#was just a fun thing i wanted to see how much i could do with so it took me like. a week or so cus i was busy
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One New Voicemail
your relationship with lando through voicemails.
(no warnings, just pure fluff. i'm kind of obsessed with writing these. would anyone want to see different drivers??? 1.2k words.)
First Date “Hey you. I know I just dropped you off and you’re probably not back up to your apartment yet but I just wanted to tell you that I had the best time tonight…” Lando winces at how lame that sounds, dragging in a breath before letting it loose. “I’ve never been axe throwing on a first date before but uh…I’m glad you still have all ten fingers.” He laughs softly, shaking his head.
“Anyway. I know I said it already, like…5 times but I had a really fun night. Like, best first date ever. So, I was hoping that maybe we could do it again. Soon? Yeah…soon.” He pauses, the butterflies in his stomach taking flight at the thought of seeing you again. “I’m in town for another week before the next race. Maybe tomorrow? Too soon? I don’t know, I just can’t get you off my mind and I’ve just dropped you off.” Shit. He was down bad, wasn’t he? “Text me?” Another pause. “Okay. Bye.” Click.
First Kiss “Hi. Um. So, that just happened, didn’t it?”
His voice is breathless, like he just ran up several flights of stairs before hitting your contact in his phone.
“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I saw you in that bookstore. I nearly chickened out that day, almost walked right past the shop window but…”
Lando shakes his head, smile tugging at his mouth.
“Fuck, I am so glad I didn’t. Because that was the best first kiss I’ve ever had. And then you gave me the best second kiss. And third…”
The words hang in the air, silence stretching out as he grins stupidly out at the London traffic in front of him.
“Okay. Anyway. I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I can’t wait to kiss you again. Bye.”
Click.
When You Make It Official “Hi baby. I uh…just needed to say goodnight to my girlfriend one more time.”
Lando giggles.
Giggles.
“So…you’re my girlfriend now, huh?” You can almost hear the smile slide across his face in the way he sounds. “Jesus, I was so nervous. Felt like I was 15 years old again. I’m so glad you said yes. Never a doubt in my mind…”
He snorts, rolling his eyes.
You both know that’s a lie.
“I wish I didn’t have to go to Spain so early tomorrow. Fucking media duties. Do you think maybe you could get Friday off? I want you by my side this weekend. I’m going to buy you a ticket as soon as I get back to my flat, okay? Okay. Bye.”
Click.
When He Wins “Fuck. I didn’t even check to see what time it was back home. I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you.” A pause. “Probably not because you didn’t answer. That’s good.”
Lando sounds flustered. Like he can’t quite gather his thoughts into a coherent string.
“I won!”
Laughter.
“I won and the first thing I thought when I saw that checkered flag was ’God, I wish she was here to see this.’ I hate being on opposite sides of the world from you. I haven’t heard your voice all fucking day. Is that pathetic? How much I love hearing your voice? You know what? I don’t care. Hearing you say my name is my favorite sound. Sue me.”
Someone shouts Lando’s name off in the distance, just loud enough for you to hear. They tell him it’s time to celebrate and take a team photo. His response is muffled and then louder, directed back at your voicemail.
“I wish you were here. I need you here for my next win, okay? Promise me? Okay, call me when you get up, I don’t care what time it is.”
A pause. Almost like there’s something else he wants to say. Something heavier.
“Okay. G’night.”
Click.
When He Misses You “Hi, baby.” He coos, voice tired. Sheets rustle in the background and he’s silent for a few moments. “I’m sorry I missed your call earlier. You’re probably out with the girls now, yeah? I hope you’re having a good time.”
Silverware clinks in the background. The hiss of a can opening.
“It’s been…fourteen days, six hours, and twenty-nine minutes since I kissed you and it’s really fucking annoying. I miss you so much. Triple headers suck. Can you come to Brazil next week? I’ll fly you out here. Please?”
A sigh that borders on a groan.
“I really fucking miss you.”
Deep breath.
“Okay. I hope you’re having fun. Call me when you get in, no matter what time it is, okay?”
Click.
When He Realizes He Loves You “Hi.”
It’s a breathless whisper.
“I uhhhh…”
Lando scrubs his hand over his face as he walks down the sidewalk.
“I know it hasn’t been very long and fuck, I hope this doesn’t scare you off. I probably shouldn’t be doing this on voicemail. I was going to say it when I kissed you goodnight but I lost my nerve.”
His feet whisper over the pavement, filling the silence.
“IThinkImFallingInLoveWithYou.”
The words are quick. Jumbled. And then he’s muttering something under his breath.
“No. Wait. Fuck. Not think. Baby, I know I’m in love with you.”
Silence.
“I’m so head over heels in love with you I can’t even think straight.”
His footfalls get louder, as if he’s running.
“And I’m a fucking idiot for not saying it to your face. I’ll be at your door in thirty seconds…”
Click.
When He Gets Down On One Knee “I can’t believe you actually said yes.”
Lando huffs a laugh.
“I thought I blew it, when you didn’t say anything after I asked. I genuinely thought you were about to turn me down. Scariest ten seconds of my life. And then you were crying and yelling and hugging me…The poor cat was terrified.”
The Ferrari’s engine purrs to life in the background.
“I just ran out to get some champagne for us but I wanted to hear your voice. I can’t believe I get to marry you. Holy fuck, you’re going to be my wife.”
A beat.
“I’m going to be your husband.”
He sounds overwhelmed. Like he can’t quite wrap his mind around the sentence.
“I’m so glad I went into that bookstore that day…I love you so much. I can’t wait to call you Mrs. Norris.”
Click.
The Night Before You Marry Him “I don’t know how you’re asleep right now. I feel like I’m going to vibrate right out of my skin.”
The sheets rustle softly in the background.
“You looked so pretty tonight in that dress. Every time I looked at you, I thought my heart was going to explode. I can’t ever get enough of seeing you with my ring on your finger. The wedding band I put on you tomorrow is going to look so fucking good next to it.”
Lando draws in a deep breath, settling deeper in the sheets.
“It’s weird sleeping without you. These traditions are stupid.”
You can almost hear the pout on his face.
“What am I going to do without your ice cold feet to jolt me awake at 3 in the morning?”
A laugh.
“I still can’t believe I got you to agree to marry me. I’m the luckiest guy on this planet, you know that? I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
A pause.
“Can we have babies soon?”
Another pause. Longer now.
“I can’t wait for you to have my babies. Lets get to work on that tomorrow night.”
He says it like it’s final. Like he’s been waiting to say that to you for as long as he’s known you.
“Okay. Love you, soon-to-be wife. Bye.”
Click.
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the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd
fandom: top gun
pairing: bob x reader
summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps
notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling
warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 21143
your callsign is sunny
It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together.
Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish.
You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick.
It was meant to be.
Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease.
And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch.
A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms.
Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.”
She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open.
“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.”
Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.”
She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind.
“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.”
“Wasn’t the other day.”
You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.”
Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?”
He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.”
You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.”
Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.”
You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side.
Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV.
“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.”
Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.”
You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk.
Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge.
“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.”
He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?”
A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him.
“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.”
Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?”
He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote.
“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters.
He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be.
He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap.
“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.”
“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you.
“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?”
His eyes go wide at your tone.
“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.”
You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels.
“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters.
Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.”
“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you.
You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh.
“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.”
“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation.
You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling.
“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.”
You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.”
You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.”
You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.”
Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?”
Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.”
You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.”
“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out.
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.”
Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.”
“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.”
You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.”
“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.”
You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.”
Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.”
“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?”
“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.”
“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.”
Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.”
Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.”
You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?”
“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.”
You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds.
“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.”
You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.
“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.”
“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.”
You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer.
“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare.
“So what, Mick?”
He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.”
You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?”
Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches.
“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.”
The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers.
You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you.
It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please.
But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth.
And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection.
An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick.
“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen.
Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.”
��Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.”
His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.”
A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.”
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.”
“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?”
There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest.
Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.”
“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting.
“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.”
Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?”
Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.”
“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?”
“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.”
Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.”
You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.”
“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.”
You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs.
“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.”
“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.”
You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?”
Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.”
Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.”
Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?”
“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.”
You snort. “So, seduce him?”
“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.”
Both Mickey and Reuben flinch.
“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.”
“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.”
“We?” you repeat, pulse racing.
“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.”
Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin.
“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.”
“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?”
That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire.
You nod. “Okay. I’m in.”
-
The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum.
“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.”
“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?”
You roll your eyes. “Both.”
“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn.
Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.
This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings.
“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.”
You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin.
The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts.
About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor.
Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense.
“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?”
Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail.
Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan.
When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin.
You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade.
“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear.
“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue.
Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next.
“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.”
“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.”
She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Why are you wearing a thong?”
You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.”
She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.”
“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.”
You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him.
Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it.
“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing.
Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.”
You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead.
Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory.
Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work.
By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose.
You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha.
Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him.
“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?”
Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.”
“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk.
“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything.
Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.”
“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!”
The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic.
Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view.
“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look.
The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket.
“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.”
You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover.
Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related.
“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?”
Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?”
Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.”
“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“How many are left?” Natasha asks.
“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.”
“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.”
“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.”
You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing.
“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.”
Bob blinks at her. “You do?”
She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.”
“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.”
With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation.
“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.”
Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.”
Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to.
-
“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.”
She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear.
Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister.
You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should.
Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business.
“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times.
A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot?
“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside.
There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him.
“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff.
“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor.
Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet.
It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away.
“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently.
“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.”
“What game?” Javy asks.
Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.”
Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up.
“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing.
“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.”
Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.”
Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become.
“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?”
“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly.
Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?”
You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough.
Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time?
Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip.
Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.”
“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.”
Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?”
Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.”
Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip.
“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.”
Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?”
Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig.
And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud.
The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through.
“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.”
But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?”
You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.”
Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone.
You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.”
You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder.
“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.”
You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement.
The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch.
His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.
You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.”
A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.
“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath.
“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter.
Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!”
You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset.
You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger.
God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive.
The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it.
You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being.
“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?”
You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier.
“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency.
Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.”
Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason?
You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral.
“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit.
She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.”
He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.”
Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare.
“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room.
Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering.
He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him?
Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could.
“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned.
Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?”
The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath.
“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide.
“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.”
“You bitch,” Jake mutters.
“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.”
“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch.
“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.”
Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends.
Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it.
“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other.
Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-”
“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.”
Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying.
Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be.
The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest.
“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.”
“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.”
Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath.
Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.”
“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan.
He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator.
“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth.
“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns.
“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in.
There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free.
Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis.
Then the room explodes.
Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness.
Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.”
Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.”
“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.”
You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin.
It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner.
Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen.
By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.
“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand.
You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?”
“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?”
“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?”
He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.”
You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?”
Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.”
You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.”
He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.”
Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face.
“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face.
Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker.
“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.”
You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth.
“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler.
You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up.
“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen.
It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face.
Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach.
You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what.
Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise.
Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it.
What is it they call that?
Oh yeah… big dick energy.
Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants…
Wait. That’s like… kind of huge.
A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug.
Stop staring, she mouths.
You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie.
“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?”
“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back.
The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs.
“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.”
You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.”
The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts.
“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further.
There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet.
“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?”
Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob.
He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking.
The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name.
“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?”
Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual.
“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.”
Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely.
Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.”
You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction.
The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it.
The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining.
The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame.
“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers.
You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change.
“Yeah?”
Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers.
The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave.
You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room.
It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations.
On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins.
A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob.
And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves.
You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together.
You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear.
You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks.
Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle.
Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen.
Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others.
“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen.
You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO.
Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face.
He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic.
Your frown deepens. “What are you-”
But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand.
“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer.
You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked.
“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing.
“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him.
“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.”
Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”
“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?”
Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly.
“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?”
Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?”
Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?”
Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest.
You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd.
“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.”
The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top.
“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.”
He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room.
You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you?
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does.
You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it.
You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache.
You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest.
His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust.
You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out.
"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag.
You blink. “What?”
“For your clothes,” he says simply.
“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside.
His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt.
“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.”
You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s.
His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all.
You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen.
Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back.
Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor.
Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step.
The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader.
Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk.
You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes.
…Right?
Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir.
“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans.
Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.”
“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.”
“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop.
“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers.
Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night.
Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence.
Too much silence.
You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps.
You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway.
It doesn’t.
Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen.
The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin.
“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?”
You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight.
Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest.
Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless.
You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath.
You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn.
“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer.
No. No, you’re not.
You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-”
Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton.
The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.
He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin.
You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you.
He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks.
You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching.
When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard.
Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter.
“Bob,” you whisper.
Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.”
You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself.
“Like what?” you ask softly.
“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath.
You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton.
“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now.
He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.”
“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm.
You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying.
“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?”
You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now.
“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging.
He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin.
You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap.
But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath.
“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock.
You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away.
It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin.
