the way to the room. “You can have the shower first, I’ll run out and grab us something to eat. So you can have privacy. Just text me when you’re decent.” Terry says, placing our luggage in a corner then heading to the bathroom.

“Terry?” you ask, nervousness creeping its way up your spine. To your left there was one king bed. The indication is clear that you’d either be sharing a bed with Terry, or sleeping on a very unappealing loveseat.

A small sigh leaves Terry’s lips. He needed to put some distance between you two if he was going to keep his head in straight for the rest of this trip. “Yeah, Tatum?” he asks, you can hear the tiredness seep through the edges of his voice.

With a deep breath you say, “I know this arrangement isn’t ideal for either of us. But, I appreciate you being a gentleman about everything. I think we’re both adult enough to manage sleeping next to each other for a few days. And don’t try to be coy about it, you can’t sleep on the floor for 3 nights. I won’t let you.”

Terry opens his mouth to argue with you, but he sees the determination settled into your features and concedes. Usually, with anyone else he’d put up a fight,” Fine, fine, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

A triumphant smile blooms on your face, and Terry looks away. Your brows crease in confusion, until you see the tips of his ears begin to turn red.

“Well, I’ll just go take a shower now. You don’t have to wait, I should be done in like an hour and a half.” You say, bending over to open your suitcase. You smirk deviously when you hear Terry’s sharp intake of breath behind you.

“Right. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.” Terry says, and then he’s out the door. Before you have time to dwell on Terry’s abrupt exit, your phone rings. A small smile erupts when you see your sister’s contact appear on the tiny screen. Flipping open your phone, you press the green button, and put the phone up to your ear.

“Taryn, you always call when I’m about to do something,” you teased. You can practically hear your sister’s eyes roll through the phone.

“My timing is perfect then. I’m with mama we’re calling to check in on you,” your sister replies.

You smile and shake your head, “We just got in. Apparently there was a mix-up with the reservation so Terry and I are going to be sharing a room for the next three days.” You say, pulling out everything you need for your shower routine. On the other side of the line your mom and sister are staring at each other, mouths hanging open.

“Wait, you're going to share a room with someone you once called ‘green goblin’. And I don’t think you meant it in a nice way,” your sister said.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, “When is calling someone a goblin ever a term of endearment? Terry and I came to an agreement while we’re here, we’ll do our best to try and get along. Or we’ll fake it.” You finish with a shrug.

“Riiight, an agreement. That hotel is going to burn down,” your sister finished with a cackle.

You rolled your eyes, a dry chuckle leaving your lips. You’re sitting on the bathroom sink yapping with your sister and mom. Before you knew it you glanced at the clock and 30 minutes had passed. “Taryn I appreciate you and mama calling to check on me, but I need to shower before Terry gets back with the food. I’ll talk to y’all later. I love you.” Your sister, mother, and you all exchange goodbye’s and you hang up.

Turning on the radio nestled on your nightstand, you start to gather everything for your extensive night routine. Landing on a random station, the sensual voice of Dru Hill floods your suite. Humming the melody, you begin to undress. Your body taking on an autopilot, the regular routine of cleansing yourself putting your stimulated mind at ease. It was nice to shut your brain off after spending all day at war with your emotions about your current predicament.

You always admired Terry, his calm but loud presence, how self assured he was, and how he always seemed to know the answer before the question was asked. Searching through memories, you tried to find one that could pinpoint when the animosity started to take root, but you came up empty. Shaking your head, you try to ignore thoughts of Terry and focus on your shower.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

TERRY

“So, how was the drive up?” Maurice (co-worker) snickered, passing Terry a beer.

Terry’s eyes were going to get stuck as much as he rolled them today. “Don’t even start that shit man, I came down here for a minute of peace.” Terry says, grabbing the beer and taking a large gulp.

“So I take it you two didn’t solve your issues,” Maurice teases as he watches his usually calm, cool, and collected co-worker break a sweat.

Terry scoffed, setting his beer down with a little more force than necessary, “No, Mo, we didn’t. In fact, she suggested that we just fake getting along for appearances.” Maurice studies his friend, the former marine usually never let anything get to him. Yet, here he was about to blow a gasket over their fine ass co-worker. His knee bouncing in irritation, the subtle but constant tick of his jaw.

“Aye, T, are you sure you’re good man? You just don’t usually get this rattled. Did Nora say something?” Maurice asked.

Terry shook his head, a grimace turning his face down. “Basically she told us if we can’t find a way to get along, then we’re both out.” Terry sighs, running his hand over his face in exasperation.

”I don’t know what it is, man. It’s like she found her way under my skin and is stuck there. Everything she does annoys me, c’mon man, you’ve seen how she is around the office.”Terry said, motioning the bartender to bring him another beer.

“C’mon what? She’s a nice girl, cool to work with, really pretty, and has a great ass. What’s not to like?” Mo teases, hoping to get Terry riled up.

Terry could feel his chest tighten at his friend’s obvious approval of your appearance. It was the same chest tightness he got when Greg would hold open doors for you and bring you your favorite Starbucks order.

“Aye, T, I’m going to say something. When I say this, just think, don't give me an answer. But have you ever thought that maybe you’re attracted to her?”

The question hits Terry like a ton of bricks, his beer frozen mid-air as Maurice looks at him with a knowing smile on his face. Was Terry attracted to you? ‘He couldn’t be’, he thought. But, deep down he knew the answer to Maurice’s question. Of course he was attracted to you.

A knowing smile appears on Maurice’s face at Terry’s lack of answer,”You have three days to change her mind and think you aren’t the asshole you pretend to be. Look man, I get it, some people really just don’t like each other. But, I don’t think that’s the case here. Give Tatum a chance, she isn’t all bad. Figure it the fuck out, for everyone’s sake,” Maurice finishes. With two slaps to the back, Maurice leaves Terry in the hotel bar with his thoughts.

Was he attracted to you? Terry scoffed to himself, you were beautiful obviously. Intelligent, charming, funny as hell, and as much as he hated to admit it he loved working with you. The bickering arguments were the highlight of his day. Terry always made his coffee at 7:42am, because he knew 3-5 minutes later you would come strolling in, and he’d have the perfect view of your early morning strut, beaming smile, and a figure to kill for.

The waiter comes out with a huge to-go bag full of foods that Terry thought you would like. With a deep sigh, Terry grabs his beer and the food, heading back up to your room.

The seductive sounds of Dru Hill filters through the bathroom door as Terry enters the suite. He tenses, muscles in his jaw ticking as he can hear you singing softly.

He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, an attempt to calm his suddenly racing heart. The image of you, naked and wet under the cascading water, flashes through his mind like abrupt bursts of light. He shakes his head, trying to banish his sinful thoughts of you.

Walking over to the small kitchenette , Terry placed down the bag of food. Plating it, and setting out a glass of wine for you and beer for him. In the bathroom, you’re completely unaware of Terry’s presence. The cherry blossom scent of your shampoo fills your nose, its familiarity bringing you a sense of calm.