You don’t sleep. Not at all.
-
“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?”
You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis.
“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat.
You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you.
“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.”
You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-”
“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you.
Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food.
“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.”
You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence.
“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.”
Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another.
Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.”
Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?”
You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?”
You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.”
“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.”
“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.”
You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?”
Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way.
Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.”
“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.”
“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin.
You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?”
“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.
You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter.
Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.”
You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...”
She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.”
-
Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird.
The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition.
You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose.
“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon.
You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.”
She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up.
At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are.
“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs.
He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.”
You snort. “Little?”
Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.”
You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth.
Then you both nod. It’s show time.
“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly.
You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.”
He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?”
You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?”
His grin breaks loose. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey.
“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?”
“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.”
Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?”
You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?”
Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.”
You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief.
You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay.
A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose.
The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye.
On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel.
Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke.
That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing.
By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun.
That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back.
Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining.
“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?”
He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
She snorts. “That was very convincing.”
He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out.
Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column.
“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?”
Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.”
“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?”
“Bad week,” Bob grumbles.
Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?”
He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.”
“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.”
His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet.
“I doubt it.”
“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing.
Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast.
Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.”
He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.”
Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.”
Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face.
“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.”
“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan.
You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display.
“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder.
You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.”
Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting.
There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned.
It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder.
“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.”
You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little.
“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly.
You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear.
“You’re annoying.”
He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles.
When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder.
“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth.
You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.”
You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny.
“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry.
Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.”
You frown. “Yet?”
“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.”
You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table.
When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares.
But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes.
You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.”
Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear.
You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea.
You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him.
You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.”
Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.”
You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.”
“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.”
You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first.
Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.”
His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.”
“Swear it.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.”
You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.”
You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details.
“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.”
His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk.
“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.”
You roll your eyes.
“I want in.”
You blink, brow furrowed. “What?”
“I want to help,” he says, plainly.
You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?”
He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.”
You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.”
He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.”
“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.”
“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.”
You raise your brows, prompting him to go on.
“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!”
He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh.
Great. Now Hangman is involved...
You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like.
“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer.
You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.”
He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there.
But Bob notices.
And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white.
Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.”
Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle.
Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?”
Bob shakes his head. “No.”
“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.”
“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.”
“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.”
“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin.
Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.”
Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.”
Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel…
You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat.
“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers.
You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.”
She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.”
Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air.
“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.”
Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace.
“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.”
You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.”
Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.”
Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.”
“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.”
Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.”
“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.”
Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand.
Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.”
Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.”
“You want us to lie?” you ask.
He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?”
You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.”
Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?”
“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.”
Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing.
“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.”
“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels.
You frown. “What?”
“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.”
You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?”
-
The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee.
Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.”
“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield.
“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone.
Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?”
He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.”
You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red.
“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs.
Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.”
You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you.
“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.”
You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin.
You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies.
“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face.
“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.”
Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.”
“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt.
You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far.
“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?”
“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical.
“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice.
Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place.
“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?”
You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts.
Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?”
Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.”
The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean.
Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder.
You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at.
Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered.
He’s furious.
And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you.
You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand.
And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal.
You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you.
Hangman might be a genius after all.
You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin.
You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore.
You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.”
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you.
You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe.
You freeze. “What?”
She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned.
You twist around.
And promptly forget how to breathe.
Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head.
Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin.
And holy shit.
It’s glorious.
Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you.
But in the light of day?
Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go.
The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too.
You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.”
Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.”
You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose.
Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face.
But it’s not a wave.
You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you.
“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.”
You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?”
Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?”
You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.”
He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-”
“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.”
Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water.
When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges.
You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching.
Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter.
Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.
“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces.
Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement.
“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.”
You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?”
He winks. “Because we’re the best.”
You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be.
After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance.
You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble.
You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy.
“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.”
Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob.
You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.”
There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins.
But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!”
And the game is back on.
The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares.
You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate.
“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.”
He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent.
And Bob sees everything.
You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under.
You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots.
He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary.
“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.”
There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group.
Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know.
The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way.
Bob.
“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept.
Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal.
He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line.
Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide.
You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.”
After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod.
This is it.
Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching.
And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score.
But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time.
Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying.
You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand.
It’s just Bob now.
He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan.
You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both.
The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat.
You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist.
You don’t move.
You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in.
Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put.
“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline.
His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes.
You lean in just a little.
“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?”
His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours.
They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation.
Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time.
Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe—
He snaps.
He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down.
And the look in his eyes could burn the sky.
He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second.
You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him.
His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second.
His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable.
You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in.
You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost.
There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered.
When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.”
And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again.
“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear.
Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away.
“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.”
You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction.
“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.”
Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death.
“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear.
Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.”
“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.”
You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back.
Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.”
“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign.
You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.”
There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again.
Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.”
Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.”
“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.
He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.”
You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful.
“Shit.”
You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach.
“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word.
His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.”
Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent.
“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.”
You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love.
And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.
And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.”
Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?”
He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you.
Then he turns and jogs toward the water.
It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways.
Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?”
You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips.
“Cooling off.”
END.
#bob floyd#robert bob floyd#top gun maverick#top gun#lewis pullman#bob x reader#bob floyd x reader#robert floyd#top gun x reader#maverick#lewis pullman x reader#imagine#one shot#oneshot#fanfic#robert floyd x reader
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Took you Like a Shot - final part preview!
Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader
Warnings - oral (m receiving) and domestic fluff, basically them being fucking cute lol
I can't believe this cute ass fun little story is ending! With some of my angstier things this was like such a delight. Ending will be out by the weekend <3
Satoru Gojo didn’t plan on proposing while you were sucking his dick.
He really didn’t!
He was waiting for your date in a couple of weeks, waiting for you to get the clear and fully recover, waiting for you both to not be exhausted zombies with a newborn who’s crying every couple hours. Waiting for the perfect moment, the right moment like your friends suggested - when you felt more yourself.
Currently your hair is in a messy bun, you have eye bags, and you’re wearing a big tee shirt of his with stains on it from where your milk poured just too much from your nipples, but you were too tired to care. But he has never found you hotter than when you’d turned over at four am, sleepy and gasping when he kissed your neck, only to somehow pin him to the bed and suck him.
You hadn’t expected it either, you all can’t have sex just yet, but when his hard length had pressed up against your ass, and you just touching it made him whimper, you were dying to please him. Satoru has alternated every turn with you, bringing you Miyuki so you could rest in bed while you fed her, taking bottles you pumped and helping do everything.
He’s been perfect.
You’ve both been tired, you’re so thankful he took time off work to help you, only leaving for a bit to oversee things, you couldn’t ask for a better partner, and you fall deeper in love with every sleepy moment shared. How could you not want to at least get him off, you’re feeling much more yourself, you’re already horny again, and kisses soon turned to more.
Now you’re deep throating his cock, his hand entangles in the mess that is your loose bun, gripping so tightly while he whimpers. You taste him, just a little salty but still so sweet, as his precum drags along your tongue. He’s murmuring - wanna be inside you, fuck baby, your mouth it feels so- mmm! - just urging you on, bobbing up and down his pretty cock slowly, savoring every moment.
“Marry me.”
You pull back, wondering if you’re so tired you’re delusional, strings of saliva dripping off your lips against his tip.
“Huh!?”
“Shit… also keep sucking me, please?” He pouts now, whining as he grips the base of his cock, rubbing it on your lips, but you’re leaned up, eyes wide as saucers as you look at him.
“Was that some… joke or…”
Satoru sighs, fucking your mouth again, whining out, he’s so sensitive. “No joke, been wanting to ask y-you… oh fuck.”
“Wait, really?” You pull back again, stroking him slowly, thumb pressing over his leaking tip, watching his white lashes flutter, his abdomen tense, while his hand moves to cup your face in the night. “Satoru, are you proposing to me mid blow job?”
“You give really amazing blowjobs. I should be mad about how you’re that good, actually.” He glares now, earning your giggle when he sits up just a bit, leaning over to the drawer, and that is when it all becomes too real, when you see his muscles flex, see the box in his hand.
“Satoru…” You’re trembling, as he sighs, sitting up as you get on your knees, heart pounding in your ears.
Was Satoru really proposing to you - looking like a whole fucking disaster - with precum on your lips!?
perm taglist 1- @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny
#gojo x reader#jjk smut#gojo smut#jjk x reader#satoru x reader#satoru gojo x reader#satoru gojo smut#satoru gojo fluff#divider by cafekitsune#jjk gojo#story preview#gojo x you#satoru smut#gojo x reader smut
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Almost, Always // Leah Williamson
a/n : sorry i’ve been gone guys… i don’t really have an excuse but it’s whatever. also you know when you watch a show and see lesbians in love and remember what it was like to be in love, basically this is written on what it was like for me (i also miss my ex so much please come back)
warnings : suggestive but no explicit smut
It started, as these things often do, with a kiss that wasn’t meant to mean anything. One of those soft, lingering moments born out of laughter, tequila, and the kind of glances that last too long to be innocent. You remember it clearly because it was Leah. Leah with the wild hair and smart mouth and eyes that saw too much. Leah who teased you relentlessly in front of the girls but always walked you home when you stayed out too late. Leah who said, “It doesn’t have to be a thing,” with a smirk after that first night—right before she kissed you again and pushed you back against the headboard like you were the only thing she wanted to worship.
You lost count of how many times it happened after that. The first time was maybe an accident. The second? Just curiosity. The third? That was something else. That was her fingers on your skin like she was memorising you. That was gasping her name like it meant salvation. That was her smirking down at you after, sweaty and smug, whispering, “Told you it’d be good.”
But you never talked about it. Not really. You just… were. Tangled in each other more often than not, but no one ever said the word relationship. You weren’t her girlfriend. She wasn’t yours. You were something between best friends and soulmates and fuckbuddies and whatever else you could name—but it wasn’t defined. And weirdly, it worked. It shouldn’t have. But it did.
Leah was always showing up at your flat like she owned the place, dropping her keys on your table, making herself toast, wearing your jumpers, leaving her shampoo in your shower. She called it “convenience.” You called it “suspiciously girlfriend-like behaviour.” She winked and said, “Shut up and come here,” and you did, every time.
You’d wake up with her wrapped around you, legs tangled, her nose buried in your neck. Sometimes she’d fall asleep mid-conversation, her voice drifting off with a mumble, and you’d stare at her, wondering when exactly you’d become hers, unofficial as it all was.
And when you were out? It was constant chaos. The way she’d brush her fingers over your back when she walked past. The way you’d whisper something in her ear just to watch her face go pink. The way the others stared at you both like they were waiting for the inevitable.
At training, Beth would side-eye you constantly. “I swear to God, if you two start dry humping in the canteen again—”
You grinned. Leah shrugged. “Don’t be jealous, Beff.”
Beth rolled her eyes. “I’m jealous of your delusion.”
Katie, of course, just stared at the both of you and muttered, “Yous are absolutely unhinged.”
And maybe you were. But it was fun. It was flirty. It was yours.
Like that time you were at an Arsenal girls’ dinner, and you wore that red dress—the one that clung like sin and dipped just low enough to make Leah choke on her wine. You didn’t even have to say anything. She spent the whole night with her hand on your knee under the table, thumb moving in lazy circles, eyes dark with all the things she couldn’t say out loud.
“You wore that to kill me,” she hissed.
You smirked. “You’re not dead yet, are you?”
“I will be. On God.”
And later that night, in the taxi, with the driver politely pretending not to notice, she leaned over and whispered, “If you don’t let me take that dress off with my teeth, I swear to God—”
You kissed her before she could finish. Because yeah. You wanted her too. Always.
There were quiet nights too. Nights where it wasn’t about sex or flirting or chaos. Just you, curled into her side on the couch, her hand tangled with yours, a movie you weren’t watching playing in the background.
“Everyone thinks we’re dating,” you said once, voice quiet.
She snorted. “Aren’t we?”
You looked at her. “Are we?”
She didn’t answer. Just kissed your forehead, like that was enough.
It wasn’t always perfect. Sometimes she got distant. Sometimes you panicked and pulled away. But you always came back. Always found your way back to each other like gravity. Like fate. Like something inevitable.
And it got harder and harder to pretend you weren’t in love with her. Because you were. You are.
Like that time she was away for England camp, and you got sick, and she called you five times a day to check on you, sending Deliveroo to your flat, threatening to murder your immune system personally.
Like when she found you crying once after a shit day, and instead of asking questions, she just pulled you into her lap and held you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
“You’re allowed to fall apart,” she whispered into your hair. “Just not without me.”
One night, after a win, after too many drinks, after a celebration that ended with the both of you tucked into each other in a corner of the pub, she looked at you and said, “You ruin me, you know that?”
You blinked. “In a good way or a bad way?”
She smiled, slow and lazy and full of something that felt like forever. “The best.”
Then she pulled you into a kiss so soft it broke something inside you.
Eventually, something had to give. You knew that. She knew that.
So when she showed up at your place one night with a bottle of wine, your hoodie on, and a nervous look in her eyes, you knew something was different.
“I want to call you mine,” she said.
You stared at her. “You already do.”
She shook her head. “No. I mean—mine. Girlfriend. Partner. The real thing.”
You swallowed hard. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’ve been sure. For ages. I just… didn’t want to scare you.”
You grinned. “Terrified, actually.”
“But still here?”
“Always.”
And then she kissed you. And that kiss? That kiss tasted like something new. Something real. Something that was always going to happen.
Because this thing between you? It was never casual. Not really. It was fire and softness and chaos and safety. It was teasing and inside jokes and clothes stolen from each other’s wardrobes. It was forehead kisses and hand squeezes and whispering “marry me” half-jokingly when you caught each other staring. It was Leah saying “I’d fight a bear for you,” and you replying, “Good, because I attract danger.”
It was everything. It is everything.
Almost, always. Now? Just always.
#woso#leah williamson#leah williamson x reader#woso imagine#leah williamson imagines#leah williamson x you#leah williamson one shot#leah williamson fluff
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The Winner Takes It All
Lando Norris x Reader
Summary: After a painful breakup with Lando, who chose racing over your relationship, you meet again at a glamorous Monaco party.
The night you see him again, Monaco shimmers around you like a cruel joke.
Champagne glistens in tall glasses, the harbour sparkles with luxury, and Lando stands in the centre of it all, draped in victory and smiling like your heart doesn’t still ache when you breathe his name.
You aren’t supposed to be here.
You were invited out of formality.
A neutral face in the sea of past acquaintances, old team members, and PR-safe connections.
No one knows how deep it ran. How late the fights went.
How your name once slipped from his lips softer than any prayer.
You're standing by the railing, tracing the rim of your glass when his voice breaks through the music.
“You look good.”
You turn slowly. He’s dressed sharp, just like always. But his eyes—those familiar stormy things, carry guilt like luggage he can’t set down.
“You won,” you say, your voice gentle. Tired. “You got everything you wanted.”
There’s a pause. Just the sea wind and distant laughter.
“I thought I did,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought… maybe you’d understand. That it was just what I had to do.”
You laugh, low and bitter. “Understand that you chose the race over us? That I became background noise to podiums and points?”
“I didn’t think it would hurt you that much,” he murmurs.
You look at him, blinking through the sting. “I was in your arms and then suddenly… I wasn’t. You made your mind up."
He leans against the railing beside you. Quiet.
The silence between you stretches, filled with everything you never said.
“I don't wanna talk,” you whisper, the words tumbling out with years of held-back tears. “Because it makes me feel sad.”
He flinches.
You keep going, voice low but steady. “You see me as someone new. Someone who can handle it, who won't cry, who won’t fall apart.”
His eyes dart to yours, wide and pained.
“You said we had fun. That we were good once. But that’s not enough, is it?”
“Stop,” he says, almost desperate. “Don’t say it like that.”
You shake your head. “Isn’t that how it is? Someone wins. Someone loses. And I was left standing.”
“Damn it, I never wanted to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
The ache between you is heavy.
Thick with memories, your hoodie wrapped around your frame during cold nights in the paddock, his hand finding yours under tables, whispered I love you "s between red-eye flights.
He finally speaks again, quieter. “She doesn’t know me the way you did.”
“Then why did you let me go?”
“I thought I had to,” he whispers. “I thought love could wait.”
You look at him for a long moment.
“Some love doesn’t wait. Some love doesn’t survive being made to. But tell me, does she kiss like I used to kiss you?”
Your breath catches, just for a second. Because maybe he still wonders. Maybe he still dreams in your voice.
But it’s too late. Too broken.
You turn away from the party, from him, from what you used to be.
“Goodbye, Lando.”
“Wait-please.”
You stop, halfway down the steps.
“I thought I had everything,” he calls after you. “But none of it means a thing without you.”
You don’t look back.
Because maybe this time, the winner isn’t the one with the trophy.
A/N: This piece was based on the song with the same title by ABBA. Sorry for the heartbreak girlies! 🙈
#f1 fanfic#f1#f1 imagine#f1 imagines#f1 x reader#lando norris x reader#formula one#formula 1#lando norris imagine#lando norris#lando x you#lando x reader#lando imagine#lando fluff#lando norris fanfic#lando norris fanfiction#lando norris fluff#lando norris x you#lando norris imagines#f1 lando norris x you#f1 lando norris imagine#f1 lando norris x reader#f1 lando norris
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Okay, just listen to me…
So this story starts with the Fentons. Their little omega son was born not so long ago (I don't believe in ABO, where people learn their gender in adolescence, it's weird). In general, he is just a kid, but they decided to go on an expedition because they had an exclusive opportunity… What could have gone wrong?
All. You see, their poor little boy was lost in the mountains. There was nothing they could do. At least their daughter was safe… But because of their carelessness, they lost a child. Because of this, they will never build a ghost portal. In fact, they'll give up ghost hunting altogether and even start visiting Vlad out of guilt (he's a little less of a jerk because they finally remembered him).
In fact, it was a little more complicated.
Let's move to the League. How lucky they were to spot a couple of scientists studying what looked like the Lazarus Pits Water. even better, these idiots were next to their child. Of course, the League took Danny away to blackmail the Fentons into working for them later. But as they delved deeper into their work, it became clear that the Fentons were simply obsessed with ghosts… They are unlikely to be useful.
So they had an omega baby in their arms. Of course, you can get rid of it… But isn't he the same age as the young master? Of course, young alphas benefit from having an omega of their own age around. Why not keep it? Ra's simply waved his hand. He's a f... old man who thinks omegas are cute furniture, if his grandson can get a nice little thing, why not?
So, they grow side by side. Danny's learning some self-defense, but he's not in the best of health, and he's just an omega, so no one thinks he's going to make it. Nor does he show any interest in it. He seems to have inherited all that mad scientist energy from his parents? In this case, he simply joins the scientists working for the League. He tolerates the Water of the Lazarus Pits surprisingly well (after all, when Maddie was pregnant, she was infected with ectoplasm).
So, when Damian got his first missions (let's do the League of Assassins missions with Mom), he started bringing Danny all sorts of things: small hairpins-stars, souvenirs and sweets. It's cute. They became very close. When they promise to marry each other in the future, it's just charming, but Talia doesn't take it seriously, and Ra's just doesn't care (he probably thinks that in 20 years his grandson will have a harem in the spirit of Luo Bingge).
Unfortunately for them, even little Damian takes his promises very seriously.
Only then does Talia pick him up from the League and bring him to his Father. She promises to look after Danny (she lies ). Events follow one another. Soon, Danny joins a project to study the Lazarus Pit water treatment device. What do you think it builds? A few years pass, and Danny becomes the one who launches the portal to the Infinite Realms. Needless to say, he didn't plan on it.
It die. He is alive. When he found out what was on the other side, he destroyed the portal. After collecting the blueprints, he runs out of the league (because now it's much easier for him to do it).
It wasn't that he didn't know where to look for his dear young master. The young master is the only one he can trust with this secret.
After all, it's something fun.
Alfred: A courier came by today. Did Young Master Damian order anything?
Damian: No, what is it?
Alfred: The big box.
Bruce: Be careful, what if it's a bomb?
Danny, jumping out of the box: Has anyone ordered an ectoscientist? A ghost? Maybe the bride?
Somewhere in Amity Park, one of Vlad's inventions starts beeping. He immediately informs the Fentons that an overly powerful ecto-energy burst has been detected… And now it's making its way to Gotham City. They didn't want anything to do with it until Vlad said it was originally near the place where they lost their son.
Could it be the ghost that killed him? Or maybe this is the ghost of their baby, who can be seen for the last time? Anyway, it's the last time the Fentons are out hunting.
(Well, they'll end up hunting really well. I'm not sure what Ra's has to do to get away from Maddie.)
By the way, do you see this ugly suspension with a ghost and a heart? Jack had made it for Maddie before they were married. He was with Danny when he went missing…
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— ♡ just like magic . . . c.s
in which . . . you and your co-worker chris manifest taking things a little further in the office
warnings . . . smut, kinda public, unprotected sex, dirty talk, oral, (fem!recieving) teasing.
written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)
POSITIONS WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #4
mornings at the office shouldn’t feel this charged.
you’re supposed to walk in, check your emails, sip your coffee, and mind your business. but ever since chris transferred to your floor three months ago, mornings have felt… different. you notice the way his eyes track you when you pass by his desk. how he pretends not to stare, but always does. how he always seems to appear right behind you in the break room. too close. too warm.
he makes mundane things feel dangerous, like dropping a pen or leaning over a shared printer. his laugh is low and addictive, and his cologne clings to your thoughts hours after he’s left the room. and he knows it, too. smug bastard.
today, you walk into the office feeling untouchable. glossed lips, sharp heels, blouse buttoned just one notch lower than usual. you don’t dress for anyone but yourself, but it is fun knowing chris will see you. you’re barely settled at your desk when a message pings.
from: chris s.
black looks good on you. but it’d look even better on my floor.
your lips twitch.
to: chris s.
keep dreaming. you couldn’t handle it.
you glance up. he’s already watching you from across the office, one brow raised, mouth curved in that cocky, slow-motion smirk. you roll your eyes, but the way your thighs press together under the desk betrays you. meetings drag. you can feel his stare like fingertips tracing your skin. every time you speak, he watches your mouth. and when he speaks, it’s always with double meanings. everyone else is oblivious, but between you and chris, the tension is so thick you could tear it in half.
by lunch, you need air. and he knows it.
you find him waiting by the elevator, already holding the door for you like he knew you’d follow. no words, just heat. the ride down is silent. heavy. charged. then he speaks, voice low and wicked.“conference room c’s empty.” you arch a brow. “so?” he leans closer. “so i’m gonna lose my mind if i don’t fuck you soon.”
your breath stutters. his hand brushes your lower back, guiding you out of the elevator with way too much confidence. he pushes the door to the conference room open, checks it, locks it. it’s quiet. sterile. wrong. but the second the door clicks, his hands are on you.
your back hits the wall, and his mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving. he tastes like coffee and sin, and you moan before you can stop yourself. his hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding beneath your blouse with no hesitation. “been thinking about this all week,” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw, “you teasing me in meetings, crossing your legs like that—fuck.”
you tug at his tie, yank him closer. he groans and drops to his knees, hands gripping your thighs like he owns them. he pushes your skirt up, muttering a string of curses when he sees what you’re wearing underneath. “you wore this on purpose,” he growls. “maybe,” you smirk.
“brat.”
his mouth shuts you up fast.
your fingers tangle in his hair as his tongue works you open, patient but filthy, every movement laced with need. you bite your lip to stay quiet, but he knows what he’s doing, knows how to make you unravel. you’re clenching around nothing, grinding against his face as he sucked on your clit relentlessly, completely undone. he looks up at you, lips shiny, pupils blown wide.
“say it,” he whispers. “say you want me.”
“chris—”
“say it.”
you cave.
“i want you. now.”
he’s on you in seconds, undoing his belt, pulling you onto the table. he doesn’t bother undressing fully, just pushes your clothes aside like he’s too desperate to wait. and then he’s inside you, deep and perfect, his name falling from your lips like prayer. fuck, if anyone caught you, you’d both be fired, you stifled your moans and buried your head in his chest.
you move in sync, like you’ve done this a hundred times in your dreams. his mouth on your neck, your nails down his back, your moans muffled against his shoulder. it’s reckless. stupid. so fucking good. “you’re mine,” he groans into your ear, his thrusts continuing, you held him by his black tie. “say it.”
“i’m yours,” you pant, clinging to him as you fall apart. “fuck, chris—i’m yours.”after, he presses a kiss to your collarbone, soft and possessive. “back to work?” he murmurs, smug as hell.
you laugh breathlessly. “you’re a menace.” he grins. “but you love it.” you slide off the table, adjust your clothes, and smooth your hair. outside, the office hums on, clueless. you look at him and smirk. “same time tomorrow?” he winks. “you know it.”
you both manifested this after all.
© delilahsturniolo
#sturniolo triplets#the sturniolo triplets#sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo#sturniolo fanfic#chris sturniolo smut#sturniolo triplets smut#sturniolo smut#sturniolo#chris sturniolo fanfic#chris sturniolo imagine#chris sturniolo x you#chris sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo blurb#chris sturniolo oneshot#chris stuniolo x reader#sturniolo imagine#sturniolo triplets imagines#sturniolo triplets fanfic#sturniolo triplets x you#sturniolo triplets x reader#sturniolo tumblr#sturniolo triplets fandom#sturniolo fandom#ariana grande#positions#just like magic#smut#christopher sturniolo#chris x reader
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Iconic Romantic Quotes - Batboys & YJ Headcanons
TW for brief allusions to SH and general depression
p.s. the third one will tug your heart strings
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Jason Todd - "It's a shame that he can't see you the way I do"
- This man lets jealousy boil him alive
- Watching you make excuses for a man who doesn't deserve you truly makes him sick to the stomach
- There's a permanent scab on the inside of his cheek from him chewing on it instead of knocking your current "boyfriend"s lights out
- Jace doesn't think the chump even deserves the title. He doesn't protect you, dote on your, worship you, or let alone appreciate you
- How sad that the first time that awful man laid hands on you he was suddenly put in a body bag and overnighted to the other side of the country? How strange...