Not to mention the radio station you picked was playing all your favorites. Detangling through your curls, you sang Mariah Carey’s ‘Obsessed’ damn near at the top of your lungs. Terry sat on the other side of the door with a small smile on his face at your carefree singing. Unable to sit any longer, Terry rises from the bed and begins to pace the room. His thoughts waging a war in his head. He stops in front of the window in your room, staring out at the city lights below without truly seeing them.

Whether he liked it or not, somehow you’d managed to worm your way under Terry’s skin. He had yet to decide if this was a good or bad thing for him.

The bathroom door creaks open and Terry hears the startled gasp you let out behind him. “Oh, did I take too long? You set all the food up, thank you Terry!” You cooed, patting your hair dry with an oversized t-shirt.

You watch Terry’s tense shoulder as he turns to face you. You had forgone your contacts, black cat eye frames sat on your nose giving you an innocence that made Terry clench his fist. You looked so soft, not the office siren that strutted around and ruled her team with an iron fist. Just Tatum.

You watch as Terry scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah, no problem. Think of it as phase one of my apology.”

Your eyes widen as you take in Terry's words, “Wait, did I transport to a parallel universe in the shower? You’ve never apologized to me before,” you say, skeptically. Your mind was reeling, there’s no way this is the same guy you arrived with.

A bashful grin spreads across Terry’s face at your acceptance, “I’m turning over a new leaf here, now come please sit down,” he gestures to the sofa. “C’mon, sit with me,” Terry says, as he pats the spot next to him.

You eye the food, then back up to Terry before saying, “Sure, just give me a minute, I don’t want my hair dripping all over you.”

Terry nods, shooting you a small smile, “If your food gets cold, it’s on you,” he finishes, with a teasing tilt in his voice. You playfully roll your eyes as you try your best to soak up your damp hair with a t-shirt.

“So what are we watching?” You ask, sitting next to Terry. The gentle brush of your bare thigh against his, causing goosebumps to bloom across your skin.

Terry clears his throat before mumbling, “sports highlights.” He turns up the TV signaling that he wants silence.

A dry chuckle leaves your lips, “I see the asshole is back.” Reaching for your kindle and your food you settle into the couch completely prepare to tune Terry out for the rest of dinner, this was going to be a long 3 days.

Okay y’all! Please Tell me what you guys think! I think this could be a 4 -5 part series. I hope you guys like it! I just wanted to get this out before I start flooding y’all with sinners/ MBJ fics.

UNTIL NEXT TIME <3

TEE

#aaron pierre #aaronpierre #rebel ridge fanfiction #terry richmond fanfiction #terry richmond #terry richmond x reader #terry richmond x black reader #terry richmond smut #enemies to lovers #workplace romance #writingsbytee #tee writes

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alexa-santi-author · 9 hours ago

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I liked this movie way more than I expected to -- despite my vocation, I have a low tolerance for rom-coms. But it worked for me, partly because the actors were convincingly horny for each other even when they insisted they hated each other. Because why else would they be so totally obsessed with that guy, of all people? 🤭

Evolution of Henry and Alex relationship (to be continued… 👀)

#rwrb #red white and royal blue

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yuujispinkhair · 22 hours ago

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I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME – Chapter 14

🏒❤️ A Hockey Romance feat. modern!Sukuna

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, Hockey AU, fluff + smut Playlist: I wanna be your Endgame Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: 18+, smut, cigarettes, alcohol, some rough locker room sex in this chapter ;), Kuna makes Reader squirt. Fuckbuddies to lovers. Reader is a creative writing student. Sukuna is an ice hockey player + history student. This story will have approximately 16 chapters. Minors don't interact. Header by me. Divider @/benkeibear

MASTERLIST

You have been dating Sukuna for two months, and it shows in the clothes you have bought lately. Warm sweaters and thermo leggings, anything to keep you warm in the chilly hockey arena, where you seem to spend more and more time.

You're not just here for Sukuna's games. More often than not, you are also sitting in the stands after your classes, reading the books your literature professor assigned while stealing far too many glances at your man, who is practicing with his teammates, looking too sexy to keep your eyes off him for more than a few minutes at a time.

It was Sukuna who asked you to come to his hockey training more often. Or he didn't outright ask, but told you how much he likes it when you watch him during practice. He whispered it in your ear when he was on top of you in all his naked tattooed glory, pressing you down with his heavy body, spoiling you with strokes so deep and good that you thought you would lose your mind, and of course, it lead to you promising him that you would drop by more often to keep him company during hockey practice.

So basically, you are here because Sukuna and you are equally obsessed with each other. And that thought alone is enough to make you grin from ear to ear.

You are currently sitting on the stands on a Tuesday afternoon, huddled in Sukuna's warm Tigers hoodie and your new fleece leggings, telling yourself you are working on your assignment, but truth be told, you are too busy watching your boyfriend skate across the ice, looking like a full course meal in his black compression shirt.

And Sukuna keeps looking at you, too, grinning that boyish grin and winking at you, not giving a fuck about who can see him flirting with his girl.

He even skates over to you occasionally, putting his gloved hand against the plexiglass and banging on it to capture your attention (as if he didn't already have it),

"Hey, princess! Come here for a sec! I need my lucky charm real quick!"

He smirks at you and jerks his tattooed chin towards a gate a few meters away. You roll your eyes playfully but get up and walk toward Sukuna while teasing him,

"Aww, does the big bad guy have withdrawal symptoms?"

And Sukuna just grins even broader at you, raising an eyebrow,

"Maybe I need a kiss or two. Isn't that part of your job description as my personal lucky charm? I am adding it to the rules right now if it isn't included already."

He looks so charming standing there with that playful grin and the twinkle in his maroon eyes, and you laugh delightedly, opening the gate so you can deliver the motivational kisses Sukuna asked for.

Sukuna leans down to capture your lips with his, giving you a playful, slow kiss. The sexy combination of his cold lips and warm tongue makes your head spin, and you eagerly lick into his mouth before he pulls away again a few seconds later and winks at you.

"Yeah, I am already feeling more energetic. Thank you, princess."

He ruffles your hair, waiting for your squeal of complaint before he laughs and turns around, skating back to his teammates to continue his training while you smooth down your hair and lick your lips, still tasting Sukuna on your tongue.

But even though his girl is here and Sukuna steals all those little moments with you, his coach never complains too much. Because he knows what you know, too: Sukuna isn't slacking. He takes his training seriously.

It's one of the things you love about him. His dedication, his ambition. Sukuna always gives his all. He always wants to be the best. And yet, as important as hockey is to him, he made room for you in his life. He wants you here, wants you in the stands when he has practice, wants you close to him, even if it just means some shared grins across the rink or some stolen kisses in between training sessions.

It's just as Sukuna said to you the night he confessed his feelings to you. He loves to combine his two favorite things in the world: You and hockey.