- Giving you space and a (giant hunky) shoulder to cry on Jason bided his time
- He never considered himself soft in any way, before he found himself aching to push your fallen hair behind your ears. he never condemned his rough nature until he realized his calloused hands couldn't be careful enough to wipe the tears from your eyes
- When you were at your lowest, horrified to think that you only deserve the awful hand you'd been dealt, Jason had to speak up. His eyes glassy at the thought of your self hatred and his fist furled at the fact that he left that chump breathing, he said-
- "You might mean nothing to yourself right now, but god you mean everything to me"
Wally West - "It’s like she’s the sun, and I have to orbit around her."
- What a broken cliche to say that finding your soulmates slows your life down
- When Wally sped his way into your heart, you gave him a center, a home base to return to, a spot to always feel pulled towards
- He gets addicted to you quite easily, constantly rushing to your location, just yearning to be around you even if he's only allowed to be silently basking in your warmth
- He swears once you smile at him he runs 8x faster, like the butterflies in his stomach are beating their wings while he runs
- This man could travel the entire world in a day, but he always finds you by the end, though he often has some bizarre gift in hand
- He often gets made fun of, he fell for you so deeply and so young that while his friends want him to spend whole nights out partying or trying to drink until it hits his quick metabolism, he's always adamant that he wants to be home with you, that even when he's out late, his sixth sense tells him when to flash home to give you a kiss goodnight
- You always tell him you're fine, that you never want to be controlling or take him away from his friends, but he always just says his place is with you. that he has plans with friends too, but there's always a piece of him excited to run home to you
- "What can I say babe? It's like gravitational the way you pull me in. Why would I ever want to be away from your warmth?"
Dick Grayson - "And I will kiss every single scar on your body and soul, to remind you that love doesn't have to hurt."
- Dick couldn't fathom that you didn't see yourself the way he did
- As he worshipped the ground you walked on, you spent the stroll checking yourself in reflective windows and trying not to say the wrong thing
- When Dick noticed you flinching at harsh words he felt like he was having a heart attack, the squeezing of his chest almost suffocating him as he tried to process what it meant
- He leaned in to loving you, so much so that he cared for and treasured you enough for the both of you
- Always the insecure you chided him, saying you didn't need the attention and that you were just fine
- What a blessing that a man loved you enough to see through your self deprecating jokes and promises that you were okay
- He never scolded or lectured, just always had two arms open and an unending list of compliments. tiny gifts were always waiting for you, and finally, there was someone in your corner no matter what
- Progress always sneaks up on you, and a few years down the line you were almost as bubbly and fun-loving as your boy wonder. when you asked him why he spent so much time bringing you out of your shell, he just said
- "I saw you the first day I met you. Not the fake version you put on, not the sad soul who felt undeserving. I just have always seen you, my love"
Jaime Reyes - "Tell me every terrible thing you ever did. And let me love you anyway."
- Heroes don't really talk about the mistakes they made on the path to doing good
- Jaime had watched you crumble time and time again at the thought of accidentally or even purposefully hurting people
- He knew better than anyone what it meant to be out of control, and equipped with powers that make dangerous weapons when your emotions are out of whack
- He always made room for you, in stressful situations his eyes fell naturally on yours, asking silently if you needed a hand to hold. No longer would you be left out of conversations or (god forbid) ignored. Jaime's gaze was always on you, whether you meant to be his focus or not
- You both got in the habit of cooling the other off, locking eyes and reminding each other 'it's just you and me my love' until the dark skies faded
- There is no better reaffirmation that you are safe than his hand resting on the small of your back, no better way to bond than the hundreds of late nights you both spent laughing and crying
- Looking back, it was hard to fathom how he'd put up with your darkness, and difficult to put into words what his support meant to you
- Softly wiping a rogue tear that had fallen and letting his hand fall to your chin, he tilted it up meeting your thankful and sorrowful eyes with a smile,
- "Cloudy or not I will be here for you, mi cielo. Whatever happens you will always have me"
Tim Drake - "I notice everything about you. Not in a creepy way—in a way I can’t turn off."
- Was is the graph he'd made of the number of freckles you had or the fact that there was always a little extra money in your wallet whenever you went grocery shopping that clued you in?
- He really did try to be nonchalant, but all the books he'd read about the subject suggested you only found a soulmate once, why would he not give you everything?
- He just liked patterns, like how you like to try something new at your local coffee shop every fourth visit or how moving his lips from your your temple to your neck made you shiver just a tiny bit
- And those little 'thinking of you' gifts were too easy, because there was always a little part of his mind with you at the forefront
- It's the type of relationship where after watching the two of you interact like a well oiled machine (you got the coffee mugs while he comes around to open the car door, you hand him a mug to take a sip while you fumble for you keys until he reminds you which pocket you put them in) ... that type of homely synergy, that makes your friends tell you they want to sleep on a highway
- Not actually, but they are deeply jealous at almost all times.
- You both could get a little too wrapped up in the relationship, your fifth anniversary almost got you arrested trying to remove a brick from the wall where you had your first kiss. Tim was three blocks away getting the penny you'd given him for good luck after you'd met him polished and engraved. It's not his fault he had to threaten the gemstone professional to get them to clean the penny, not everyone was as sentimental as the two of you
- "I had this made, as a sign of our luck. I've looked at a lot of numbers and they all suggest this kind of love can happen just once in a lifetime. How lucky I am that that my once gets to be with you"
Conner Kent - "Nothing scares me. Except losing you."
- When you saw the look on his face, you wondered for a moment if he had been shot too
- When in the blink of an eye he had scooped you into his arms you realized 'nope, just me!' wincing at the realization of the pain
- The Super Boy suddenly had faltered, forgetting about the battle and the stakes, because he'd suffered his greatest weakness - the fear of losing you
- You waved a hand in front of his face, his wet eyes focusing on you- 'hey dingbat it's just my shoulder so lock in' and the color returned to his face
- The next greeting in the hospital you weren't letting him live down his raw display of emotions
- He realized the only way forward was through, he kneeled at the side of your bed, explaining how he'd fell for you over the last months, and that the realization he might never tell you had torn through him
- Now you both were a blushing mess
- Over the next few months you'd become strong allies with none other than Tim Drake, who would use you feigning damsel in distress to get your blubbering lover to sail head first into a number of hilarious pranks
- As you gave your glitter-covered hunk a peck on the cheek you chided him about learning his lesson and trusting your ability to take care of yourself
- "Darlin' I trust you completely [at this point he'd pulled you into his glittery chest and peppered shiny kisses across your face] but I'll never risk losing you, joke or not I will be soaring toward you for the rest of our lives"
Damian Wayne - "You’re the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires."
- It started as good fun. trip up the kid batman who hadn't quite filled out his dad's suit. it had taken clark and barry 15 months to convince bruce to let the kids take care of the world for a week
- And so you'd been sent to Gotham to assist the baby dark knight, who'd been rolling his emerald eyes everytime they met yours
- Suddenly, it had been 6 months. Dames (a newly established pet name) decided not to return to the league, and bruce finally got a well deserved pause from playing the big bat. somehow in all this mess, you'd stuck around
- In a moment of weakness post-battle you'd told him if he ever wanted you gone, he'd only need to pack your handful of things from the mansion up, you'd take the sign and get out of gotham
- Though he teased about grabbing boxes for you weekly, they never appeared.
- Somewhere around 8 months you both were busting a local crime syndicate when your grapple gun broke. in a rush, you pressed yourself against Damian before you could explain the situation
- You forgot about explaining the moment you realized there was a pink tint under the cowl, and that his heart was beating out of his chest
- You arrived home and he hadn't spoken a word, after replacing the gun and stitching yourself up a bit, you found him in your room with boxes
- To say you crashed out was an understatement, manically shouting it wasn't your fault the gun didn't work, pointing accusatory fingers at him saying he couldn't keep it in his pants and that it was so sick of him to toy with your emotions like that after he knew you had a crush on him when you first started
- Damian froze. Closed the distance, and gave you a begging look to explain. But your feathers were always ruffled, assuming only the worst saying you'd pack yourself if he was hell bent on pretending he didn't know just to play game with your head
- "With your head? Do you not know how agonizing these months have been for me? Burning for you and stifling my flame to be professional? Had I known you'd - you'd cared for me to I would've- well I would've-" Damian was a man of action, not of words. His lips crashing into yours were all he could do to convey his honest emotions.
~
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This was a long one! I do hope you enjoyed. I read all comments & reblog notes btw so let me which was your fav (i'm partial to damian's i think?)
also let me know if it's worth hunting more quotes on pinterest. i do have some ideas for bart, steph, duke, and even bruce cooking
<3
#batboys#tim drake#batfam#jason todd#damian wayne#dick grayson#jason todd x reader#tim drake x reader#dick grayson x reader#damian wayne x reader#wally west#jaimes reyes#conner kent#wally west x reader#jaime reyes x reader#conner kent x reader#teen titans#young justice#dick grayson angst#dick grayson fluff#jason todd headcanon#tim drake hot#red hood#red robin x y/n#nightwing x y/n#wally west x you#wally west fluff#conner kent x you#young justice headcanons#batfamily
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One New Voicemail (Max's Version)
your relationship with max as told by his voicemails.
(no warnings. one angsty one but it's fine. extra credit to @lestapiastrisgirl for helping me with the last few ideas.)
Your First Date
“Hi.” He clears his throat.
“Its Max.” Pause.
“Verstappen.”
Well. This was going splendidly.
He chuckles. “You probably know that though, right? I didn’t quite plan this out.”
He shakes his head. Whispers: clearly not you idiot.
“Um. So. I just wanted to say thank you. For tonight. I mean, I planned everything and paid for it all so I’m not thanking you for that…” Max winces.
“Just…for being you. I don’t think I’ve ever had a first date like that. It felt like we talked for hours, which I guess we did, didn’t we?”
He laughs again and you can almost see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at you.
He hums “I liked it. I like you. When can I see you again? You said there was that Degas exhibit at the Louvre you’ve been wanting to see. We could go tomorrow? I’ll have Frank file flight plans first thing tomorrow morning.”
Oh he was in so much trouble.
“Okay. Bye.”
Click.
Your First Kiss
“Hi.” Max is breathless, in awe of what just happened.
“I know I just left but I can’t stop replaying that kiss in my head. I almost walked into a light pole your lips had me so distracted.” He shakes his head, head swiveling back to look at the offending pole. That would have been a fun black eye to explain.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for...”
He pauses, like he’s remembering the first time he ever imagined pressing his lips to yours.
“God. For the longest time. Since I saw you that first night at that dinner party.”
Mutual friends he’d have to thank tomorrow morning for giving him what felt like a turning point in his life.
“You had the same lipstick on tonight and I just…had to know how your lips tasted.”
It had been slow, dripping through your closely pressed skin, sticky-sweet as honey. Max would never forget it for as long as he had breath in his lungs.
“You’ve ruined me, schat.” He accuses but there’s no fire in the words. No real accusations, just statement of facts. “Ruined.”
He shakes his head again, reaching for the car key in his pocket.
“Can we do it again tomorrow? And the next day?”
And forever?
He leaves that part out. For now.
Click.
He Wonders If He's Worth It
“Are you…sure?” He’s anxious, you can tell by the way he breathes on the other end of the line.
“I just wanted to ask again because I can’t quite believe I got you to agree to be my girlfriend” His laugh is anything but humorous. It’s dry. Brittle.
“Being with me is a lot. I know it’s a lot and it’s a lot to ask of someone.” He thinks he might be able to let you go now if you walked away. He’s scared you’re going to.
“If you don’t want to be involved with me, I’d understand.”
The fear of losing you grips at him like ice. You can hear it in his voice and your heart shatters because he doesn’t realize how badly you’re falling for him too.
“It’s just…I feel like I can breathe around you. I don’t have to wear a mask or be Max Verstappen, 4 time world champion. I can just be Max.”
A pause. As if he’s gathering the courage to choke out the last words on the tip of his tongue.
“Your Max. If you’ll have me.”
The last bit is whispered, like he doesn’t want the world to hear how weak he is for you. How easily he’d follow you anywhere.
“Okay. Bye.”
Click.
He Wins The Championship
“Baby!!!” He shouts, laughter filling every corner of his voice.
“We won! The championship they said I couldn’t win!” Around him, champagne drips and gin flows.
“Where’d you go? I just saw you and then you vanished!!”
You had told him ten seconds before he had pulled out his phone to call you. A trip to the Ladies Room was required and he knew that. But the 5th gin and tonic robbed him of his memory.
“Can you believe I’m a FIVE TIME world champion?” Max’s shouts turn watery, like the emotion is hitting him like a freight train.
“I’m so glad you were here to be with me. I never want to win without you ever again.”
He’s getting sentimental. It used to be a rarity with him, the Flying Dutchman trained up to be a champion by Jos. But now? Now he was soft. So soft. But only for you. Always for you.
“I miss you.” He pouts.
The music thumps in the background, causing Max’s head to spin.
And then, you. Across the room, returning from your trek to the restroom. He spots you and his entire face brightens.
“There you are!” He coos into his phone. “Fuck, you’re so pretty. Did you know that? You’re so fucking beautiful and I can’t wait to marry you.”
He doesn’t realize the weight of the words falling from his lips. But he means every syllable.
“Okay, I’m hanging up now because I want to go make out with you. Bye.”
Click.
You Two Fight
“Liefje, please.” Max is panicking.
“It’s the middle of the night and it’s raining. It’s not safe for you to be out right now, I don’t care how mad at me you are.”
It had been stupid, the fight. It had spun out of control too quickly, whipped up out of thin air thanks to too many nights on the road and too little time spent together.
“Please, for the love of God come back to me.” The tears fall freely now, he’s never seen you this angry.
He’d neglected you, gambled away the love that you so freely give him without complaint. And now you had walked right out as easily as if you were going to the store. It was just another day to you.
“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’ve never raised my voice at you ever, I don’t know what came over me. I…” He shatters around the words.
“I don’t even know why I was angry anymore.” It was the truth. He didn’t know why he had snapped, why he exchanged soft whispers for barbed shouts, sharp around the edges, filling his mouth with glass.
“We’ve never fought like this and now your car is gone and it’s one in the morning.” He’s desperate now, breaths coming quick and shallow.
His vision blurs. Is this what it feels like when you die?
“Please, baby. I don’t care if you’re still mad at me, you can be mad at me for the rest of your life but I need you to be safe.” The thought of anything happening to you because of his stupid anger had Max swaying beneath the lights of the living room.
“Please.”
He begs.
“I’m sorry.”
He sobs.
Click.
You’re pregnant
“Liefje. My Wife. Love of my life. I am concerned.” Max sounds slightly scared to be making this phone call.
“These requests…” He squints at the handwritten list you left for him on the back of an envelope. “Grape jam, not jelly? Pickles? Pistacio ice cream with chocolate ribbons?”
This list had to be a joke.
“Are you filming me? Is this going on TikTok?” He glances around at the store, half expecting to see you hiding in a corner with your phone out.
What the fuck was a ‘chocolate ribbon’ anyway?
“Pebble ice? Baby, should we call your doctor in the morning?”
He knew he was asking for trouble, calling into question the validity of your pregnancy cravings but Max was getting concerned. He’d even called his sister on the way to the store. Victoria had insisted it was normal.
Max wasn’t convinced.
“I love you, you are the love of my life and I’d do anything for you, you know that. I just don’t know if I can purchase pickles and ice cream knowing that they’re going to be consumed together.”
An image of what your pan you might choose to swing at his head if he came back without everything on your list flashes through his mind.
Max pulled every jar of grape jam off the shelf.
“I’ll be home in 10.”
Click.
You’re in labor
“Your sister called!” Max’s voice is panicked, out of breath. “She said you’re in labor but didn’t want to bother me in my meeting!”
“Your contractions are 5 minutes apart and you didn’t think you should call me for that?” The anxiety in his voice creeps in, despite him desperately choking on his tone.
“Thank God I’m close by but liefje, please!” He heaves a sigh.
A car door slams. Engine fires up, purring to life.
“You know you can bother me about this.”
“Oh my God.” A pause. Like the gravity of the situation just hit him square in the jaw.
“You’re in labor. Like labor labor.” He’s awestruck now.
“We’re going to be parents soon, aren’t we? Are we ready? I mean, I know you’re ready but am I ready?” There isn’t a doubt in his mind that you’re going to be an amazing mom. He’s known that since the day you found out you were pregnant.
“Holy shit I’m going to be a dad. This is…this is fast.” You’d later tease him that he’d known about this moment for almost nine months now. It wasn’t exactly a surprise.
“Jesus. Okay.”
Deep breath.
“I’m just leaving the office and I’m on the way to the hospital now. Are you okay? Why am I asking your voicemail this? Why aren’y you picking up?”
He’s totally panicking.
“I’ll be there soon. I love you.”
Click.
Your Toddler Steals His Phone.
“MAMAAAAAAA!!” A small toddler-like squeal follows your favorite name you’ve ever been called.
“Mama I miss you! Where’d you go, Mama?” The question is stilted, the baby still learning how to move his mouth around the proper words.
“Schatje! Where is my phone?” The question is muffled, like Max is far away.
Tiny footsteps clatter against the hardwood floor of your Monaco home.
Peals of giggles and breathless gasps are the only thing you hear in response.
“Mama save me! Save me from Daddy!” Your little boy giggles, squealing in delight.
Louder footsteps sound behind your baby, who is surprisingly fast despite his stubby little legs. “You get back here right now!” Max orders, but there’s laughter at the edge of his voice.
This is a game.
A game neither Max or your baby want to lose.
“Daddy says he’s going to tickle me if he catches me!”
Another squeal.
Giggles.
One voice high pitched. One lower pitched, your husband finally catching up to the speedy toddler.
“Give me that. Who are you…oh you managed to call your Mama?”
A pause. Your toddler nods. “Didn’t want a bath! Mama will rescue me!”
Max chuckles, prying little fingers off of his phone. “She will not. She’ll say you’re stinky too! You need a bath!”
“Noooo!” He howls but it’s too late.
“Sorry, liefje. He’s fine. Bath time is going well! Enjoy your time with your sister! Love you.”
A pause.
“Tell Mama you love her.”
“Save me Mamaaaaaaaa!”
Click.
#max verstappen#max verstappen x reader#f1 x reader#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen fluff#formula 1#f1
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⎯⎯ㅤ Digital Girl
Batfam Yan! × Scene! Reader
| Platonic |
Note / English is not my first language / M.list
A / N | I don't know much about scenecore so this is just a very superficial view, if there are any mistakes please correct me (|||´Д｀) !!
TW / Yandere behavior, obsession, violence, toxic relationships, manipulation
Headcanon | How would they react to a scenecore batsis?
Character | Dick Grayson | Jason Todd | Tim Drake | Damian Wayne | Bruce Wayne
⎯ Bruce Wayne ★
He'd be surprised the first time.
Don't take this the wrong way, it's just...well, he's pretty new to all of this.
He tries to be an understanding father, but I feel like he'd be the kind of father who'd say it's all a phase; he just hopes this phase of yours doesn't last too long.
He's not a strict father (well, maybe a little, or maybe too much), but he wants you to understand that it's best for you.
He wouldn't like you to wear too many bracelets or bangles on your arms because he's afraid your skin would get irritated or leave marks.
He'd never forgive himself if something happened to his baby.
If you tried to dye your hair, his hair would be a big no-no.
He'd only let you dye your hair if you begged him all week and told him to let him choose the color and let him dye your hair.
There wouldn't be any problems with your way of dressing, although it would depend on how colorful and extravagant your outfits are.
Most of your family tends to wear dull, muted colors. You could only occasionally see Dick in a brightly colored shirt, but most preferred duller or less flashy colors.
That way, you'd definitely draw a lot of attention with your outfits.
If you two ever go to a gala, he WON'T let you dress like that. Look, he doesn't judge you (even if he does).
But he thinks you should find another, less flashy "style." He loves you the way you are, but sometimes he wishes you were as obedient as other young people.
He's afraid that at some point you'll become rebellious and escape his complete control.
He should, no, he needs to control everything about your life.
Even your style of clothing. He just wants you to be a normal child.
He knows how cruel the world is to people as different as you.
He's just in some kind of midlife crisis, and your teenage "rebellion" isn't helping much.
He'll get over it eventually
⎯ Dick Grayson ♥︎
He'd be the one who best handled this.
I get the idea that Dick also went through some emo or alt phase, so he's pretty understanding about this.
Most of your accessories, like bracelets and makeup, were bought or made by Dick.
He likes to sneakily create bracelets with his initials on them so others know who you are.
Even though he pretended to be a cool brother, he's just as possessive as the others.
Just because he was "nice" to you doesn't mean he won't manipulate you.
He'd take any opportunity to be around you.
Oh! You want to dye your hair? Don't worry, your brother Dick conveniently has the color you wanted!
You can dye your hair like him and match with him! He's the kind of guy who's very obsessed with your tastes.
He wants to be the best brother to you, so don't be scared because he's too intense.
Also, I think he'd listen to hyperpop just for you. It's not his type of music, but he'd just listen to it to spend time with you.
He's not the best, but at least he tries, umm...
⎯ Jason Todd ♣︎
He doesn't really care.
He'd be like,
"Oh, you're scene? Cool."
One of the things he'd be least bothered by is your clothing style or appearance.
I mean, as long as you don't do anything stupid, he wouldn't mind.
Although I think he'd buy hair dye in all sorts of colors and literally turn your hair into a fucking rainbow, just to piss off Bruce because he knows you're not allowed to dye your hair without Bruce's permission.
He'd kill anyone who dares say anything negative about you or make fun of how you dress.
He wouldn't allow any bastard to talk bad about his sister.
He'd listen to hyperpop while reading or doing some activity like reading or kicking criminals' asses. I think it would be pretty funny.
He'd probably only listen to it because you asked him to, but I think eventually he'd start to like that style of music, but he'd never say it out loud
⎯ Tim Drake ◆
He'll pretend he doesn't care, but he really cares.
I could say he's one of the most obsessive people; he knows everything about you.
Maybe he knows you better than you know yourself; he has a folder full of your interests or possible interests in a private file on his computer.
He'll spend hours on the internet searching for information about it. If he wants to get close to you, he has to be smart.
He's like a predator.
He analyzes his prey and then attacks.
I think his approach would be subtle. It has to be smart and not too aggressive. He doesn't want to scare you into thinking he's some kind of creepy guy (if he is).
I think he would start slowly, with small comments about your appearance.
"Oh! You look pretty nice today!" or "That shirt really matches your outfit!"
Then, make comments about your interests, and he'd start getting closer and closer to you. He's not like the others.
If he wants to have you in his hands, he'll have to do it slowly and calmly. He's very good at hiding his true intentions.
I think he'd spend hours trying to find the best hair dye for you. He doesn't want your hair damaged because you decided to buy a poor-quality one.
Also, if you want to take a picture, don't worry! He'll be your personal photographer.
He takes the best photos on your blog. He's always taking pictures of you secretly. I'm pretty sure he knows all your good sides.
The only reason he's interested in all of this is because of you.
He'll do anything to be near you, even if it means changing all his interests to match yours.
⎯ Damian Wayne ♣︎
He thinks it's ridiculous.
He'd make pretty offensive comments saying you look like a clown or some kind of Joker Jr.
He'd be the worst when it comes to this; he doesn't know what's so interesting about dressing like a walking rainbow.
Be prepared for the mockery and passive-aggressive comments (though they're more aggressive than passive).
Even if he'd eventually accept it, halfway.
Sure, he'd still think it's completely ridiculous and pathetic, but he'd only accept it because it's you (and deep down, he thinks some of your outfits are pretty cool).
But he still WON'T ALLOW anyone to make fun of the way you dress.
you still remember the time he got suspended for a week from school for hitting on a kid who said your way of dressing was stupid
He's the only one allowed to make fun of your ridiculous way of dressing.
Also, I think he'd be drawn to your bracelets and shoes, if you're the kind of people who wears those long shoes, I think he'd really like them.
He'd indirectly ask you to give him one of your bracelets because he thinks they're pretty. Maybe he'd give you some accessories like colorful belts or a hair accessory.
He'd really pay attention to your makeup; depending on how colorful or extravagant your makeup is, he'd like it.
He secretly listens to the music you recommend. No kidding, some of it is actually quite good, so he even put it on his playlist.
He's more or less supportive of all this. He's grateful that his jokes about your appearance have lessened.
Although he'll most likely continue to make jokes about your appearance when he gets bored of being a good person.
Hi, I'm back.
Sorry for not updating for so long. My health has been getting worse for weeks, and I've only recently recovered.
This is a late request, so I hope the anonymous person who requested this enjoys it.