"Ew, get your dirty sports things off my pretty couch!"

Nobara stands in your shared living area, arms crossed in front of her chest, glaring indignantly at Sukuna, who just dropped by after hockey training and put his sports bag on the couch.

You snicker softly, about to make a joking reply, but your boyfriend is faster. Sukuna laughs and flashes Nobara a big rude grin, almost as if he is enjoying this. Which he probably really is, when you think about it. His eyes glitter with dark enjoyment.

"Chill, Ginger. Your couch should be honored that it gets to touch my bag. Also, you can go through my stuff, you won't find anything dirty. I take very good care of what is mine."

Sukuna's gaze strays to you at those last few words, and he winks at you, making you chuckle. You hold Sukuna's gaze, smiling broadly at him, watching his rude grin soften to a smile. Nobara sighs dramatically, marches over to the couch, and lifts Sukuna's bag with an exaggeratedly disgusted expression on her face before she dumps it on the floor in front of Sukuna's feet,

"Take that thing away! And, God, would the two of you stop it with the eye-fucking!? It's disgusting!"

Which only makes Sukuna's lips lift in a devilish, lopsided grin as he keeps looking at you,

"You heard her, princess. She doesn't like us eye-fucking. Let's go into your room and fuck for real."

Both you and Nobara squeal loudly at his words. Nobara makes a gagging noise, hurrying to the door,

"I am leaving! And if I find your filthy used condom in the bathroom again, I will burn down the hockey arena!"

"Okay, if you don't want it in the bathroom, I'll make sure to put it in the trash can in your room then. Didn't know you are such a fangirl, geez!"

You smack Sukuna's shoulder playfully, and Nobara screams as she bangs the door shut behind her. You laugh, rolling your eyes at Sukuna,

"Maybe you should be a bit nicer to her, Kuna."

"Oh, I fear I can't do that. It's part of my charm. And you're the only one who gets to see my nice side anyway."

And then his lips silence any further complaints, kissing you deep and with all those sexy tongue flicks that make you melt against his tall body, and a few minutes later, you sigh contently as Sukuna's weight settles on top of you on your bed, your hands automatically slipping under his hoodie, caressing his buff muscles, your head tilting back to let Sukuna trail kisses over your neck.

The little dispute with Nobara is forgotten for the next two hours that you spend with Sukuna in your room, making out and fucking, and cuddling afterward. But then he grumbles something about being hungry, and you smile and press a kiss to his neck, murmuring,

"Then go look what we have in the fridge."

Sukuna turns his head to cup your cheek with his hand, pulling you into a sloppy kiss before he gets up from your bed, only putting on his boxer briefs before he goes to the kitchen to raid your and Nobara's fridge.

You smile to yourself, sitting up on the bed as you put on some clothes, too. You are just in the middle of putting on your t-shirt when you hear Sukuna's loud laugh, and he calls out to you,

"Princess! Come here, quick! You won't believe this!"

You raise an eyebrow curiously, hurrying to the kitchen and asking what happened. Then, stop in your tracks when you see Sukuna standing in front of the open fridge, holding up two milk cartons. One of them has a pink sticky note taped to it that says in Nobara's handwriting: For ugly hockey players. Enjoy your milk, Kirby.

For a moment, you blink at the milk carton, and then you burst out laughing while your boyfriend opens it to take a big gulp straight out of the carton.

Nobara returns home a few hours later when Sukuna has already left. You are in the kitchen doing the dishes, and before Nobara can disappear to her room, you quickly call out,

"Hey, why did you put milk for Sukuna in the fridge?"

Nobara makes a huffing sound and turns around to look at you, but one corner of her glossy lips lifts in a half-grin,

"Ah, so he found it."

"Of course, he found it. You know he always takes something from our fridge. But I thought you can't stand him?"

Nobara shrugs, averting her gaze to inspect her long nails,

"He's annoying as fuck. But you like him. So I thought I'd get some milk for your boy."

"Oh... that's really nice, actually. Thank you."

Nobara shrugs again, but you can see the proud glint in her eyes as she flips her hair back.

"Yeah, I am the nicest person ever, of course."

Acting all tough and unimpressed, but after a moment, she sighs and walks over to you and puts an arm around your shoulder, holding you loosely while she adds,

"You're my friend. And you have always been supportive of Maki and me. Now, I am supportive of you and your curse boy, no matter how annoying he is. And at least, when he has his own milk carton now, I can rest assured that his slimy lips don't touch my precious milk!"

Another Saturday, another afternoon in the hockey arena.

The thing about being Sukuna's girlfriend is that you get quite used to seeing your boyfriend winning. Most of the Tigers' games end in a victory, with the whole arena cheering for their star player and Sukuna grinning that big, proud grin.

But tonight is not one of those nights. It doesn't look good for the Tigers.

You can see the fury in Sukuna's eyes with each minute that passes. He gives his all, throws himself brutally into his opponents, fights his ass off to get the puck, doesn't even let himself get stopped by getting slammed into the boards countless times. But still, it's not enough.

The Tigers lose.

You can see the anger sizzling through Sukuna's veins when he leaves the ice. His tattooed jaw is clenched, his posture tense, and the fiery glint in his eyes is downright dangerous. You hope he won't run into any rival player and get provoked because you know it will get him into all kinds of trouble.

Your steps are faster than usual as you make your way toward the locker room, trying to be there for Sukuna before he gets himself into a fistfight, which he will surely regret tomorrow because it will get him suspended from the next game.

When you reach the door of the locker room, the majority of the players already march out. They all look clearly upset, with slumped shoulders and sour expressions on their faces, and you have a feeling they all got changed as fast as possible to get away from a very pissed-off Sukuna.

You catch the door before it can fall shut and tentatively look inside. Yuuji is the first one you see, and he nods at you in greeting, but his face lacks the usual enthusiasm. Even the sunshine boy isn't able to muster up a smile today. You nod back at him, a question in your eyes, and Yuuji jerks his chin toward the other Tigers still in the room,

"Yo, hurry up, guys! Let's grab some drinks to forget about this shitshow!"

Yuuji pulls his hoodie over his head and then ushers his teammates out of the locker room, making sure his brother can have his alone time with you.

You step to the side and wait until the rest of the players have left and then bite your lip, step into the changing room, and let the heavy door fall shut behind you. The typical post-hockey game smell fills your nostrils, a mix of sweat, shower gel, and lingering adrenaline.

Your gaze finds Sukuna. He is still sitting on the bench, his armor off, shirtless, only in his boxer briefs, his abs and chest firm and dripping with sweat. His large hands grip the bench tightly, a furious glint in his eyes as his gaze catches you in the doorway.

It's clear to see that the King is pissed off.

Every fiber of his body screams anger at you, and it makes your breath catch in your throat, and something deep inside you throb excitedly. Because you know what a loss leads to. You know that Sukuna needs you extra badly tonight. You know that he will fuck you hard today, take you mercilessly, fuck all his frustration into you.