I don't know when I'll update again because it's exam time and school is really giving me a hard time. Lolololol
#batfam x reader#batfamily x reader#fem reader#batfam x batsis#yandere batfamily x reader#yandere batfam x reader#yandere batfam#batfam x fem reader#yandere batboys#yandere batman#batboys x reader#yandere bruce wayne#yandere jason todd#yandere dick grayson#yandere tim drake#yandere damian wayne#yandere dc#dc x reader#bruce wayne x fem!reader#bruce wayne x reader#jason todd x reader#jason todd x fem!reader#dick grayson x female!reader#damian wayne x reader#dick grayson x reader#damian wayne x female reader#tim drake x reader#dc comics x reader#batman x reader#red hood x reader
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True! The Beatles tried with Magical Mystery Tour but we all know how influential that was (no one talks about it) But also I'm sure y'all know A Hard Day's Night is what inspired the Monkees at all in the first place.
I do really think though there's merit to comparing and contrasting Head and MMT (I'm not writing the whole thing I'm sorry) though so with my super vague memories I'll do that.
OP I'm so sorry to hijack your post and throw an essay in your rbs but I've had this in my brain for years and I can finally word it right
Ok the scenes that match up the most to me are the objectifying women scenes, but I want to point something out. Can You Dig It in addition to being a fucking fire ass song, is not too objectifying in the grand scheme of things. Belly dancers come on, vibe, and hang out with the Monkees. Fun drug trip. (Also no gif for this scene, I looked man)
MMT, you get to go to a strip club. No fucking reason, shit's off the rails. Boobs everywhere. I'm not kidding either, and we don't get to see Jan Carson strip to a Beatles song. Those vibes are very weird and there's a big reason why no one talks about it. It also serves as a really fascinating piece of history I guess.
Probably tied are obviously Circle Sky and Your Mother Should Know in terms of most similar visual presentation too. The boys got the white suits, they're performing, it's fun.
Your Mother Should Know is also a bop, which is kinda rare for me to say about the Beatles don't kill me please. The rhythm and tone reminds me of Cuddly Toy (hey my username :p) and there's very much a lightness to it. I think they threw it in because they needed something for the fans to vibe to after not knowing wtf is happening for half the movie. Fun, cute, not overplayed. (You could argue Daddy's Song also is a good candidate especially musically, but I decided to do visual elements of both, and I've written a lot about Daddy's Song on here. I want to do something else)
Circle Sky is like the song everyone loves for good reason. Mike sounds fucking awesome singing it, and I feel his voice on this track is what americana means to me. This song with the country rock energy with the drums and shit is unapologetically American to its core and the touches of country that the Monkees have in other albums is perfected. I have to restrain myself from singing CIRCLE SKY at max volume along with Mike whenever I put this on in public. Coupled with the commentary of how they were products to be consumed rabidly by fans, I think this is a fan favorite for good reason.
In short, I feel Magical Mystery Tour has some highlights (Blue Jay Way, Your Mother Should Know, Fool on The Hill) but it's just weird because they had the money to be weird at this point in their lives. Head is to me a much more thoughtful movie, and I love the whole soundtrack. Was it career ending for them? Arguably yes. But it was a beautiful ending and I'm so glad people know about it and are appreciating what it brought to the table.
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Dom reader and submissive/mommy kink Jay?
not proof read. wc: 784 warnings: mommy kink, overstimulation, cum eating, crying, all that fun stuff
Look at him now, so docile all curled in on himself like that.
He writhes, whines, borderline cries when you push him over with your foot, telling him to sprawl out and show you what he did while you were gone.
His cheeks are hot, flushed, and his eyes shine with embarrassment. You know he likes that though, if his leaking cock is anything to go by. "See? I've been good, I didn't do anything..." He whines with a full body shiver, reaching out for you, bucking his hips up towards you, still writhing. You narrow your eyes, seeing your vibrator falling out of him. "Awh," You pout at him. "Did you need some help?" You don't think you'll ever grow tired of the way he nods with such excitement. He always does when he's in this kind of mood, which is far more rare than expected based on how into it he gets. The last time the two of you played this little game was months ago, and it always surprises you to come home to a silent house, only to find your, normally, very proud boyfriend edging himself half to death and begging you to fucking ruin him. It's nice to have the power though, especially when he's licking out trying to taste something just out of reach to him, gripping you, doing everything he can to get what he wants. You know more than anyone that he has the strength to do it, but he just...doesn't. He submits and he suffers for you, cumming on command, sometimes even entirely untouched. "How sweet," You caress his cheek before you sit flush against his tongue, moving to grab his hair. God, the way his eyes cross between your legs, how can you not reach back for him? How can you not grip his weeping, raging cock and tug at it as you grind down? How could he not cum instantly? He does, of course he does, but both of you know it's not over. He weeps between your legs, licking and tasting to desperately despite barely having any air to breathe, and he resists the urge to stop. The urge to give himself a break from the sensitivity. It's fun, beautiful even, when you do finally let up, sliding off his mouth and straight down to his spent cock, so pathetic for cumming from a four second handjob. It's never easy to slip it into you when it's like this, soft and messy, but you manage. He doesn't though. No, he doesn't manage. He continues to whine, small sobs of "Mommy, ahh- wait," and "Fuck, it hurts, keep going-" You get to feel him grow harder, harder, so fucking hard inside of you, and that's when you give him what he truly wants. "Good boy," You pat his head, standing on your knees with the tip of his cock inside of you. "Go on then," And he does, gripping your ass so painfully, fucking up with more force than he usually would even when domming you. Chasing the pain, chasing the way your tight cunt hugs him, cumming once, but continuing through it just to give you more of him. More, so much more. Eyes so wet, pussy so tight around him. God, he loves you so much. And even after all of that, he waits to get you off. Submitting to you is one thing, cumming four to five times and fucking through the pain is one thing, making you cum is another. Careful with it, hyper-focused on the act. He waits, and he waits, nearly spent to the point of having no more of his own cum to give before begging you to let him, to allow him the pleasure of seeing you cum for him. The best part? You played with him, telling him to get you off time and time again, and you know that little dominant part of him is ignited each time he doesnt. Lying, "I can't, mommy, tell me how to-" A liar is what he is, and you can tell with the smirk he has now, well aware that he played his part so, so well. That little soft side of him goes down the drain when he's empty, overpowering you so easily, as if he couldn't this whole time, both tits now groped in his palms as he buries his mouth into you again. Just the way you like it. Messy, slurping up his own mess, sensitive cock throbbing in pain each time it rubs up against the mattress. There, he makes sure you're taken care of, not once, not twice, but three times with his mouth alone. No fingers, no cock, just his tongue. And you love the way he turns you to jelly for torturing him.
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Also I need TF1 Orion Pax and D-16 to be yeeted onto the lost light. I need D-16 to be fanboying so fucking hard at everything. I need Meagtron lowkey cringing at his younger self like you usually do when you think back on said younger self. I need Rodimus and Whirl to take full advantage of this and use D-16 to embarrass Megs even further. And lets add fearless into the mix. Chaos gremlin Fearless and local bastard Orion Pax are being held back by their respective Megs because the moment they meet its fucking over.
If Fearless and Orion ever stayed in the same room for more than an hour, they are no longer in the room and actively running from something.
Hope you enjoy!
Added a little extra characters too!
Fearless meeting B-127, D-16, Elita One and Orion Pax on the Lost Light
SFW, Platonic, Familial, Human reader
MTMTE/TFONE
Fearless was just walking past the oil reserves using their newest battle suit Brainstorm had created.
Since their last one broke, the scientist was trying to find a better framework for them to use.
In Fearless’s opinion, it made them look a bit like a minibot.
It even had a vizor covering their face and everything.
The familiar sound of a portal opening caught their attention.
They quickly went over and saw a servo dangling from the edge of the oil reserve and a lot of confused yelling.
Fearless runs over and quickly grabs the silver servo, silently thanking Brainstorm for installing extra grip strength to the servos and pedes of the suit. Fearless: “Hang on!” There were some confused noises, but Fearless was just focused on getting the bot back onto the platform. They managed to haul the grey mech up when they noticed that he had someone else’s servo. The grey bot looked at them suspicious and confusion. Fearless: “I’m friendly! Promise on the Allspark!” The grey mech looked slightly less hesitant as they began to help him get his friends up. They were a total of 4 bots, all around the battle suits size. Fearless: “Well that was certainly an introduction. The names Fearless and you my friends are in another universe!” B-127: “Really!?” Elita: “B no.” Fearless: “B? Wait! Are you Bumblebee?” B-127: “No, but that sounds like a fun name! I’m B-127, this is Elita One, that’s Orion Pax and that’s D-16!” Fearless: “…Oh Meg’s is going to love this…”
Fearless was educated a bit in the history of Cybertron before the war.
It was part of their course work for being a liaison and they had a number of study nights with Rewind for Trivia night.
If they were mistaken… D-16 was Megatron’s name before the whole gladiator thing and Orion Pax was Optimus Prime.
…
…Oh, this was going to be a VERY interesting visit.
Fearless was much more concern over the holes in the bots chassis and how tired they all looked.
So, once dealing with the brief introduction of where the bots were and how they had nothing to worry about, they offered to take them to the medbay for a checkup.
They had to admit that seeing a younger version of these bots was fun to see.
Especially when you had bots like Orion wanting to see through every window and bots like Elita who just silently drank in the scenery while asking a few questions here and there.
B-127 just happily commented on the shiny things he saw.
D-16, as far as Fearless could tell, was just as excited as Orion was but chose to stick close to the group for safety.
Smart move, especially once more bots started showing up in the hall.
Fearless enters the medbay with the bots close behind. Fearless: “Ratchet! We have some more interdimensional guests!” Ratchet turns the corner. Ratchet: “Who is it this time—” He stops and stares at the new bots. They look very familiar somehow… D-16: “Wait, wait, wait! You guys have a Ratchet too?” Orion: “Is he as grouchy as ours?” Fearless: “I’ve learned that grouchiness is a default every Ratchet has.” Elita: “What do you mean every Ratchet?” Fearless: “That’s a story for another time.” Ratchet just blinks. Fearless steps forward. Fearless: “Ratchet… This is D-16, Orion Pax, B-127, and Elita One…” Ratchet straightens up a bit. Ratchet: “…I’ll get the berth ready. Don’t touch anything.” Orion: “Holy Primus you’re huge!” D-16 clamps his friend’s mouth. D-16: “Orion you can’t just say that to everybot you see!” Orion: “But he is!”
The check-ups had every medic extremely worried for their new guests.
Not only were they all missing their T-cogs and extremely late for a due checkup, but their energon levels were all dangerously low.
Fearless found it a bit comical and sad to see the bots optics widen at the size of the energon cubes given.
It was also the time when Fearless decided to take a break from the battle suit.
Fearless: “Hey Ratchet, mind giving me a hand with the helm? I need a break.” Ratchet easily unclips the helm and takes it off. The four bots scream. B-127: “HOLY PRIMUS YOU KILLED FEARLESS!” BANG! Everyone jumps at the sudden entrance from the medbay doors dropping. Whirl has his blasters raised with a frantic looking Rodimus and Megatron behind him. Whirl: “WHAT HAPPENED TO FEARLESS!?” Fearless rapidly waves their metal arms out trying to catch their Amica’s attention. Fearless: “No one’s dea—AAAHH!” Fearless nearly falls off the edge of the medslab but is caught by D-16. He looks down and sees their human form. D-16: “…HUH?!” Fearless: “Just another organic alien D, nothing to worry about.” Megatron has his optics locked on Fearless and the smaller grey bot. D-16 is slightly frozen at the hulking mech’s gaze. Orion immediately hops off his berth and gets in front of D and Fearless. Orion: “Hey, hey, why don’t we just take it easy. No one hurt, right D?” D-16: “Yeah…” Orion: “So… I’m Orion Pax—” Rodimus pushes his way to the front of a now frozen Megatron. Rodimus: “Hold it! YOU’RE Orion Pax?” Orion: “Yeah and the rest of my friends would greatly appreciate it if your friend there could lower his weapon.” Whirl lowers his blaster finally registering the name and proceeds to laugh loudly. Rodimus is barely holding it together. Rodimus: “Sorry about the entrance, Whirl can be a bit worked up about the safety of his Amica. I’m Rodimus Prime—” D-16, Orion, Elita and B-127: “YOU’RE A PRIME!?”
So, to say the captain’s introduction wasn’t hectic was an understatement.
Even more when Fearless finally managed to get out of their suit and was perched in Whirl’s cockpit.
They didn’t mind the little pokes and questions the bots had.
It was clear enough that these bots didn’t even know what an organic alien looked like, they had a pass.
It was adorable seeing D-16 start fanboying at Rodimus while Megatron looked like he was dying on the inside.
He probably thought this was some sort of creative punishment from the universe.
It had to be.
The announcement of the guest certainly caused a stir amongst the crew.
Fearless did feel a bit of sympathy for them, especially D-16 and Orion.