And it's exactly what you are here for. To offer your comfort in every way your man needs. And the thing is, you will enjoy every second of it.

"Baby, are you okay?"

You say it in a husky tone, eyes meeting Sukuna's burning-hot gaze across the locker room. Sukuna sends you a sneer, brushing his sweaty pink hair out of his eyes as he looks at you with an intensity that makes you wet instantly.

"I fucking hate this game."

You chuckle softly,

"You played so well. It's not your fault at all."

Sukuna huffs, laughing an unhumorous laugh.

"The whole team fucked up, including me."

You shake your head as you make your way over to your boyfriend. Sukuna never takes his eyes off as you walk towards him while already taking off your sweater and letting it drop carelessly to the floor of the changing room, followed by your leggings, only leaving you in the red lacey bra and panties set you wore specifically for this game.

You thought you would wear it for a victory fuck, but it's also going to serve its purpose for a make-things-okay-again-after-a-loss-fuck.

You can see the rage in Sukuna's tense posture. His broad, naked chest is sweaty, heaving heavily. The veins on his buff, tattooed arms stand out. All his muscles are taut, his jaw clenched. But at the same time, there's a feral hunger in his eyes as he lets his gaze travel slowly over your figure.

The moment you stop in front of him, Sukuna grabs you immediately and pulls you onto his lap. You straddle his thick, tattooed thighs and press yourself against Sukuna's strong, sweaty body, humping against the huge, hot bulge in his boxer briefs.

You know exactly what Sukuna needs tonight.

You lean forward, pressing your tits against Sukuna's chest as you capture his lips in a sweet kiss, even more tender than usual, more loving, despite how pissed off your boyfriend looks right now. It means you only will treat him even more lovingly. Be his sweet girl who comforts him and who he can fuck his angry cock deep into and find sweet relief by taking it all out on your tight wet pussy.

Sukuna rewards you instantly with a low, needy growl, and his large hands tighten roughly around your waist as he pushes his tongue between your lips. There is nothing gentle about the way he kisses you. It's rough and savage, almost brutal. He's fucking your mouth with his tongue, deep and savagely, making a needy mewl fall from your lips as you wrap your arms around Sukuna's thick neck.

You kiss him back eagerly, with tender licks and soft moans, keeping it sweet despite his rough attitude. Your lips trail from Sukuna's lips over his angular jaw to his neck. Kissing and licking before you gently nibble his earlobe and whisper in his ear,

"I'm here for you, baby. Do whatever you want with me. Take it all out on me. Fuck it all into me, Kuna."

Sukuna answers you with a low growl, and his large calloused hands grab your ass and squeeze it hard as he pushes you down on his lap, grinding his hard bulge against you, hot and heavy rubbing against your swollen wet clit, making you soak your panties and his boxers with your sweet arousal.

You moan softly, letting yourself sink heavily onto Sukuna's lap, meeting his movements. Grinding against his hard cock, massaging it with your clothed pussy, feeling him growing even harder against you. You watch Sukuna closely, basking in the way he lets his head fall back against the locker and moan loudly.

His gaze meets yours, and it makes a needy moan fall from your lips, too. Both of you wear the same horny and passionate expression, both knowing exactly what will happen.

You rub yourself slowly against Sukuna, spoiling his cock some more, watching as Sukuna lets you see all the passion on his tattooed face, mouth hanging open, low moans and harsh breaths falling from his lips as he watches you with that feral glint in his maroon eyes.

Sukuna's gaze never leaves yours as he slips the straps of your bra down and then yanks the whole thing down, making your tits spill out of the lacey red cups. The next second, his lips close around one nipple, sucking roughly on it, tongue lapping hungrily at it, making you twitch in his lap and letting out a shaky moan. Sukuna's teeth close around your tit, biting gently, leaving his teeth marks on you, making you gasp his name and tug on his pink hair even as you arch your back against him.

A low growl falls from Sukuna's lips. His tongue is still lapping teasingly at your erect nipple as his fiery gaze burns into yours. His voice is a low, velvety drawl,

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard. Gonna wreck you, princess."

Sukuna's maroon eyes look almost black from how dilated his pupils are, and you bite your lip before caressing his hair and whispering to him,

"Do it, baby. Fuck me as hard as you need. I can take it."

Sukuna lets out a breathless low groan which makes your pussy clench around nothing. One of his hands leaves your ass to grab your chin and caress your jaw firmly, his eyes dark and full of a mix of love and rage and so much passion and need, a lopsided smirk lifting one corner of his lips,

"Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart."

But you just let his thumb slip between your lips and suck it into your warm, wet mouth, looking deeply into Sukuna's eyes as you suckle devotedly on his finger showing him how serious you are about this. How much you are willing to give yourself fully to him and let him do anything he wants with you. Anything he needs tonight.

And Sukuna wouldn't be Sukuna if he didn't take you up on that offer. He smirks at you with a devilish glint in his eyes, and then Sukuna grabs you tightly and gets up with you in his arms, lifting you up as if you weigh nothing, holding you securely in his strong arms.

He slams you against his locker, making you gasp breathlessly as your back hits the cold surface while the rest of your body is covered with Sukuna's buff and overly hot body.

Sukuna's lips claim yours in a hot kiss, tongue so deep in your throat that it sends the craziest butterflies flying in your stomach.

He pushes down his boxer briefs impatiently, freeing his hard cock. It's pulsing with need, the tip swollen with an angry dark pink color, drooling pre-cum all over himself.

He doesn't bother taking off your panties but just yanks them to the side, letting his hot cockhead caress your throbbing clit sending shivers down your spine for a few seconds before Sukuna pulls back.

And then he claims you fully without any prior warning.

You gasp loudly, digging your nails into Sukuna's muscular back, feeling so full when Sukuna's hard cock rams into you deeply, claiming his girl with a hard brutal thrust.

Pleasure explodes behind your closed eyelids, making you feel dizzy from the assault of hard, unrelenting pleasure. You instantly wrap your legs tightly around Sukuna's hips, stuttering his name breathlessly as he fucks you hard and rough against his locker.

Sukuna's skin is hot and sweaty against you, his muscles taut, his low groans in your ear so fucking sexy and feral. He is so loud tonight. Growling and moaning loudly in your ear. Unrestrained, sexy noises full of lust and need and anger while Sukuna snaps his hips furiously against you.

It's a hard fuck. Primal. Like a big predator driven out of his mind by the need to mount his mate. Hard, angry thrusts. So deep and rough that you know you will feel him for days.

But you would lie if you said this isn't exactly what you want. You love to feel Sukuna like this. Love to let him use you like this. Love to feel his fat angry cock push into you and hear Sukuna's desperate, feral grunts. You love knowing that you are the only one who can comfort Sukuna after a loss. By letting him fuck you like this, rough and needy, against his locker, finding relief in your tight wet cunt.

You urge him on with breathless moans whispered in his ear and your legs wrapping tightly around his taut ass and fingernails digging into his buff muscles, needy just like him, clinging to him, your wet pussy clenching around him greedily.

Sukuna's mouth captures yours in another savage kiss, and you moan into it, licking against his tongue tenderly, eyes closed while you cling to him and take his thick angry cock all too happily.

The two of you are in a frenzy. Nothing but the two of you exists. Only Sukuna and you. Only his lips on yours and his cock deep inside you. You doubt the two of you would be able to stop even if someone walked in on you right now.

Sukuna's lips wander to your neck, kissing, sucking, his teeth grazing over your sensitive skin before he bites you lightly. His low voice is husky, filled with a sexy mix of arousal and anger when he grounds out,

"I. Fucking. Hate. Losing."

Every word gets accentuated by a rough thrust directly onto your sweet spot.

You mewl loudly, legs shaking as you feel tears stream down your cheeks from how good it feels to get fucked like this, Sukuna's name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Your fingers dig into Sukuna's broad back, your voice hoarse when you moan in his ear, urging him on,

"Yes! Fuck me, baby! Fuck it all into me. Take it all out on me, Kuna!"

He fucks the first orgasm out of you right then and there. It crashes over you unexpectedly, hot and wild, making you squeal his name as your pussy clenches wildly around Sukuna's cock, your legs shaking as you cum hard on his fat cock.

Sukuna groans, but he isn't finished with you. He slams you even harder against the locker with deep, brutal thrusts that make you squeal and sob, already feeling another orgasm building deep inside you.

It feels like it's too much. Like you will melt away if Sukuna keeps going and makes you cum one more time like this. But it feels so damn good, and you sob loudly, clinging desperately to Sukuna, your legs wrapped tightly around his muscular ass, your nails leaving scratches on his back.

Sukuna's voice is so sexy, low, husky, and laced with those feral grunts and deep moans, giving in to his most primal urges as he ruts into you,

"Don't hold back! Give me another! Fucking squirt on my cock!"

His hand forces itself between your bodies, thick calloused thumb rubbing furiously at your stiff clit, so fast and intense that you cry out, feeling your body lose control, panicking for a second, but Sukuna groans in your ear,

"Yeah, just like that, make a big fucking mess all over me!"

It's not a suggestion but a command, and it drives you insane, that natural dominance, that sexy control Sukuna emits. You clench around Sukuna's cock again, eyes closed, mouth opening in a wild cry as you feel yourself tumble over the edge again, his nasty words making you lose all control.

The waves of your orgasm crash over you unrelentingly, so hard it makes you see black for a moment as you scream and your pussy spasms around Sukuna's huge cock, milking him wildly as your juices spray out of you uncontrollably, squirting all over his cock and his heavy balls, wet, hot and messy, just like he told you to.

Sukuna growls but doesn't stop drilling his cock into you, fucking you roughly, smacking your pussy with his taut heavy balls anytime he pushes into you. Fucking you through your orgasm, with the nastiest wet sounds, as he fucks your creamy wetness back into you, while grunting loudly in your ear, low sexy noises, harsh breaths, as Sukuna chases his own orgasm now.

Sukuna cums with an unrestrained loud groan. His hips stutter against yours, and he presses you against the locker, ramming his twitching cock impossibly deep into you for his orgasm. His strong body is so close to you, hot and sweaty and brimming with passion.

You mewl his name, not able to stop yourself from clenching around him as he shoots his hot ropes of cum deep into you. Sukuna is so sexy like this when he loses control and lets himself get overtaken by his most primal needs. Loud groans fall from his lips, his whole muscular body is taut, his heart racing wildly against your breasts as he empties his balls and all his anger into you.

Gradually, Sukuna's loud groans turn into low sighs and labored breathing. He pulls away only enough so he can grab your chin with one of his large hands and tilt your head back, making you look up into his maroon eyes, which are heavy-lidded with lust and satisfaction.

The eye contact is so intense, so intimate with the way Sukuna's cock is still buried to the hilt inside you after he came in you, his hot seed deep inside you, your wetness clinging to his cock, your bodies touching everywhere, your breaths mingling, both of you still high from your orgasms.

Sukuna flashes you one of his lazy, sexy smirks,

"You're such a fucking good girl for me."

His lips claim yours in another rough kiss that makes you moan softly.

Sukuna kisses you deep and hard, his cock still buried balls deep in you, while Sukuna is still rocking against you slowly, still fucking you with his spent cock, overstimulating himself because he can't pull out yet, needing you too much. It makes you whine into the kiss and caress the taut muscles on Sukuna's broad back and buck your hips against him getting every last drop of his seed, every last caress his half-hard cock can give you.

The kiss becomes slower, lazier, sloppy, and, oh, so tender. And Sukuna's cock finally slips out of you, half-hard, gradually softening now, resting heavy and hot against your skin, slick from his cum and your juices, pulsing hotly against you, and you moan his name, just when Sukuna murmurs, "I love you." against your kiss-swollen lips.

You smile softly at Sukuna, cupping his tattooed cheek and caressing it gently.

"I love you, too, baby. Are you feeling better now?"

Sukuna laughs softly and carefully lowers you back down until your feet touch the ground. His muscular arms stay wrapped around you, though, not letting you go away just yet. A playful grin lifts his lips.

"Yeah, you always know what I need, princess. Thank you. But I promise that next time, we'll have a victory fuck again. I am not going to fucking lose twice in a row!"

You laugh, patting Sukuna's cheek playfully, and shake your head theatrically,

"Of course you won't, baby."

AAAHHH angry Kuna does something to me 😵😵

I am so glad I finally managed to post this new chapter! I hope that some of you are still interested in this story and that you enjoyed the update! Thank you so much to everyone who left encouraging messages in the last few weeks! I am kissing youuuu 😘💗

Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna fluff #sukuna #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #jjk fluff

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miwiheroes · 2 days ago

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You know why I don't think we'll be queerbaited?

Because the creators have very intentionally dared us to assume that ambiguously queer scenarios will end in a heterosexual way. But they haven't. Every Single Time so far.

They said....Will's disgust at dating and his desire not to grow up could be about his trauma. But it's because he's queer.

They said....Will being upset about his best friend being overly obsessed with his step-sister's relationship could be because he feels like a third wheel and misses his best friend. But it's because he's queer and in love with said best friend.

They said....El's desire for Mike to say that he is in love with him could be because she loves him too. But it's because she is anxiously attached to him and wanted to be reassured she's not a monster.

They said.....Robin being scared to talk to Steve and hating the popular kids could be because her and her friends are seen as nerds and unpopular. But it's because she's queer.

They said....Vickie pausing Fast Times at fifty-three minutes twenty-five seconds could be ignored because she has a boyfriend. But it's because she's attracted to women.

So, what if:

They said....Mike acting cold towards his best friend during puberty and overly obsessed with his girlfriend could be because he is in love with his girlfriend so much more than his best friend. But it's actually because he's queer and has internalised homophobia.