For most of D-16’s looks held much caution and guard.
Meanwhile, Orion’s looks were of disbelief.
How could this little chaos gremlin be the next Prime in their universe?
Then there was D who, by all twisted means, seemed like a good fit for being a Prime.
What was going on in their universe?
But nothing that happened in the medbay would come close to what would happen at Swerve’s.
Whirl: “Hey Tiny Pax, what’s with the whole deal with you guys being miners?” Orion: “That’s our job for now. Cogless bots are supposed to work in the mines for energon since the Matrix was lost.” D-16: “We were on our way to find it when we were sent here.” Tailgate raises his servo. Tailgate: “How did the Matrix get lost?” D-16: “The Matrix was lost after the Prime’s last war with the Quintessons.” There was a brief moment of silence from the bots who had met the aliens. Orion: “But! Once Sentinel sees that we brought him back the Matrix—” Fearless: “Hold it! Sentinel?!” Orion raises his optic a bit. Orion: “yeah…” Everyone in the bar started muttering. Fearless turned to D-16. Fearless: “D, as much as you’re a Prime fan boy, but you need to offline him.” D-16: “WHAT!?” Fearless: “Orion and B won’t do it, maybe Elita. But it has to be—HEY!” Fearless is suddenly picked up by Megatron Megatron: “What my child means to SAY, is that to watch out for whatever sentinel Prime does. As far as we have all learned is that Sentinel’s should never be trusted.” Elita: “But he’s a Prime!” B-127: “Yeah he wouldn’t do that.” D-16: “Did you say child?” Fearless: “Oh yeah? How about a bet? If Sentinel isn’t a lying pile of scrap metal then I’m immortal and wont die before the crew find he Knight of Cybertron.” B-127: “Wait there’s Knights here!?” D-16: “Are we seriously not going to circle back to the child part?!”
Elita found herself under Magnus’s wing much faster than anyone would have thought.
Magnus claims that he has no idea how that happened.
…Which is a lie.
Fearless saw the moment happening when they saw Elita scolding Rodimus for trying to put B-127 in a high place and almost forgot about him.
They were pretty sure they saw the big mech smiling.
B-127?
Much like his counterpart, the yellow mech was making fast friends in Swerve’s.
Fearless is in a betting pool to see when Swerve will ask him to be his Amica.
The sheer number of drinks B has gotten straight from hearing the horrible conditions he was put in sub level 50 for all those years was insane.
The yellow bot, none the wiser, was just happy to be making so many new friends today.
As for D-16?
He had his work cut out for him.
Both him and his counterpart.
The reason?
Orion and Fearless had become VERY good friends.
Neither of them are allowed to be alone with each other after the little incident…
D-16 is looking around worriedly. Megatron: “I am sure that Orion is fine.’ D-16: “Oh I know that I’m more worried about Fearless. They’re so soft and squishy and Pax isn’t really known for handling things with care.” Megatron has flashbacks to fearless letting out battle cries as they hop out of the Lost Light in their battle suit at the enemies face. Megatron: “Fearless is much more durable than you think.” D-16: “Really?” Fearless: “Aww Meg’s you shouldn’t have!” Both mech jump at the sudden voice and look up. Orion was dangling from a vent opening on the ceiling with Fearless safe in his servos. Orion: “You care about me!” D-16: “…I should leave you up there.” Fearless: “I bet you’d catch us.” Megatron: “You assume wrong.” Orion and Fearless give each other mirroring grins. Fearless and Orion: “TRUSTFALL!” Orion lets go from the ceiling. D-16 ends up catching Fearless and Megatron ends up catching Orion. Both grey mechs sigh tiredly.
#maccadam#transformers x reader#human buddy#fearless buddy#mtmte x reader#mtmte x platonic reader#tfone x reader#tfone x platonic reader
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Im so glad someone else lowkey likes modern aegon x niece
i need that scumbag now😩🫠
i know he gives her weed for the first time and teases her for not having tolerance
-🍰
okay this is so fucking hot to think about. actually I'm a real whore for modern Targcest, we need more of that type of content 😭😭
btw... I wrote this based on my personal experiences smoking weed in 2022, so the descriptions of the effects may seem a bit exaggerated, considering that all the times I smoked while I mixed drinking whiskey, vodka and beer too (here in Brazil the legal age for practically everything is 18 years old. my ex, his friends and I were already 19 actually, so we knew very well what we were doing).
⚠️: SMUT CONTENT. female!reader, modern!Aegon II Targaryen, Targcest (uncle/niece), corruption kink, underage drug use (reader is 17-18), weed smoking, sexual tension, degradation, dry humping, age gap (older man/younger woman), secret situationship, implied Jacaerys Velaryon/reader, implied older brother/younger sister, implied exhibitionism & voyeurism kink.
"Damn, pretty girl... If your mother saw you now, she'd kill me." Aegon let out a hoarse laugh as he sealed another joint together with his niece.
The girl was sitting on his couch, laughing at whatever stupid shit he had said during the last twenty minutes. Your hair was disheveled from your recent make-out session, the red lip gloss smudging a little bit across your chin.
When Aegon had decided to bring his niece to his house for the summer vacation before the start of your high school's senior year, he had asked his sister Helaena to help convince Rhaenyra to let you stay there for a few weeks. So already knowing how your uncle wanted to introduce you to some real fun and maybe also convince you to move there when you started college in the next year, you had whined and begged your mother many times, lying that you would take all the necessary precautions — because unfortunately the whole family already knew very well about Aegon's bad reputation, and still you were excited for new experiences.
And now the two of you found yourselves already high and drunk on the very first night of your stay.
"I'm not that high..." You whimpered, moving your body until you were sitting on Aegon's lap again, while he lit that joint just for him.
He had shared the first one with you, saying some silly saying like puff, puff, pass. According to Aegon, it would be better if you took two puffs and then passed it on to him, because it would help your lungs absorb the weed better than if you simply smoked it all at once.
However, deep down Aegon was loving seeing you like this, all desperate for more. He felt like he was corrupting you, and he liked that feeling as well. "Not that high? You sure, babe?" Aegon chuckled, one hand squeezing his niece's ass covered only by pink panties, while the other brought the rolling paper to his own lips, taking a soft drag and inhaling slowly.
You let out a low little laugh at his words, flushed cheeks after that when you took in the sight of your uncle sitting beneath you. He was taking a second drag and then blowing the smoke out of the corner of his lip.
"Yeah. I'm pretty sure, uncle."
Aegon rolled his eyes, despite the fact that he could feel them starting to get kinda hazy — not as much as yours, though. “Babe, you took off your dress and bra right after you started drinking and smoking with me. You were rubbing yourself against me like a whore a few minutes ago and laughing at every nonsense thing I said.” Aegon’s voice was firm, but his smirk made it obvious how much he was loving everything, bringing the joint to your mouth in solidarity as you could not stop staring at his fingers.
Even though you tried to force yourself to take a drag on it properly, you ended up dragging it harder than you should have, which caused you to cough. “You’re so fucking bad at this, little niece. Such a dumb, innocent little thing.” He scoffed, admiring your smile and laugh, the way you were trying to be a good little girl and passing it back to him.
He could not deny that seeing you all messed up like that was quite a hot sight.
"Holy shit, you're so damn weak. Your panties are so fucking wet that they're making my jeans all sticky with your pussy juices." Aegon continued with those teasing sentences, blowing some smoke at you, wondering how his half-sister would react if she knew he was corrupting her daughter.
Maybe he could take a picture of you sucking his cock and send it to Jacaerys when your vacation was over. Your older brother would probably jerk off watching his little sister and his uncle sharing such a horny moment.
#venusbyline#venus' thoughts 💭#targcest#h*rny hours#aegon ii targaryen#house of the dragon#hotd smut#hotd x reader#hotd x you#hotd x y/n#hotd thoughts#hotd scenarios#hotd modern au#hotd au#modern aegon#aegon ii targaryen x reader#aegon ii targaryen smut#aegon targaryen#aegon targaryen x reader#aegon targaryen x you#aegon targaryen smut#aegon x reader#aegon ii x reader#hotd fic#hotd fanfiction#asoiaf smut#asoiaf x reader#asoiaf fic#hotd fanfic#hotd imagine
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In which you're drunk and you fantasize about Ace and it goes wrong (not really).
Note: first (and failed) attempt for my ace ver. of bed chem. I'll do something sweeter than that. again first time writing with him so he might be ooc. I didn't really like it at first, I wrote that at 3am but my bestie told me it was fine so here it is.
Fluff, mention of alcohol, being drunk and wanting to sleep with someone. Don't ask for smut. ~3k.
m.list | rules (read before asking for anything!)
You knew you shouldn’t think that. It was out of place, you’ve drunk one too much and he’s your superior. And yet there you are, another glass full of rum in one hand, the other holding your head from falling and your eyes fix on Ace, a few steps away.
He looks so hot, it’s taking all the space available inside your brain at the moment. His hair’s falling perfectly around his face – it doesn’t matter how many times he pushed it away, it always falls back perfectly. His hat’s resting on his shoulders, his weight is put on his arm as he holds his drink with his other hand – showing off his muscles for anyone to see. You wished you respected yourself enough to stop there. Stop looking. Stop your train of thoughts from going from his arms to his hair, fantasizing about your fingers dragging their way up his arm to his hair, grabbing it just enough for him to sigh. Your cheeks flushed at the thought.
You drank your glass in one go, receiving cheers from your crew. Ace’s eyes fell on you, a cocky, happy smile on his lips and you caught a light of excitement in his eyes that matches with half of the people sitting in the deck at the moment. The sun has disappeared for a moment now, the night is dark, full of stars and the light reflecting on his face is too much for you. It’s overwhelming, imagining him with you : strong arm holding you like you weigh nothing, pulling you on his laps, whispering things so sweet in your ear when you can feel him hard between your legs. It’s intoxicating. You shouldn't think about that, dream about that.
You shake your head, trying to push it away but it seems like it can only get worse when you think of him kissing your neck all the way down your chest. It’s too much, you shut your eyes, taking a small breath in before getting up.
“They're gonna be sick,” someone laughed, you can’t picture who, and honestly – you’d rather be sick to death right now.
You ran to the other side of the ship, far from the small party, from all the alcohol. Far away from Ace. Holding the fence with both hands, you take a deep breath. The salty air cleans your mind a little before an awful wave of shame hits your face. You bury your head in your arms before letting out a loud groan – they think you're sick anyway, so it doesn’t matter. If they even hear you. Ace is still on your mind, half naked, touching you, grabbing onto your skin harshly as he whispers sweet words to your ears and you sincerely think of jumping and drowning in the sea. Until you hear his voice.
“You’re alright there ?”
At first, you’re sure you’ve imagined it ; he’s everywhere, you can feel him on your skin when he’s not even next to you. Until he grabs your arm at your lack of response. You met his eyes lace with concern, his smile smaller and the fun disappeared in the background. You gulp hardly, almost choking on air. His hand is so hot on your cold skin, it does the opposite of grounding you, now thinking about his hot skin all over yours.
“Yes,” you choked out, pulling your arm away.
You stumble away from him, still holding onto the fence. You can barely stand, he can tell – anyone could. You’ve probably drunk your weight in alcohol tonight, you went too far. You felt hot, too hot. Your vision was betraying you and you failed to dodge his hand as it landed closer to your wrist.
“You don’t seem fine to me,” he chuckles, trying to not go too far when you want to keep your distances so bad ; but he doesn’t want you to get hurt. “I’ll take you back to your bunk, come on.”
Why does he have to care so much ? Why couldn't it be someone else. Anyone ! Thinking that he was the first one to make a move and make sure you were ok made your heart ache. He was so sweet without meaning to, or maybe he does but it never really seemed like it. He jokes around too much, flirts too much. Him doing both so well makes your heart beat faster, only for him. It scares you, so much, because as much as you want him, there's no universe he wants you back. Tears picked up at the corner of your eyes.
“Please, Ace, leave me alone,” you begged, looking around, anywhere, so your tears will go away and you won’t meet his eyes. “You're the last person I need right now.”
You speak quickly, not thinking twice and certainly missing the hurt written on his face. Your head hurts, it's spinning like crazy. Yeah, you could've gotten some help, but thinking about him in your bed was the main problem of the night. Thinking about how good you'll be for each another was the problem. You didn't need him close to your room, let alone inside it. Not until you were sober and could make sense of all of that in your head. He clears his throat.
"Don't move then, I'll get Marco," he says quickly as well, walking away without a second glance or at least you think so.
You can't miss the hurt in his voice, the faux smile he puts on when he's hurt and you hate it. But you know you can't fix that right now, right ? You can't think straight and you're scared you're gonna say something dumb. Your feet can barely hold you up and you can tell your knees are getting weak – but you push it away and follow him.