They said....Mike not being able to say I love you to his girlfriend unless he is prompted by his best friend's speech could be because he was afraid to lose his girlfriend and saying i love you would bring that faster. But it's actually because he's queer and not in love with a woman.

They said...Mike and Will sharing a lot of heart-to-hearts, being comfortable with each other, and not wanting to lose each other could be because they're such good friends. But it's because they're in love with each other.

Yes, we've all been queerbaited before.

But with Stranger Things, we've been hetero-baited many more times. This time will hopefully be far less different.

Credit to @therainscene for inspiring me to make this

#byler #byler endgame #mike wheeler #will byers #stranger things #byler doubt erased

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lovelivision · 24 hours ago

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★‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❝ GET YOU BACK! ❞

･ ⟢ ⋮ summary. . . toji is your ex-husband and he deeply regrets ever having let the marriage fall apart, he doesn't plan on giving up after the divorce though, determined to get you back. . .

.pairing﹒ꕀ. fushiguro toji / reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎wc.⁀⊹ 3.4k

warnings.ᐟ.ᐟ 18+ only, smut, mdni, swearing, porn with some (?) plot, biting, dirty talk, cunnilingus, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy), creampie, f!reader, toji is a little obsessed maybe

Toji is still so desperately in love with you – his ex-wife – and he’s refusing to let you forget just how much you mean to him. Always showing up whenever you need him and if he’s being honest, maybe scaring away potential future relationships. He swears he has good reasons for each of them though, that first guy was definitely taking advantage of you because you were sad from the divorce and the other guy… well, he had a creepy vibe.

Maybe he’d feel worse about it if he thought any of them deserved you, hell he thinks he barely deserves you, let alone these fucking losers. You’re far too special to him and he regrets ever letting the marriage get to the point where you left but he’ll spend every day he has left trying to get you back.

Every time you call him for something – or to tell him off for something – his heart stammers in his chest. Your voice like music to his ears, stupid smile on his face even when you’re mad at him, far too adorable for him to be annoyed.

You’re frustrated and huffing down the line at him, “Toji, are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I am,” he snickers, “I love listening to you.”

“This is exactly what I mean, Toji… you need to move on,” sigh more sad than anything else.

Countering with, “Can you honestly tell me you’ve moved on?”

There’s a heavy silence from your end of the line, pausing for slightly too long before dodging his question, “…Stop meddling in my life and find someone else.”

“I don’t want anyone else.”

“Maybe you should’ve been this communicative during our marriage then.

He imagines your lower lip pulling up like how it often did when you were at your wits end with him, his heart pulling at the thought, he misses you so damn much. “I’ve never wanted anyone else, doll. I–”

“–Could’ve fooled me,” before he can interrupt, you add, “I’m hanging up now and I don’t plan on reaching out to you again… bye, Toji.”

The line dead just as he opens his mouth to reply, soft groan leaving him, frustrated with himself for going a tad too far this time. For now, he’ll give you space, just for now, he’s hoping that you’ll cave and call him again, hoping you miss him just as much as he misses you.

He has so many regrets from the relationship, he should’ve been more attentive, he should’ve been more emotionally available for you. He’s always loved you, loved you so much that he could barely breathe, it’s his mistake that he didn’t show that to you enough while you were his. If he could go back, he would’ve never stopped doing the little things, he wouldn’t have let himself take you for granted…

A few weeks go by after that call and you haven’t reached out to him at all, he’s growing impatient, missing the sound of your voice. It’s a complete coincidence when he runs into you, you’re on the side of the street with some guy. You don’t notice Toji but he definitely notices you, how could he not?

You’re all dressed up and looking so pretty and just as he’s about to leave so he can avoid whatever is about to happen, you slap the man. The smile on Toji’s face appears suddenly and with little control on his part, though he doesn’t deny that he enjoys the way you’re clearly cursing the guy out. Only watching for a moment and then quickly moving to your side because the guy is getting angrier, his fists balling at his sides as his jaw clenches.

Toji places his hand on the small of your back, towering over the man in front of you both. Though he’s mostly ignoring him, addressing you instead, “You look real pretty tonight, doll.”

You’re clearly surprised, having tensed at his touch until you heard his voice, “Toji? What are you doing here?”

“Just passing by when I happened across an interesting scene,” he’s feeling some type of way at the fact you visibly relaxed when it was him next to you, smug maybe? Maybe just pure happiness that you’re still comfortable around him.

“Try not to look so pleased,” your eyes roll at him and he can’t help but notice how pretty the particular shade of them is under the lights tonight.

“Uhh, hello?” your presumed date makes himself known, “Who the fuck is this and can you tell me what the fuck I did to deserve being slapped?”

You snap back, not in the mood to deal with his attitude right now, “You’re a fucking creep is what you did and who this is, is none of your business.”

His tone is all matter-of-fact when he talks again, “This is a date, the third one actually and–”

“I’m telling you right now that you don’t want to finish your sentence,” you’re trying to warn him, not for your benefit but his, “just leave and block my number.”

He goes to argue with you some more but Toji finally pulls his gaze away from you to look at him and if looks could kill, this guy would be dead and no one would know where to find his body. Apparently thinking better of it, your date turns tail and leaves, stomping angrily away from the two of you.

“What’d he do to deserve a slap like that, doll?”

“I’m not in the mood to entertain you, Toji…” you rub at your temples, a habit you’ve had for as long as he can remember, “but thank you… for your help.”

“I’m always here for you,” he frowns, hurt to think you don’t know that, don’t know that he’s always, always here for you. “I don’t want you thinking–”

You raise a hand, interrupting his sentence, “Stop… stop saying the things I wish you’d said while we were married.”

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” you’re clearly hesitant at his ask but he needs to tell you how he feels, tell you so that you understand, “Please.”

Tentative expression on your face but a low sigh letting him know you’re about to cave, “Fine but after this… you need to really try to move on, we can’t keep doing this song and dance.”

He doesn’t answer, not willing to agree to something he couldn’t possibly do. Your eyes close for a moment before blinking back open, head shaking at him but you don’t push him.

Toji’s place is closer but he doesn’t want you in such a shitty neighbourhood at night so you both go back to your house, the house you once shared. While inside, he can’t help himself and he’s snooping, looking for changes to the place and aside from all the things he took with him when he left, it’s much the same.

Walking down the hall only to get caught on your wedding photo, still on the wall. The hope he has at the sight of it doesn’t feel fair, doesn’t feel fair because he doesn’t know if it’s false hope or not.

Your voice from behind him pulls him from his thoughts, “Do you want some tea or something?”

“No,” he pats the top of your head a couple times like he used to do so often, “no, I’m alright.”

“…Then let’s go to the living room,” head nodding in the direction.

It’s quiet for a few moments, neither of you knowing where to start or who should speak first. Toji supposes he should since he’s the one who basically begged to be able to talk to you.

“I know I let you down during our marriage but I need you to know that I always loved you – I still love you, so much.”

Your gaze avoids his and he knows it’s because you’re emotional, eyes looking upwards as you fight to stop yourself from crying, “Is that all?”

“Not even close,” he moves closer to you on the couch, his hands reaching for you and cradling your face, forcing eye contact, “I neglected you and for that I’m so fucking sorry.” Thumb wiping away a stray tear, “I love you.”

“I don’t want to forgive you,” lower lip wobbling, “if I forgive you, you might do it again or you might actually stop loving me and then what? And then I have to go through all of this again?”

He pulls you into his arms, hugging you firmly, “I won’t stop loving you,” face pressing into the top of your head, nuzzling you, “won’t ever fuck up like that again, let me love you properly this time.”

You’re sniffling against his shirt, calming yourself first before answering him. Only doing so when you’ve collected yourself, parting from him enough to look into his eyes when you say, “Fine but I’m not marrying you again until you earn it.”

He can’t help himself, lips on yours and kissing you deeply, so elated at another chance that he couldn’t hold back. His tongue licking into your mouth and savouring the taste of you, he’d missed this so bad; the little noises you make, the way you nearly go limp in his arms, so weak for his kisses.

It’s rushed because of how desperate he is, hands moving to feel you up, groping your body needily. A huffed whine leaving you makes him groan, lips trailing down to your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin.

“Doll, I need you,” he’s basically pleading, he’s missed you so much though, borderline touch starved.

“Okay–” gasping when he bites at your shoulder, “the room, Toji–”

He grunts back at you, annoyed that he has to stop but picking you up and walking down the hall to your room all the same, you’ve got him wrapped around your pretty little fingers right now.

Dropping you unceremoniously onto the bed, causing you to bounce with the weight of it. Toji takes a moment to eye you up, trying to decide what he wants to do first, ultimately choosing to undress you.

“Toji, slow down–”

“–No,” it’s growled back, hands tugging your clothes off until you’re naked, “I’ll do you slow another time.”

So quick he drops to his knees, mouthing up the insides of your thighs. Normally he’d tease you, make you shaky and desperate for it but he’s in no position to play with you, already so desperate himself. Blowing gently onto your cunt just once before licking obscenely up the length of it, his spine shuddering at how sweet you taste, delighting in how you jolt and whine under his mouth.

You’re already so wet and leaking so insistently for him, he’s all too happy to lap at you. Chuckling darkly when your fingers tug at his hair and you whine frustratedly, wanting so much more from him.

“What do you want?”

Pouting back at him, “You know what I want”

Feigning ignorance just so he can hear you say it, so he can hear you ask for it, “Sorry, doll. It’s been a while; you have to remind me.”

“Inside,” you murmur out, all timid.

“Hmm?” he hums, like he didn’t hear you perfectly clearly. Going back to licking and sucking on your pussy, tongue flicking at your clit so cruelly.

“Toji~” you mewl, “inside– hah– I want you inside.”

His cock is aching, twitching in his pants at how pathetic you sound for him – for your ex-husbands dick. Feeling a little evil, he slides his tongue inside you, lewd slurping sounds leaving him as he fucks your hole with his tongue. Giving you what you wanted, filling you, just not with what you wanted.

Your back arching pitifully, moans tumbling from your lips so sinfully sweet that his hips jerk upwards, searching for some way to relieve himself. Hard dick rubbing against the zipper of his jeans, no doubt a wet spot forming through the material where the tip of him rests. Nuzzling into your cunt more, swallowing down the honeyed taste of you and moaning unashamed at it.

He feels insane just about now, in love with you, in love with your sweet pussy. Eyes heavy on you as he watches all of your little reactions, just knowing you’re close, your thighs fighting to close. His hands keep you spread wide, always getting a little extra joy and arousal out of your embarrassment.

Tongue leaving your tight heat only to be replaced with two of his thick fingers, opening you up so indecently. Mouth latching onto your clit, tongue flicking at it over and over, digits rubbing against your walls just how he knows you like. He wants you to cum before he fucks you, always so much wetter and hotter around him once you do. He wants it so bad, the memory enough to make him salivate, drooling onto your cunt.

Broken whines leaving you, “Hah– Toji– hnn– I’m close– I– ah!–”

Your walls flutter so delicate and enticing around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, clinging to him. Soft hum leaving him, acknowledging your words, it’s just his luck that the vibrations add to your pleasure. Legs kicking out as you come undone for him, all shaky and blissed out as your pussy tries to milk his fingers, wishing for something else entirely.

Toji’s brain feels like it’s melting, all gooey and obsessed with you when you’re like this. Helping you through your orgasm and trying his best to ignore the way his cock feels so heavy and hard in his pants.

When you whimper and push at his head lightly, he pulls back. His fingers withdrawing from your snug cunt, all coated in your cum. Without really thinking, like a man possessed, he shoves his fingers into his mouth. It’s filthy how he licks and sucks on them, cleaning them of your essence.

“Toji, stop being a pervert,” your words hold little weight when you still look so turned on and ready to be fucked by him.

He grins at you, standing to his full height, “You ready to remember the shape of me?”

You’re so gorgeous, all splayed out and blinking soft up at him, eyes dazed and twinkling from your orgasm, “Please?”

“Anything for my pretty, little wife,” he undresses for you.

Your eyes track him as he does but you also correct him, “Ex-wife.”

“Fine,” he rolls his eyes, crawling onto the bed over top of you, “Anything for my pretty, little, ex-wife.”

“I missed you a lot,” leaning up to him so your lips brush against his skin.

The words and your gentle touch send a shiver through him, precum dripping from the tip of his cock onto your skin. “I missed you too, doll, so much.”

Lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, all messy and tangled tongues. Kissing you properly, like he may never get to again, cause he almost didn’t get to. Not even parting when he positions himself at your entrance, slowly splitting you open with his cock. Damn near whining into your mouth, pushing the pathetic sound down, trying to keep control.

Eventually pulling away from the kiss just so he can watch you suck in his dick, biting his lip in what looks like a snarl as he slides inside. Appreciating how your pussy bulges around him so lewdly, barely halfway and looking so fucking stuffed.

He’s taken by surprise when your legs wrap around him and pull him in until his hips are flush to you, balls deep inside you all at once making him moan. Walls clingy and so fucking creamy soft, his cock swallowed up so greedily by your loving cunt. Brain fuzzy as he focuses on not cumming too soon.

It’s hard to keep that focus when you’re grinding up into him, pulsing hot and snug around him. Apparently just as touch starved as he’d been, a desperation in your need that he finds himself loving and understanding.

“Calm down,” his hand trails up your leg, from your hip to your knee, “I’ll fuck you good and proper.”

Gritting back at him, “Then do it.”

“Anything you say, doll.”

Hauling your legs up from under your knees, folding you in half and using his weight to hold you there. His laugh is a little cruel when you whinge up at him, brows pulled together as your mouth drops open.

His head right by yours with how he’s pressing into you, nipping the tip of your ear before he asks, “You ready for it?”