"Wait, Ace !" you yell out his name, looking for him. You're getting closer to the stairs and, as much as he doesn't want it, he's quickly back by your side before you can reach it. You grip his open shirt, fingers brushing on his chest.
"I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry, I'm–" you struggle to find your words, you don't even know what you're trying to say.
What you know is that you melt under his hot and soft touches. His hands are holding your arms carefully to not hurt you, but it’s still firm so you don’t have to hold your weight alone – you're not complaining anymore. His hands on you are meticulous, not going too far. It costs him at the moment and you're still mumbling nonsense. Your emotions are a mess, the last thing you want is to hurt him, you need to do something about it and it almost made you forget the heat in your core to have him close.
"It's fine," he tries his best to not be cold but he can’t even look at your face. You're flustered and desperately looking for his eyes this time. Your hand ends up on his chest, catching the rhythm of his heart. You want to lean in, hold him close, tell him how sorry you are.
"You're all over my mind, it's intoxicating," you're shaking your head. "It's hard having you around, I'm sorry, but I love you please I never meant to hurt you." You can feel his heart beating faster under your hand and you can tell his cheeks turned pink.
Ace covered his face with one hand, rubbing it before hiding his lips as his eyes fell on you. “You’ll be the death of me…”
You can’t figure what he just muttered but you can’t find the need to care – he’s looking at you, it’s enough. “I’m sorry, Ace.”
“I know, I know !” he doesn’t know what to do with his own body after that, or what he can do at all. “Can I help you then ? Or are you gonna argue agai– Hey !”
Before he could finish his sentence, your legs gave up on you and your vision went dark. He’s left there, with your body in his arms as you passed out – your head gently laying on his chest now. He groans, cursing under his breath before holding you close and coming down the stairs. You’re not really heavy for him, that’s not the problem.
The problem is that he can’t get your words out of his head. You saying ‘I love you’, being so desperate for him to look at you, to say you were sorry… And the hell did you mean he’s all over your mind ?! There’s a lot of things on his mind at the moment, too many for him to keep a track of and the alcohol surely doesn’t help.
Your weight is comfortable in his arms, when he stops beside your bunk he has a hard time letting you go. You seem so vulnerable, he lays you down eventually, staring at you for a second. There’s a small frown knitted on your face, he has to ease it down with his fingers before sitting on the floor, next to you.
“The hell you meant I’m all over your mind…” he’s not getting over it. He doesn’t know what to do with it but it for sure works him up.
You were all over his mind all night, and it’s not the first time, so knowing you might feel the same felt – strange. The fact that you rejected him probably because of that left a bad taste on his tongue. He wants to talk about it tomorrow, but will you even remember ? He sighs as he thinks about it. It can’t be helped at the moment.
The next morning, you woke up with the worst headache you’ve ever had but also with a huge glass of water next to your bunk and a small note.
Drink a lot today. Can we talk ?’
You don’t need a sign to know who it is, his bad handwriting says it all. You flush when you read it. You don’t remember well what happened yesterday, but you’re sure you must have said some bad shit to get a note from Ace.
You lay back on your bed, groaning at your blood pulsing in your temple like crazy, but it’s better than to get up and face him for now. What even happened after you left the deck ? You remember Ace coming to check on you, crying a little and running – or at least try to – after him. The rest of the night is blurry, you can’t figure what you did or say after crashing into his arms, and the only reason you’re sure you crashed into him is because you can still feel his warmth around you. It’s bitter sweet, you love it and hate it at the same time. You don’t want to crave it like you do.
You’re so lost in your mind, you missed the knock on your door. Twice. It makes you jump when the door opens out of nowhere in a loud creak and Ace’s face comes out of it. He looks at you with big eyes at first, seemingly lost and you can feel your cheeks turn hot. Pulling the cover closer to your chest, you winced at the pain in your head.
“Headache ?” he asks softly, a small grin on his lips as he walks in. He has another glass of water in hand but he keeps it for himself when he sees the first one barely touch. “Drink,up, it’s gonna help."
You nod and drink it all straight. You can feel the coldness running down your body and sigh in relief afterward. It doesn’t help in a second, but you already feel better. He gave you the second after you gave it a long stare. It’s awkward, you don’t know what to say, neither does he. After a moment, the silence is so thick you don’t know how to break it. So you clear your throat.
“I’m sorry for last night,” you start carefully. “I don’t really remember what happened, or what I said but I was mean, wasn’t I ? I didn’t mean to.”
“You said that last night already, don’t worry,” It took him a second to answer, his eyes lost on the floor next to your bunk. “It’s forgotten already. You were drunk.”
There’s another silence. You sit up and let your legs hang over the edge, trying to catch his eyes since he doesn’t say anything ; he seems lost in his mind, and it’s never a good sign. Your fingers brush his arm gently, trying to bring him back with you. “Are you alright ?”
He shrugs, trying to play it cool but his eyes say something else. “You said you didn’t mean it… You think it works for everything you said ?” there’s a subtle hope as he stares back at you making you gulp hard.
“I don’t know, what did I say ?” you tried to joke, lightening the mood but you’re scared. What if you went too far and told him you wanted him that way ? What a mess it would be, but you guessed he would’ve been more cocky about it.
Your fingers are now brushing his hot skin without failing, grounding him in with you instead of drowning in overthinking. You wait for him to talk, not forcing him to, but you’re ready to wait for him. “You said you never wanted to hurt me because you loved me? You meant it ?”
Your heart stopped. Of course you said something like this and you want to hit your head on the wall for it, but you can’t back down now. “Yeah, I care for you Ace. You’re important to me."
“Enough for you to love me ? You also said I was all over your mind all night, that’s why it was hard to have me around.”
You flushed at his words, bringing your hand back to your chest as if he just stripped you off all your clothes. Why did drunk you speak so much, huh ? They were talkative for sure and you hated it. Your eyes fell on the floor and it was your time to avoid his gaze. You couldn’t say you didn’t mean it like that, you don’t want to see him hurt even if it breaks your heart.
“Hum, enough to love you,” you whisper, scared it’s gonna ruin everything. Closing your eyes hard, you wait for him to answer but nothing comes. Instead, he can feel his head leaning against yours. His forehead touches yours and you open your eyes, his are shut. A sigh of relief leaves his lips.
“You were on my mind too, you know,” he started softly, his voice low. “I was scared you’d never want to talk to me again if you knew.”
You can’t help the chuckle that left your lips, catching him off guard. He straightened his back quickly, leaving his hands on his lips – a suspicious look on his face. “What was that ?”
“You have no idea what I think of you, so don’t worry. It can’t be worse.”
With that, he laughed and the heavy, awkward mood lifted up by itself. And, without really putting words onto it, you knew how the other felt. It was still new, too soon to start something but you could laugh with each other openly. Ace could put your hair behind your ear without feeling like a creep and you could stay close to him without going crazy.
It’s simple, it feels like you’re already together for a lot. Yet, there’s still a lot on Ace’s mind. He took his time, until he knew he could do it without regretting it. Waiting for you to fall asleep in his arms, for you to hit his arm playfully when he goes too far with a joke without being upset, for you to open up to him – only then did he say it.
It was dark and rather cold outside, but he still found you sitting by yourself on the deck, looking at the stars. He can’t really get cold but he knows you do for sure, so he’s surprised to find you without a thick shirt on.
“Keeping the stars all for yourself ?” he chuckles as he sits beside you, making you giggle.
“I wouldn’t dare, they’re for everyone,” you answer. It sounded more deep than you meant to, but it’s fine. He has people to share them with too. For a while, neither of you talked but it’s comfortable now. He doesn’t have to play a role with you, neither do you and things got a lot easier after you two accepted that.
“You’re not cold ?” he asks finally, worried because of the shivers on your arms.
“Yes, I am.” It was blunt, unapologetic and it made him laugh out loud. Oh, how he loves you.
“Come here,” he grins as he gestures to you to come closer.
He doesn’t have to say it first. You sit up immediately and move between his legs, now resting in the hot embrace you learned to know. You let out a satisfied sigh as you get comfortable in his arms. “I thought you'd never say it.”
You made him laugh again, it happens more now you noted. You like it. His head finds the crook of your neck and he rested his nose there, inhaling your scent before sighing as well. His arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer. You call out his name softly, but he doesn’t answer. He’s feeling good, safe – at home.
“I love you too.” His voice is low, you barely heard him but your heart would never miss this. It felt like the right moment : under the stars, you safe in his arms as he warms you up during a cold night. He wants this to last forever.
More important, he never actually told you he loved you when you already did and he felt bad for it. He doesn't know why he hesitated for so long when every cell in his body was craving for your soft touches and words, but now it was done and he never felt happier.
“I didn’t even say it…” you argued but your cheeks were flush red.
“You did,” he confirms. “A while ago. I didn’t forget, never.”
Before he can make sense of it, you're turning around and grabbing his face with both hands before your lips rested on his for a second. It’s a small peck but it feels like you’ve been waiting for this all your life. He’s taken by surprise but quick to bring you back for another kiss, longer but gentle, careful. His hands don’t leave your waist, his thumbs drawing patterns on your cold skin before breaking the kiss.
“I love you,” you whisper anyway, not waiting for anything in return.
He nudges his nose with yours, a big smile on his lips as he hears your laugh at the cute gesture. He couldn’t ask for more and he wouldn't dare. He was lucky enough to be loved so gently.
Let me know if you liked it ! ♡
#one piece#one piece x reader#one piece imagine#one piece fluff#one piece x yn#one piece x you#ace x reader#portgas ace x reader#ace x yn#ace x you#ace fluff
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I love Afterglow so much! But would you care to indulge my curiosity? Do you imagine reader to be slightly older than Mark? I imagine to be in her mid- to early twenties bc of her expansive career in the medical field, though I'm only going by the impression that she only started working after graduating; unless she's been working for some time already? Idk how careers work ajkdshfldf
˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗
Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི
…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ…..
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
AHHH first of all—thank you so much for the love on ”Afterglow”!! This is such a fun ask, and I’m honestly so happy someone’s curious enough about something to dive into it with me.
You’re feeding my writer ego. I hope you’re proud of yourself.
So! Let’s talk canon real quick (I’m letting out my inner nerd rn):
In the comics, Mark starts out at 17 years old, but he ages pretty fast—and by the midpoint (around where ”Afterglow” would be happening, give or take), he’s roughly 19–20 , depending on how closely you track the arcs.
He’s been through it (emotionally unwell, physically worse), and is already working full-time with Cecil, so we’re definitely not dealing with “freshman bio class” energy anymore.
The man is seasoned. In trauma.
If we were going by the animated series, though—it’s a little fuzzier.
Season two makes it clear he’s just recently turned 18, so if you’re seeing ”Afterglow” through a show-only lens, Reader might come off as a bit older. But that’s kind of the fun of it, right?
Different interpretations work depending on what canon you’re leaning into. Especially since she’s employed, competent, and not trying to flirt while holding a scalpel backwards.
(Unlike a certain someone in goggles.)
Also! In ”Afterglow”, Mark is still wearing that iconic yellow-blue disaster suit, which firmly locks the timeline into late Season 2-ish // early Season 3 vibes if we were following the showverse.
As for Reader? Yes—I do personally imagine her to be a bit older. Not by decades or anything, but enough to feel the difference. Maybe 21–23ish, depending on how chaotic and accelerated you want her backstory to be.
Either she’s a prodigy who skipped grades and sprinted into the trauma field, or she’s just a few years older with a no-nonsense attitude and a résumé that could legally intimidate a superhero.
She’s sharp, capable, and absolutely not here to babysit—which just makes Mark being utterly down bad for her even funnier.
Regardless, I love the dynamic of “older, exhausted professional woman” × “younger, slightly feral man with devotion issues.”
BUT! While ”Afterglow” is loosely grounded in comic canon (especially in tone and timeline), it’s very much doing its own thing.
The plot, pacing, and character dynamics all live in their own little sandbox. Nothing’s rigid. It’s vibes first, logic second. As it should be.
Hope that answers the curiosity!! And seriously—thank you again for caring about this chaotic little universe enough to ask.
I’m legally required to write more now.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: okay—not a new chapter (pause for dramatic disappointment), but if you’ve ever sat there wondering where exactly “afterglow” falls in the timeline or how old anyone even is while mark is out here catching feelings mid-shift… this one’s for you. huge shoutout to the anon who asked and accidentally unleashed my inner lore geek.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌��ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice
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taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st
#afterglow#alive._.ghost#invincible#invincible fanfic#mark grayson x reader#x reader#mark grayson#reader insert#fluff#invincible x fem! reader#multi chapter#med!reader#my fic#invincible comic#invincible show#afterglow timeline#anon ask#lore drop#comic canon adjacent#invincible x reader#mark grayson fanfic#slow burn#eventual smut#fanfic#thank you#thanks anon!#fanfic discussion#ask answered#angst with a happy ending#soft!mark
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