A little shaky under him but so certain when you nod back, “Give– hnn– it to me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles slightly, hips pulling back, cock dragging from your walls and then fucking back inside you so quick that the air leaves your lungs.

Toji’s head is spinning, your pussy really fucking missed him, hugging him so tight. So perfectly wet and needy that he’s going insane, having you writhing under him while he fucks you stupid.

“Are ya’ enjoying this?” he asks, angled thrusts hitting against your cervix, “You like getting fucked by your ex-husband?”

“Mhm,” nodding deliriously at him, too out of your mind with pleasure to bite back at him.

It’s cute, how you’re falling apart from just a few heavy thrusts, already fucked dumb and he’s just getting started.

“I can tell,” The sloppy wet sounds of your pussy filling the room making him so smug, “pretty cunt sounds so fucking happy to take me.”

“Don’t– ah!– don’t talk like that– hnn–”

Your protests mean absolutely nothing when your pussy betrays just how much you enjoyed his words, grin wicked on his face at how meek it sounded. “Aw I’m sorry, doll. Want me to be sweeter? Nicer maybe?”

“Yes– hng–” nails clawing into his back, the pleasure too overwhelming.

“Your pussy was made for me– hah–” he groans softly, “wrapped so warm and inviting around my cock.”

“That’s not– hnn–” moans shaky on your breath, “that’s not what I meant.”

He presses a kiss to the side of your head, “Was what I meant though.”

Opening your mouth to argue a little more only to be stopped when his thrusts get suddenly much more precise, hitting the same spot over and over and over, entirely on purpose. He knows what it does to you, he loves what it does to you. Relishing in the pitiful and broken moans leaving you, your cunt that much tighter around him, almost milking him.

Oh, you’re falling apart so perfectly under him, he’s not even sure you realise you’re cumming. Pulsing around him and whining desperately, it’s depraved and turning him on so much more. He fucks you through it, not daring to slow his pace, helping you enjoy and ride out your high.

Toji plans on playing with you for longer, have you cumming for him again, holding off on his own orgasm. At least that was his plan before you – in your cock drunk state – started muttering out, “I– hnn– missed you so so much, Toji. Love you– hng– love you, I love you, I l– ah!–”

He genuinely can’t help the effect your words have on him, cock jerking deep inside your cunt before he’s cumming. Rope after rope of his seed filling you so completely that it’s leaking out around the base of him. Deep moans vibrating his chest, eyes shut tight as he steadily rocks his hips into you.

Unable to stop himself, still grinding and rocking into you over and over. His cum making a mess out of the both of you and the bed, something you’ll chew him out for once you’ve exited your stupor.

When he does eventually stop, he keeps your legs folded up to your chest while he pulls out. A depraved and perverted desire to watch how his cock leaves your cunt, hole looking lonely while not stuffed full of him. His semen dribbling from you and down your ass, it’s turning him on again but you’re too out of it for another round right now.

Careful with how he lowers your legs back onto the mattress, moving to your side and pulling you to him. Both your chests pressed together, his fingers delicately trailing up and down your arm.

You’re drifting in and out of sleep when he promises you, “I’ll treat you so much better this time,” he doesn’t mind if you heard it or not because he’s going to prove it to you every day with his actions.

𝒂.𝒏. i was in the middle of writing a drabble and did that thing where i accidentally added too much plot and then it turned into a mini fic... I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT THOUGH❕🤍 it's a little different from my usual stuff teehee

[⚠︎] — 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈.ᐟ do not reupload / repost / translate / plagiarise my works © all works are the intellectual property of lovelivision

#visionwrites #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #toji x reader smut #toji smut #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x reader smut #toji fushiguro smut #fushiguro toji smut #fushiguro toji x reader smut #fushiguro toji x reader #toji x you smut #toji x you

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althaiareads · 2 days ago

Text

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

Oh, what I would give to be able to tease him and him squirming like that. Short skirt weather is a blessing for everyone.

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

LMAOOOO, Jake does look like someone who would play whale noises to sleep. 10/10 characterisation.

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

You little shit, but I mean, don't we all?

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

It took me a minute to get the joke, but when I did? LMAOOO, you had me cackling on the bus at 7:00 a.m. I'm still not over it JAHSJAHSJSBSJHSJD

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

So have I, girl, you're not special.

But in all seriousness, I am obsessed with the way they keep checking each other out. The room is full, but they only have eyes for each other.

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”

Why am I suddenly crying?

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”

HE LOVES HER. HE TOLD HER HE LOVED HER!!! THEY ARE IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER!!!!!!

This was all so cute, I was speechless. I loved the way you wrote the team's dynamic and how unapologetic R was. She was so comfortable in her own skin, and that is so refreshing to see. The humor was also so great, I was laughing so hard while I was reading. Overall, this was so great, and I am left hungry for more 🩷

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

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

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

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

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

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

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

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

He lives for it.

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

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Bob is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” he chuckles softly.

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

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

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

He blinks fast. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.

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

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.

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

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

Your brows shoot up. “That so?”

He nods.

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

His eyes snap open. “Huh?”

“Want to fuck me?”

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

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

Well... almost everyone.

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

Which means he’s definitely listening.

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters.

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

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

Bob stills for a beat. Just one.

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

You swear your knees nearly give.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy,” Jake replies.

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

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

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

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

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.

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

You and Jake return to formation without issue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, later never comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.

“Wow,” he mutters.

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

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

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trev!”

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What am I?” she asks.

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.

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

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”

He freezes.

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

And then you feel it.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all look at you, confused.

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

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

You frown. “What?”

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone falls silent.

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”

There’s a pause. An awkward pause.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.

- Bob -

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”

“I know,” Bob huffs.

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.

He barely sleeps that night.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’

An hour passes. Nothing.

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.

It’s worse—because it’s you.

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.

“I—uh, Trevor?”

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”

“What?”

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?

- You -

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”

Trevor gasps—loudly.

“But he said no.”

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”

“Because he has laundry to do.”

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.

“Trevor…”

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.

But deep down, you know the truth.

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.

You give her a tight smile.

“Feeling any better?”

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely.

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.

“Vex—” he tries again.

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.

Your heart lurches.

Terrain. Too close. Too fast.

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.

You’re not going to make it.

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.

Then—freefall.

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.

But you’re too low. Far too low.

You don’t even have time to brace.

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.

White-hot pain detonates through you.

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.

And then… everything goes still.

Muted.

Quiet.

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.

Great. Another win.

Two whole days pass, and still no word.

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.

Even if it kills you.

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.

“What are you doing here?”

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”

His brow creases. “You do?”

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”

He laughs again, broken this time.

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.

“Love?” you whisper.

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”

Your heart lurches into your throat.

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.

He blinks. “What?”

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.

You nod. “Hangman.”

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.

“I know I had no right,” he mutters.

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

#Bob Floyd #Bob Floyd fluff #geminiwritten

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